The kid’s mother rushed to Savage, tears streaming down her face, thanking him as she took the child. He thrust her aside and sprinted to the fallen woman. She was small, a broken doll lying on her belly. The denim she wore hadn’t protected her leg. The material was shredded along with her skin. The wounds looked ugly, vicious even, going from the top of her ankle to the top of her thigh. He couldn’t tell if her leg was broken. The rest of her clothes were shredded on that side as well, her narrow rib cage bloody, the side of her breast and her arm.
Savage crouched down beside her. She groaned, letting him know she was conscious at least. She had hair, a lot of it, a rich honey color. He gathered it into one hand and pulled it away from the blood on her arm. “You’re alive, baby, but don’t move until the paramedics get here. Tell me where you’re hurt.”
She made little sounds of distress in the back of her throat, and then turned her face toward him. Her eyelashes fluttered. They were exceptionally long, and there were diamond-like drops on them. She opened her eyes, and he found himself looking into the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. That got him straight in his scarred, uncooperative cock. She was lying there broken and bruised on his account, and his fuckin’ body suddenly decided to come to life all on its own. He was shocked. More than shocked. He didn’t let it show, but that had never happened that he could remember.
She would have bruises and lacerations on her otherwise flawless skin. Her bone structure was perfect. Savage noted every detail, the way he did everything. Her mouth was . . . Bog. Her mouth. Deliberately, he looked away from her face and once more looked at her body, trying not to notice that her ass, cupped in those tight jeans, was just as perfect as her tits.
“I’m going to run my hands over you, looking for broken bones. I’m not taking advantage.” He knew he looked rough. He was rough. He was wearing his colors, so it wasn’t difficult to tell he was a biker. He was tattooed, and he kept his head shaved. He was intimidating, because he was the kind of man that beat the fuck out of someone if they crossed him. “That all right with you?”
She tried to move her arm and groaned. He put his hand over it to stop her. “Tell me your name.”
Her eyelashes fluttered. A tear rolled down her face, and he had an uncharacteristic urge to lick it off her cheek. He hadn’t done that in a long, long time. Now that she’d woken that beast, it roared hungrily, eyeing her ravenously. He shoved his cravings away.
“Come on, baby, I can hear the sirens. Medics are coming.” When she moved slightly, he saw the bump on her head. It was pretty impressive. “Tell me your name.”
Her tongue touched her lip, drawing his attention to her mouth again. He didn’t want to look there. The moment he did, his fuckin’ cock jerked. There was no precedent for that. None. He was always in control of his body, and here this woman—who had most likely saved his life—was lying on the ground injured and he was having some kind of a perverted reaction to her.
Her lashes drifted down, and his heart jumped. For a man always in control of his body, he was losing it. “Babe. Tell me your fucking name right now.” He wasn’t going to lose her, so he poured command into his voice.
A few of the bystanders gasped, and one started to protest, but when Savage turned ice-cold eyes on him, the protester thought better of it.
“Seychelle.” She whispered it. “Seychelle Dubois.”
The ambulance arrived, and when the paramedics hurried to them, he gave them a cold stare as he shifted to one side. “Thank fuck. She’s trying to drift away.”
The two men moved their hands over her body, and something twisted in his gut. He stepped back. The deputy sheriff had arrived, and he didn’t want any part of that.
“He saved my boy.” Savage heard the woman distinctly, and he began to make his way through the crowd toward his bike. Shit. It was still on the ground where he’d laid it down to run for the kid. That was what he got for interfering. And now this woman. Seychelle Dubois. What the fuck kind of name was that? He’d killed three people in France. He knew the language, and she pronounced it with a French accent.
“Savage.”
He crouched down beside his bike to inspect it for damage, not looking around. He knew the voice. Jackson Deveau. They’d met on several occasions. Technically, they hadn’t exactly exchanged names and pleasantries—Savage left that to others in the club—but they knew each other. A shadow fell across him, and as he rose to pick up the Harley, Jackson helped. Ordinarily, Savage would have decked anyone touching his bike, but the man was helping, and he wore a badge. So maybe not the best idea.