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.
“Any damage?”
“A few scratches. I got lucky.”
“From the sound of it, very lucky. They’re taking Seychelle Dubois to the hospital in Fort Bragg. Do you know her?”
Savage was tempted to tell him he did, but he had no idea why, so he shook his head and kept going over his bike.
“You saved the kid.”
“Technically, she saved the kid. She shoved me out of the way and took the hit. I don’t know how she angled it, but at least she wasn’t killed.” He glanced across the street to the mother who was rocking the little boy, more to comfort herself than the child. “The kid all right?”
“Yeah. I’ll need your statement.”
Savage leveled his gaze at the man. “Just gave it to you.”
Jackson shook his head. “You’ve destroyed your hard-ass image, Savage. You’ve got all these people looking at you like you’re some kind of hero.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Savage snapped. He swung his leg over his bike and settled on the familiar leather. His Harley felt like part of him. Home. If he had one, it was on this bike. It was a Night Rod Special, all matte black with dull gunmetal-gray trim and blacked-out chrome and his one concession—the image of a dripping gray skull. He loved his bike, and it was a fuckin’ road rocket, sheer speed thanks to Harley-Davidson and a little help from Transporter and Mechanic.
“You headed back to the club?”
“You my mother now?”
Jackson grinned at him, not taking offense. He never did. He wasn’t a man to pull a power play just because he wore a badge, and that told Savage he was someone to contend with. Jackson was confident, which meant he didn’t need an ego for a reason.
“Don’t forget to wear your helmet,” Jackson said.
Savage flipped him off as he fitted the ridiculous half dome to his head and then waited for the deputy to step back. He got the hell out of there, thankful his bike had minimum damage, all cosmetic, and that the kid lived through the entire thing. With the wind in his face, he let the sea air unravel the knots in his gut he always got when he was around too many people. Usually, he could dismiss everything when he rode and just feel complete freedom when he was on his motorcycle, riding along the coastal highway.