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He nodded jerkily, fired off a quick text, and then put his phone away. He opened the first aid kit and pulled on gloves, slowly and carefully.

He didn’t meet her eyes as he leaned forward to dab at her lip with a piece of gauze.

“Expand on that,” he murmured. After he wiped away the blood, he cleaned the wound with a damp towelette that stung. Riley let a shaky breath out, and he pulled her shirt back into place. The blankness on his face melted away with every breath she took, and despite everything, she needed to tell him.

“I let it go on too long.” A tear rolled down her cheek, and he caught it on his thumb. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t tell her it wasn’t her fault.

“Social work was like this. The adrenaline and the dried blood. They’d come in, wide eyes, shocked that their husband or boyfriend could do this. They’d tell me it was an accident. He didn’t mean to.” Her whisper was loud. “I should have done something about him sooner.”

Saint tidied up the gauze, slipping the gloves into each other.

“It wasn’t their fault. You know?”

“I know.”

“I never really got it, why they’d let it happen. Why they’d stay. I didn’t understand—but hindsight’s twenty-twenty right?… I think I’m starting to get it now.” Her throat hurt.

“The violence just kind of sneaks up. I didn’t think Gio would really do anything. He threw little temper tantrums every now and again, but I could handle it. I did handle it. It wasn’t that bad. He was just mad, he usually got over it. But then they went to Italy, and it was so nice. I got to be bored at work, not planning around him constantly. And when he came back I was angry that he was in my space. Even though I shouldn’t have been. It’s his brother’s company.”

Her laugh sounded like glass breaking. “But I reported him to HR. That was the whole thing when I was on the sidewalk and you picked me up. Gio cornered me in the bathroom, and I’d had enough. And then I went and got on your bike, barely knowing you.”

Saint was silent as he reorganized the bandages, smallest to largest.

Riley sniffed. “I was more stupid than they ever were. This could have been so much worse.” When she let the tears go they didn’t hurt as much. It could have been so much worse.

She’d seen that too many times, but now she understood a bit better. And she didn’t even like Gio.

The women she’d talked to had been in love with the people who hurt them.

It was an impossible situation.

The skylights reflected her and Saint in miniature. How did Riley wind up here, with a man who was careful and quiet—working for criminals with blood on her face?

Her of all people. The cop’s daughter.

He thumbed over her knuckles, silver lines standing out on his fingers. He still had a line of grease on his wrist from whatever bike he’d been fixing before she interrupted. Probably that biker, Ryan’s.

Oh god.

“Do you know him?”

He didn’t ask her to clarify and shook his head gently. “Never heard of him.”

A sigh rushed out and Riley wiped the tears off her face. “I thought, maybe, with the Eighty-Sixers…”

They knew about everything that happened in Cascadia, even white-collar crime. Were they rivals with Nico? Allies? Did they ever work together?

Riley was so fucked.

“I’m not one of them. I should have told you that right away,” Saint said, shifting closer, knees touching hers. Riley sagged into the couch.

Jesus-fucking-Christ.

“I’m tied up though. They’re my primary client, and that comes with… strings.”

“What does ‘strings’ mean?”

He rubbed his forehead and then ran his hand through his hair. “Ryan checks up on me. I have to show my face every now and again at the club. Stay out of trouble.”