"You okay?" he asks, cutting the engine. His voice is gentler than I expected from someone covered in that many tattoos.
"Yeah. Yes. I'm fine." I'm not fine. I can feel Biscuit pressing against my legs, sensing my anxiety, feeding off it. "Thank you for… For bringing me home."
"King's orders." Torch glances at the house, then back at me. "You want me to check inside? Make sure everything's good?"
I should say no. I should tell him I'm perfectly capable of checking my own house, that I've lived here my whole life and I don't need a biker with arms like tree trunks to make sure there aren't monsters under my bed.
But the truth is, I'm terrified. Those three men are probably long gone, but my heart is still racing, my breath still coming too fast, and the thought of walking into my empty house alone makes my stomach twist.
"Would you mind?" I ask, hating how small my voice sounds.
"Not at all." Torch follows me up the walkway, waiting while I fumble with my keys. My hands are shaking so badly it takes three tries to get the key in the lock.
The house is exactly as I left it. Lights on in the living room, coffee mug on the counter from this morning, stack of ungraded papers on the dining room table. Torch does a quick sweep anyway, checking the closets, looking out the back windows, making sure all the locks are secure.
"All clear," he says finally. "You got my number if you need anything?"
I don't, actually. Don't have any of the Savage Riders' numbers because I've never needed them before tonight.
He must see it on my face because he pulls out his phone. "What's your number? I'll text you. That way you've got it."
I give it to him, and a moment later my phone buzzes. *This is Torch. Call if you need anything. King's orders.*
"Thank you," I say again. "Really. Thank you."
He nods, tips an imaginary hat, and then he's gone, the rumble of his motorcycle fading into the distance.
I lock the door behind him. Deadbolt and chain. Check it twice. Then I sink down onto the floor right there in the entryway, and Biscuit immediately climbs into my lap, all seventy pounds of him, because he's never understood that he's not a lapdog.
I bury my face in his fur and finally let myself shake.
Those men. Their hands reaching for me. Their laughter when I told them to stop. The way they surrounded me like I was prey, like I was nothing, like my "no" meant less than nothing.
And then that stranger. Appearing out of nowhere, stepping between me and them without hesitation, fighting all three even though he was clearly exhausted, clearly running on empty.
He could have been killed. For me. For a woman whose name he doesn't even know.
Who does that?
I don't realize I'm crying until Biscuit starts licking my face, concerned and confused because his person is upset and he doesn't know how to fix it. I hug him tighter, let myself cry for a few minutes, and then force myself to stand up.
Routine. I need routine. Routine is safe.
I feed Biscuit, his tail wagging because food is the best thing that's ever happened to him, every single time. I make myself tea that I don't drink. I take a shower so hot it turns my skin pink, scrubbing at myself like I can wash away the feeling of those men's eyes on me.
When I finally climb into bed, Biscuit jumps up beside me. Technically not allowed, but I don't have the heart to make him get down tonight. I let him curl up against my side, his warmth real and safe.
But I can't sleep.
Every time I close my eyes, I see those men. Hear their laughter. Feel the spike of fear when I realized no one was close enough to help.
And then I see him. Dark eyes that looked like they'd seen too much. Scarred knuckles and a quiet voice and the kind of stillness that only comes from knowing exactly how dangerous you are.
He saved me. A complete stranger saved me, and I didn't even get to thank him properly. Didn't even ask if he was okay, if he needed help, if he had someone to look after those injuries.
Torch said something about a daughter. A four-year-old inside Murphy's Grill. So, he's a father. A single father, probably, traveling through town with his little girl, and he still stopped to help me.
I roll over, punch my pillow, try to find a comfortable position. Biscuit grumbles in his sleep but doesn't move.