Her Salvation, His Damnation

#10

Grace stiffened, the command pinning her in place. She turned slowly, the silk of her robe clung against her skin. Tate didn’t move, but he gestured with a slight flick of his fingers, beckoning her into his space.

She stepped closer, the domestic quiet of the kitchen suddenly charged with tension.

"I need you to check my back," he said, his voice a low vibration that seemed to bypass her ears and hum straight in her chest.

Grace’s eyes widened, her heart skipping a beat. The request felt far too intimate for the cold distance they had maintained since the ceremony. He caught the hesitation in her expression, a ghost of a challenge appearing in his dark eyes.

"Or can you not even manage that much for your husband?"

Grace swallowed hard, the word *husband* sounding strange coming from him. She shook her head quickly. "I can," she whispered. She set her water bottle down on the counter and moved behind him, her steps hesitant.

He leaned forward, bracing his forearms against the table. With shaky hands, Grace reached for the hem of his dark shirt and began to lift it. As the fabric rose, she let out a pained gasp. A massive, angry wound marred the expanse of his back, a map of torn skin and bruising that looked dangerously fresh.

Tate cursed under his breath, his muscles tensing at the sound of her reaction. "Judging by the way you’re breathing, it’s a mess, isn’t it?"

Grace hurried around to his front, her face pale. "It’s terrible, Mr tate. You’re bleeding through the bruising." In her haste to reach him, she had forgotten the precarious knot of her robe, the silk parted again, but she was too focused on his pain to notice. "You need a hospital. Now."

He dismissed her with a shake of his head. "No hospitals."

"Why?" she challenged, her voice rising with an indignant flare. "What is it with men like you? You’re injured, you’re in pain, yet you act like a sterile room is a death sentence."

"Hospitals aren’t my thing," he muttered, his jaw set in a stubborn line.

"Fine," she snapped, her fierce streak overriding her fear. "Then let me clean it."

"Go back to bed, Grace," he said, though the command lacked its usual bite. He sounded exhausted, a man pushed to his limit.

Grace didn't move. Instead, she found a clean towel in the drawer, dampened it with warm water, and returned to his back. Without asking for permission this time, she lifted his shirt again. Tate stiffened, a low sound of surprise escaping him.

"You really are a stubborn one," he said, his voice sounding rougher than usual.

"I’m not about to become a sudden widow because you let an infection turn into sepsis," she shot back, her hands surprisingly steady as she began to dab at the edges of the wound.

The kitchen went silent for a moment, the only sound the soft splash of water. Then, Tate let out a short, unexpected chuckle. "You have a great sense of humor, Grace. I’ll give you that."

She worked in silence, her brow furrowed in concentration as she cleared away the grime and dried blood. "Don't move," she ordered. "I'll be right back."

She rushed up the stairs, her feet flying over the marble, and burst into her room to grab the first aid kit. When she returned, she found him exactly where she had left him. She worked with a quiet, focused intensity, applying antiseptic and carefully layering the bandages across his spine. When she was finished, she smoothed the edges down, her fingers lingering for a fraction of a second against his heated skin before she pulled away.

"That should do for now," she said softly.

Instead of retreating to her room, she washed her hands, grabbed her water, and sat in the chair opposite him. She took a slow sip, her eyes searching his face. "How did this happen, Mr Tate? This wasn't a scuffle in an alleyway."

Tate’s eyes lingered on her chest, drifting down to where her robe had slipped again. His gaze darkened, a raw predatory hunger flashing in the depths of his pupils.

"If you really want to hear the story," he rasped, his voice dropping into a dangerous tone, "you need to cover your chest. I’m a starving man, Grace, and you’re tempting me in ways I can’t afford right now. I’m losing my control."

Grace flushed a deep, scorching crimson. She hurriedly adjusted her nightwear, pulling the robe up to her chin and knotting the belt with a frantic energy.

Tate exhaled a deep breath and looked away. "I got into a rematch with an old rival," he began, his voice flat. "Jace. We took the bikes out. I was leading—I had the finish line in my sights. But something gave way. The bike tripped, rolled... it sent me into the asphalt at eighty miles an hour." He sighed deeply, the sound heavy with a rare, bitter defeat. "And I lost."

Grace clutched her bottle, her heart aching for the pride she knew he carried like armor. "You didn't lose your life, Mr Tate. That's the only win that matters."

He locked eyes with her, a cold, weary light in them. "You really don't understand, do you?"

"Then make me understand," she urged, leaning forward.

"We had a bet," he said, the words sounding bitter. "The stakes weren't just pride. Because I didn't cross that line first, I have to step down. I’m giving up the crown. I would no longer be the Biker King."

Grace blinked, the title sounding like something out of a dark fairytale. "You... you’re a King?"

Tate rolled his eyes, a tired nod being his only answer.

"But what if Jace had something to do with the bike?" she asked, her mind racing. "Bikes like yours don't just 'trip' when a professional is riding them."

Tate sighed, leaning his head back. "Of course he did. He proposed a drink inside the warehouse before the start. I was careless. I left the machine unattended for three minutes. That’s all it takes for a man like Jace to sabotage a brake line or a stabilizer."

"Then you can't step down," Grace said firmly, her eyes flashing with a sudden, protective heat. "You can't let him win like that. Whatever happened wasn't a fair race—it was cheating. A victory built on a lie isn't a victory at all."

Tate looked at her, a slow, genuine smirk spreading across his face. It wasn't the cold mask he usually wore, it was a look of real appraisal.

"You’re fierce, Grace," he said, his voice dropping into a warm, low hum. "I like that."