Free Marked as His by Em Petrova

lived clear across town. The outskirts brushed against the countryside, raising memories of school field trips and one time her father had brought her along to visit a friend.
    The club member had gotten too old to do much around the clubhouse. He was wheelchair-bound and lonely. While her dad talked to the man, Santana played with his cats.
    When the engine stopped vibrating between her legs, she came back to herself with a start. Glancing around, she realized they’d stopped in front of a small house.
    “Welcome to my chateau.” He climbed off and removed his helmet, hanging it on the handlebar. “It’s a duplex. Right side’s mine. Rent’s affordable and…well, I like the quiet away from town.”
    She understood. After she and her mother had left, they’d lived in several cramped apartments right on the main thoroughfare. All night long she’d endured loud voices, music, and traffic. Eventually it had become a sort of lullaby.
    Paxton shifted his long legs as if unnerved by her silence. He jerked a thumb toward the house. “You coming in? I want to change.”
    “Uh…no. I’ll just sit here and enjoy the quiet.”
    Concern lit his eyes but he reluctantly nodded. She watched his hard ass move away. The minute the front door closed, she shot off the bike and started running. By her estimate, she was half a mile from a place she could hail a cab. And she was a good sprinter, even in her high boots.
    She tore down the street back toward the place they’d come. The air was hot and stagnant, burning her lungs. But she pushed on.
    Getting away from Paxton was uppermost in her mind. As each stride carried her farther away, she thought of how he’d react when he came out and found her gone. With any luck, he’d take a damn long time changing and she’d have a good headway.
    She turned a corner and tore off faster, pumping hard. She never should have agreed to go with him. What was it about him that persuaded her so easily? She wasn’t a weak woman—she knew her mind.
    And she wasn’t returning to the club. Ever.
    She shouldn’t have been on the back of Paxton’s bike. Shouldn’t have allowed him between her legs. Dammit, she knew better.
    He was no good for her—she was just a patch to him. What an idiot she was.
    As she dragged in quick breaths, she caught it—the scent of the river. It cut along this stretch of road, smelling of living things. She’d always loved the river. As a teen she’d spent a lot of time walking along it, skipping rocks, and thinking.
    She headed toward it like a dying animal to water. But she didn’t make it far before the bike engine filled her hearing.
    Paxton rolled alongside her. She glanced over to his hardened features. His lips were a grim line, and his eyes glittered.
    “Stop running, Santana.”
    She cast around a wild look. There was nowhere to bolt. Why run anyway? She was strong enough to stand up to Paxton, her father, and every last Hell’s Son he sent after her.
    When she stopped, her chest heaved and perspiration ran off her.
    “Damn, you look hot.”
    She lifted a brow at his drawled tone. Obviously he didn’t mean it the way he’d said it. Leaning over, she braced her palms on her thighs and dragged in lungfuls of air.
    He pulled the bike off to the side of the road and cut the engine. Then he walked back to her, took her hand, and led her down to the river. As they cut through the screen of foliage separating the water from the road, cooler air kissed her hot cheeks.
    Too bad the water was probably polluted by industries upstream. And who knew how many dead bodies the Hell’s Sons had dumped in. Her throat was parched.
    Paxton kept a vise grip on her hand as if prepared for her to run again. He eyed her. “What other tricks do you have for me? Any weapons on your person?”
    She shook her head, feeling juvenile all of a sudden. Ripping her hand from his grasp, she turned to face him. They were on uneven ground, putting her slightly above him.
    “I’m