Claimed By My Father’s Outlaw

Chapter16

Raine's POV

What the f**k is wrong with men?

I barrelled my way down the hallway as rage burned through every inch of my body. I wanted to kill every single man in that room. Every. Single. One. Starting with Blackjack and his stupid speech, then Ambrose for starting it all in the first place, and then moving on to all the idiots who laughed like it was the funniest thing they'd ever heard.

I found a bathroom at the end of the hall and shoved the door open. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as I stumbled to the sink and turned the faucet on full blast, splashing cold water over my face.

It didn't help. Nothing ever helped when I experienced things like this at the hands of men.

I braced my hands on the edge of the sink and stared at the drain as water dripped off my face. The biker world was drowning in misogyny and I was stuck in the middle of it. Every single day, I tried to prove myself. Every single day, I worked twice as hard as any man just to get half the respect.

And for what? So my own father could tell me I'd never be good enough to succeed him? So that men like Blackjack and Ambrose could stand up in front of everyone and remind me that I'd never belong in their world? A world I had lived in for twenty five years?

I knew I could run the Iron Serpents just as well as any man. Better, even. But my father wouldn't even consider me for Vice President, let alone his heir, because I was a woman. That was it. That was the only reason.

"Goddamn it!" I hissed under my breath, pacing back and forth in the tiny bathroom. "f**k them. f**k all of them!"

I caught sight of myself in the mirror and stopped. My hair was a mess, flaming red strands falling out of my ponytail and sticking to my damp face. My eyes were red, and I looked like I'd been through a war. And that made me even angrier.

I turned back to the mirror and slammed my fist into the soap dispenser mounted on the wall. The plastic cracked under the impact and shattered, pieces flying everywhere. Pain sliced my knuckles immediately, and when I pulled my hand back, blood was already pooling in my palm.

"s**t!" I swore, staring at the shards embedded in my skin.

I rushed back to the sink and shoved my hand under the cold water, watching the blood swirl down the drain. The cuts stung like madness, but I didn't care. I just kept rinsing, trying to wash away the anger and the humiliation and the stupid, useless tears that were about to fall.

The door opened behind me but I didn't turn around. "Get out. I need the bathroom to myself."

There was a pause, and then footsteps. Whoever it was didn't leave. I turned around, ready to scream at whoever had the audacity to ignore me, and then I saw who it was.

Cole Maddox was standing in the doorway, his eyes moving from the broken soap dispenser on the floor to my bleeding hand and then back up to my face.

"Why are you here?" I snapped.

He didn't move. Instead, he glanced down at the shattered plastic again, then back at my hand. "That's gonna swell. The cut is very deep. You need to get it fixed."

"I'm fine."

"You're bleeding all over the sink, Miss Mercer."

"And I'll stop bleeding eventually," I retorted. "Now, leave me alone."

He still didn't move, just stood there with his arms crossed, staring at the blood on my hands.

I turned back to the sink and cranked the water higher, hoping he'd take the hint and go away. But he didn't. Of course he didn't.

"Let me help you with that."

"Do you have a first aid kit lying around somewhere?" I asked sarcastically, not bothering to look at him. "Or are you just gonna stand there?"

"Actually," he replied, "I do."

I paused, my hand still under the running water. "What?"

"I have a first aid kit," he repeated. "Stay put. I'll be right back."

And then he turned and walked out, leaving me standing there with my bleeding hand and absolutely no idea what the hell just happened.

When he came back, he had a small white box in his hand. "Got it from my car," he explained, nodding toward the sinks. "Sit up there."

I didn't argue. I climbed up onto the counter and let my legs dangle while he opened the box and pulled out supplies.

He stepped in front of me and reached for my hand, turning it over gently to inspect the damage. His fingers were rough but careful as he pulled out a pair of tweezers and started picking out the smaller shards of plastic.

"This might sting a bit," he warned, glancing up at me.

"I've had worse," I muttered.

He didn't respond, just kept working. I watched him pull out the last piece and drop it into the sink before reaching for a bottle of iodine.

"This will definitely sting," he added, unscrewing the cap.

I braced myself, and when he poured it over the cuts, I hissed through my teeth. It burned so terribly, but I bit down on my lip and didn't say anything.

"Sorry," he muttered, grabbing a clean cloth to dab at the excess.

"It's fine."

He worked quietly after that, wrapping gauze around my hand with steady and practiced movements. I watched his face as he concentrated, noticing the way he frowned slightly and the way he treated my wounds even gentler every time I winced.

This was weird, all of it. Every time we'd been around each other before, we'd been arguing or snapping at each other or kissing in the middle of a thunderstorm. But now we were calm and even comfortable around each other. And he wasn't forcing me to talk about what happened with Blackjack, which I appreciated a lot.

"Is it too tight?" he asked, tugging lightly at the bandage.

"No. It's good."

He nodded and kept wrapping. I shifted slightly on the counter, and that's when I caught his smell. It was as though he tried to use cologne to mask the smell of engine grease, not unusual for a bikeman but it was oddly comforting. This smell was familiar to me.