by Jenika Snow
He cracked his knuckles.
“You’re not touching the girl.”
“There’s one of you and two of us.”
They charged then. Striker took the first man, slamming his knee into the guy’s dick, before spinning around, and shoving him against the wall again. The sound of flesh hitting the brick and of bone crunching surrounded him. He moved the other man away from the cowering woman and continued his attack. The one he’d just slammed into the wall was out, but his friend growled out low and charged him. Striker punched him the gut before taking the heel of his hand and slamming it into his nose, pushing the bone up. The sound of bones smashing was sweet music to his ears. He also relished the sounds of screams as he kept on with the assault.
The man he’d thought passed out came up behind him, and using all of his weight, he pushed both of them against the wall, cracking their heads together. He didn’t stop there, landing blow after blow after blow to their faces.
Only when he was sure they weren’t going to get up, he turned and faced the woman again. He found her crumpled on the ground. She was a full round woman, but compared to the theses motherfuckers, she was small.
Blood coated his hands, and he wiped the remains on their shirts.
His heart was pounding, and he was also shaking from the adrenaline. The beast inside him had grown quiet. He could clearly see the pile of men before him, and it didn’t look like they were going to get up anytime soon.
Moving toward the woman, he saw she was now unconscious, and he released a sigh. He wasn’t going to leave her there, and he wasn’t interested in looking through her purse to see who she was and where she lived. Leaning down, he picked her up easily, and carried her out of the alleyway. Striker stood with her in his arms, hailing down a cab.
One guy pulled up, looking really unsure.
“I’ll pay you two hundred dollars to not ask questions and take me home.”
The man looked at the woman.
“Eyes to me fucker, or do you want to get mixed up in the Soldiers of Wrath?” he asked.
The man looked at his cut, and the fear and knowledge of who Striker was associated with was clear. He instantly turned away, breaking eye contact. Climbing into the backseat, he held the woman in his arms, and told the driver where to go. Grabbing his cell, he called one of the prospects and told him where get his bike, his mind only thinking about the woman in his arms. The prospect didn’t ask questions. He wasn’t about to take this woman to the clubhouse, no matter what.
With one arm around the mystery woman, he reached into his jacket, and pulled out several bills to pay the cab. The drive took twenty minutes, and the driver climbed out of the car to open the door. Striker didn’t say anything as he tossed the money to the man. His apartment was on the top floor, and he made his way toward the elevator with her still in his arms.
“I should have just fucking walked away.” He glanced down at the woman in his arms. There was blood coming from the cut on her forehead, and she looked so damn helpless, bruised, and battered. A bruise was already forming across one side of her face, and her eye was swelling up. He took a deep breath and counted to ten in his head, trying to stay calm. The last thing he needed was to get angry once again. She didn’t need his rage, and it wouldn’t solve any problems, not in the slightest.
The elevator dinged open, and he stepped out and walked toward his door. With some serious propping up action and strength, he made it into his apartment. Just as he was about to close his door, the woman in his arms started to wake: panting and moaning.
She started moving, and he quickly walked to the couch and set her on it. She twisted on the cushions, her eyes closed, her mouth parted. She started crying out, finally opening her eyes, looking around as panic set in, and she covered her face with her hands to try to hide. Cursing, he went to reach for her, and it only made her scream more. She started pushing him away, and Striker saw the terror on her face. It twisted his gut.
Standing still, he held his hands up in surrender, to show her he was no threat to her.
“Take it easy. I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe.”
He kept on talking until he saw the words were getting through to her. She was still sobbing, but the tears had stopped. The silence hung in the air.
“Where am I?”
“I brought you back to my apartment. Do you remember what happened?”
“I remember serving you at the diner, walking home, and then I was attacked. What happened after that?”
“I stopped those men from hurting you, but I didn’t get there in time.” She placed her hand on her face and whimpered.
“You saved me?”
“Those men will not hurt you again.” If he discovered one of those bastards had lived, he was going to find them and kill them.
She took several deep breaths and stopped trying to cower from him.
“Can I help you up and take you to the bathroom?” he asked, staying where he was, and showing her he wasn’t going to hurt her.
“What?”
“I don’t want you to get hurt or to panic if I come close.” He waited for her to respond, and she nodded, holding her hand out.
Striker took a step toward her and held his hand out. He waited for her to slide her hand in his. Once he had a good grip on her hand, he lifted her up to her feet.
“The name is Striker.”
“What?”
“That’s my name. It’s Striker.” He touched her forehead, she winced, and he pulled away. “You’re bruised and swollen, and you might even have a concussion.”
“My head is pounding.”
“I bet.”
She took a deep breath.
“Are you going to tell me your name?” he asked.
“My name?”
“Do you remember it?” He was worried now. Should he take her to the hospital? Fuck, he’d not even thought about it before. She could have lost her memory, have worse than a concussion, and all kinds of shit.
