fucking bastard who knifed you. Slider’s taking him to the clubhouse. When he wakes up, he’ll learn what happens when someone fucks with one of our brothers. If he’s working for the Red Dragons, then they’ve just bought themselves a new enemy.”
Ice and Kickstand helped Ace to his feet and half dragged, half carried him to the door. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Ace glanced over his shoulder at Sophie, who had made no move to follow them. “Bring her,” he muttered under his breath.
Ice followed his gaze. “She’s not gonna come voluntarily and look after her man?”
“No, dammit.” He spat out his words. “She got spooked by the knife. Now she wants to go after Jason alone ’cause she doesn’t want me to get hurt. So fucking stubborn. But I gave my word to protect her, so she’s coming with us whether she wants to or not.”
Ice’s lips quivered with a smile. “She’s looking pretty feisty. How many brothers will I need to get her into the vehicle? One? Two?”
“Three. Maybe four. She’s gonna be pissed and it won’t be pretty.”
Chapter Ten
Duct tape.
Sophie snorted as she inspected her hands, bound together at the wrists with a thick length of duct tape by the soon-to-be-suffering Kickstand.
Amateurs. Did they really think it would hold her? One of the first things she’d learned in police training was how to escape from having her wrists bound with every criminal’s favourite restraint.
She glanced over at Ace asleep on the bed beside her. No doubt he had given the order to bring her to the clubhouse. If he hadn’t been injured and sleeping off a sedative the club doctor had given him while he dressed and stitched the wound, she might have had a few things to say. Maybe even a few things to do. But right now, she had to get out of here. Ace was going to be okay. He didn’t need her watching over him any longer.
Sophie wrinkled her nose as she eased herself to sit on Ace’s bed in his room at the clubhouse. Seriously, had the place ever been cleaned? She had no idea if there was carpet on the floor or hardwood because the debris was layers thick—pizza boxes, clothes, bike gear, magazines about bikes and women, and items she couldn’t identify from their state of deterioration. She itched to find some garbage bags and clean up the mess, but the faster she got out of here the better. Everyone would be asleep, and the night guards would be looking for people trying to get in—not trying to get out.
She stiffened when the bed creaked, and she looked over at Ace lying on top of the covers, still wearing his jeans, his chest bare save for the bandage over his shoulder. He’d been in rough shape when Ice and Ryder brought him upstairs. Apparently he’d lost a lot of blood, and they’d debated a long time with the club doctor whether to take him to the hospital or not.
Sophie could have slipped away during their conversation, broken the duct tape restraints, and made a run for it. She could have run when everyone had cleared the room, leaving her alone with Ace. But she’d been worried about Ace. He was hurt because of her. She owed him. And the least she could do was to watch over him and let someone know if his condition got worse.
Not that she’d really had a choice, but she felt better when she spun it that way. Just as she’d felt better when he’d fallen asleep and stopped mumbling about protecting her and never letting her go.
He was a biker, dammit. Sexist. Rough. Crude. A known philanderer. He should have been a safe bet. One night and he should have been happy to walk away. But no. She had to hook up with the one biker who wanted more, the outlaw with a conscience who saved a damsel in distress and decided to keep her.
You’re mine.
She imagined other women might have liked hearing the words Ace had uttered in the brewery, but not her. Protective she could handle, but not possessive. Not again.
Holding her breath, she dropped one foot to the ground. Something crunched underfoot. Papers rustled. Sophie barely managed to stifle a gasp. Was something alive down there? Mice she could handle, but not rats. She’d had too many bad encounters with rats when she’d patrolled along the Don River or in Toronto’s Chinatown or Little Italy.
Paper rustled again, and she