“Yes, sorry, my name’s Elena. I remember who I am and what happened.” She smiled and moaned. “I remember it all now.” She started swaying on her feet, and he helped her back on the couch.
“I don’t think you should be on your feet.” Striker moved away from her, giving her space.
“I’m fine, I think. My head, it hurts. We’re at your apartment?”
“Yeah. You’re safe here, I promise.”
She glanced around her, and both of her hands rested in her lap. “You have a nice place.”
He could have chuckled at her polite statement. “Thanks.” He didn’t like clutter, and his apartment reflected that. The Patches would piss themselves laughing if they saw him with a duster, but he just couldn’t stand it. “I’m not big on mess.” It was laughable. Striker just noticed his hands were covered in blood, too.
“That’s strange, a man who doesn’t like mess.”
“Do you want a drink?”
She shook her head. “On second thought, yes, please.”
He moved away from her and headed toward his kitchen. Running the tap, he covered his hands in soap, and started scrubbing away the blood and gore that covered him. The pristine white sink was soon covered in red.
Once his hands were washed, he wiped down the sink, and grabbed a couple of sodas from the fridge. When he walked back into the room, he saw she was removing her jacket and wincing.
Placing the drinks on the coffee table, he moved to help her.
“Thank you.”
“Where does it hurt?”
“Everywhere. They were pretty rough with me.”
“You shouldn’t be walking the fucking streets at night. It’s a dangerous place.”
“Why did you follow me?” she asked, catching him off guard.
“What?” They seemed to be saying that a lot around each other.
“You didn’t have to follow me, but you did.”
“I don’t know why, I just had to make sure you got home safely.”
Elena was so damn thankful that Striker had decided to follow and save her. She wouldn’t be here right now if it wasn’t for him. Those men would have left her for dead, and she wouldn’t have wanted to live after what they were planning to do to her.
Her hands shook a little as he handed her a soda. “Thank you so much.”
“Stop saying thank you. I helped you when you needed it.”
She nodded, and still, tears filled her eyes. “Not many people would have helped me but you did.”
He nodded. “The world is one fucked up, shitty place; it’s not all that good no matter which way you think about it. You shouldn’t have to be worried about walking the streets alone.”
Elena watched as he removed his leather vest, and she couldn’t help but admire the thickness of his arms and the definition of his muscles. He was a handsome man in that rough, take no shit kind of way.
“There’s nothing we can do to change what happened,” he said softly. “Don’t cry. Nothing is going to happen to you.”
She nodded and stared down at her soda. Just then her stomach decided to start growling, letting her know that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
“You hungry?”
“Forget it. I’m afraid if I eat anything, it won’t stay down. I still feel nauseous.” She closed her eyes and breathed out. “I’d better leave and let you get back to your life.” She went to place her soda back down, but he stopped her.
“You’re not going home tonight, not in the condition you’re in.” A moment of silence passed. “Is there someone you want me to call: a husband or boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Anyone to keep an eye on you?”
She shook her head.
“You took a serious blow to the head, and I want to make sure you stay conscious for the next couple of hours. You’re staying here, so it looks like I get to deal with food, because you should try and eat something light.”
“Are you sure?”
He cupped her cheek, stroking the tips of his fingers over her bruise. “I’m not the best cook, so I should be asking you that.” He looked her in the eyes. “We need some ice on that swelling, though, and then we’ll work on getting you cleaned up.”
Elena watched him get to his feet and walk away. Unable to just sit on her ass, she stood, making sure she was stable on her feet, and followed him through to a rather classy kitchen with a couple of top end gadgets inside. “Wow.” The gadgets were the kind that she wanted for her own kitchen. “Your place really is something.”
It only served to remind her how shitty her actual apartment was. It was an awful place that took most of her paycheck in rent.
Striker chuckled. “So I’m thinking sandwiches. They’re pretty easy to do and light on your stomach.”
“If you don’t like cooking all that much, why do you have all this stuff?” She pressed her hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t ask that.”
He laughed again. “It’s fine. I may not be able to cook all that well, but I actually enjoy it. Cooking relaxes me. So, sandwiches, good?”
“Yes, sandwiches are fine.”
“Take a seat, and I’ll get you some ice.”
Elena took a seat, watched as he opened up his fridge, and started taking out ingredient after ingredient: cheeses, meats, pickles, everything. He then grabbed some ice, wrapped it in a towel, and handed it to her. She placed it on the side of her face, and the coldness felt soothing.
As she continued to watch him make the sandwiches, her mouth watered and her stomach kept on growling.
“You’re a hungry one, aren’t you?”
Elena touched her cheeks, wincing as the pain on one side of her face became stronger.
“That’s going to hurt like a bitch. You’re going to have to take it easy for a couple of days. The bruise will fade, and you’ll be fine.”
“Who knew a brick wall could cause so much pain?” She attempted a joke but it fell flat.
“Those guys are thinking the same.”
Elena had seen the blood on his hands when he’d made her sit on the sofa.
“What happened to those men?”
She was afraid of the answer. If he said they were alive, she would be afraid. If he said they were dead, she would be happy. They had tried to take from her what she wasn’t willing to give.
What did that make her as a person if she was happy about people being dead?
Chapter 4
Striker hadn’t answered her about the men and what he’d done to them. Instead, he’d let her eat, and then led her into his bathroom. She was now sitting on the edge of the tub, and he was on his knees in front of her with an open first aid kit. He started cleaning the blood from her face. He focused on the work, not on the fact she made his entire body feel tight. He didn’t know what it was about this woman, but she made him feel different in a good way. He shouldn’t even be thinking these things since she was just been nearly raped and almost killed. She was vulnerable; probably going through shock right now, and all he could think about was how much he wanted her
He was a sick bastard.
“I’m sorry, but this is going to hurt.” He continued to rub the antiseptic over the worst of her facial wounds, and she gasped and winced.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. It was kind of fucked up that this slip of a woman could make him apologize. Hell, Striker couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever said sorry to anyone.
The fact was as soon as Striker saw her, he knew he wanted her, knew that he had to have her. It was that innocence, that natural submission that called out to the piece of shit man he was, the one that liked control and dominance, that wanted to own another person for the sole purpose of getting off on it. Of course, the women he was with were always willing, always wanted what he had to give. Elena looked like she would run if he even suggested the shit he liked, the stuff he wanted to do to her.
Fuck, he needed to get his head on straight, because right now, he felt like he wasn’t himself.
For the next few minutes, they stayed silent. Elena stared at Striker’s face. He was a handsome man, but not classically so. He was brutal and raw, with dark hair and eyes that looked like they could swallow souls with just a glance. He had scruff on his cheeks and square jaw, and his body was so big, she felt small compared to him She’d never felt small, not with her thicker thighs, bigger butt, and rounded belly. She’d been made fun of for her weight, but having a man like Striker around made her feel petite.
She tried to stay still as he worked on her, his focus on her face, but not making eye contact. Was he feeling this electricity and connection as well? It was so damn crazy given her night and what she’d been through. But the truth was she’d noticed the chemistry she’d felt when she looked at him at the diner, felt his gaze on her. It frightened her, of course, but she’d also felt kind of … alive.
Maybe she was in shock and that’s why she felt like this? He had saved her, so maybe this was some kind of residual emotions for her savior?
But the electricity she felt was intense, maybe not logical after what happened to her, or maybe, just maybe, it was the most rational thing she’d ever felt for someone.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked in a deep, soft voice. He lifted his head and stared right in her eyes, holding her gaze for a moment. But as she looked in his eyes, felt her heart start to beat faster, he broke contact and turned to grab some more ointment and gauze.
He lifted the gauze to the cuts on her face and continued moving the strip of material down to the little cuts she’d gotten from the brick. They were tiny, barely noticeable given the other wounds, but as he rubbed that ointment on her neck and upper chest, everything froze in her.
She could see the way his breathing changed, the way he swallowed, and wondered what he was thinking of.
“I’m not t
hinking about anything,” she said in a soft voice that sounded tight, strained. And she wasn’t, not really, at least not things she’d want to share with him for fear it would make things even more weird than they already were. Elena wasn’t about to make a fool out of herself, and right now, she needed to focus on getting better, and thinking about what in the hell she was going to do next.
“I don’t believe you, but I’m okay with you not wanting to tell me. We all need to keep closed off sometimes.” His voice was deep and slightly serrated.
“What are you thinking about?” she said to him this time, not sure if she really wanted to know, but wanting to change the subject so things weren’t pointed at her right now.
Striker didn’t respond right away, just finished cleaning and dressing her wounds, before he finally leaned back. His touch had been gentle and soft, the total opposite of how he looked and carried himself.
“What did you do to those men, and why do you say they won’t bother me anymore?” She didn’t miss how he hadn’t answered her previous question, or how he’d ignored this one so far. She wanted, no, needed to know, though.
“You really want to know the gritty fucking details?”
God, he was so hard, so raw and rough. She felt her body heat. She should feel scared because he was dangerous, but all she felt was safe with him.
“Yes, I want to know.”
“You don’t want to know, Elena, because if I told you what I did, you’d be afraid of me, and I don’t fucking want that.”
He sounded sincere, and she could see in his hard face, in the way he watched her with this protective aura around him, that Striker was unlike any man she’d ever met.
“I want to know, Striker, because not knowing is almost worse than knowing what you did.” And Elena had a feeling she already knew what he’d done to those assholes, had a feeling he’d taken them out with his bare hands.
Chapter 5
Most women listened to him when he told them that they wouldn’t want to know what he’d done. Elena wasn’t taking the hint, and Striker sat back on his heels, staring at her. She was a beautiful woman, unconventional with her thick hips and huge tits. His cock hardened as he imagined her body naked, taking his cock in whatever hole he desired.
