Free Exiled (Anathema Book 2) by Lana Grayson

and
the dizzying clutch of pain punished like the bullet sliced through me again.
My head cracked next. That didn’t hurt as much. Figured it would, but rolling
through the dirt and sliding on the leather into a guardrail shook most of the
shock off.
    The
man’s bike pulled up beside me.
    I
had too many years in the business, too many close calls in the lifestyle to deal
with this bullshit.
    My
gun, aimed, cocked, and fired before he even raised his weapon. The body fell
to the ground, crushed under his motorcycle.
    He
wasn’t the bastard Sergeant-At-Arms.
    “Fuck.”
I rose to my feet and spat. No blood on my tongue, though my head and chest
scoured with daggers. I guessed that was a good sign.
    Martini
groaned from across the road. She hobbled onto her hands and knees. Her jacket
hadn’t torn, but her jeans were either covered in mud or a bloody mess. The
lightning didn’t flash to reveal it, but my stomach twisted.
    She
was another innocent girl caught in a bike chase, trapped in the middle of a war
that hadn’t named her. It was too similar.
    It
was just like Rose.
    I
hauled her up. “Come on.”
    She
gripped my hand and stared with eyes rounded in panic. Her gaze hardened with
each passing second. The silver cooled, stilled, and shattered, and I knew,
without a doubt, I’d earn that shrapnel as soon as she caught her breath.
    “We
gotta lay low,” I said. “They’ll call the cops from every municipality from
here to Ohio.”
    I
didn’t know how I talked. I didn’t know how I got on the bike, or why the
damage to the frame seemed only cosmetic. I wasn’t that lucky. Had to be
Martini.
    The
rain sheeted against the rode as I drove us to the next town through blurred
vision and a ringing in my head that I’d only stop with a sharp knife. Martini was
bleeding. I sure as shit couldn’t ride. The police raided the highway, and
Temple scoured the town looking for the scrap of clues the cops forgot to pick
up.
    We
needed a place to hide if only until the hornets ceased buzzing and the rain
stopped falling.
    A
neon yellow sign advertised a motel. It paid by the hour, but I wasn’t worth a
good room. Martini held on tight as I parked and stashed the bike behind the
enclosed dumpster.
    Every
movement dug that reaper’s scythe deeper into my flesh. I leaned on the door to
the lobby and forced my way inside. Martini’s quick steps scampered beside me.
I tossed a handful of wet twenties at the acne-scarred college bro staring at
us through bloodshot eyes.
    “There’s
two hundred.” I grunted. “Put down any fucking name. Tell anyone we’re here,
and I’ll cut out your tongue.”
    The
kid reached for the lobby phone and paled. Martini hopped onto the counter, too
petite to lean over without kicking her feet off the ground.
    “Hi.”
Her voice purred like a cat in heat. “We had a little scrap on the road. Lost
control of the bike, can you believe it?”
    She
bit her lip, but the streak of dirt over her cheek, nose, and forehead dampened
her charm. Her hair smoothed behind her ear, dripping wet. She appeared little,
lost, and frightened, and I wondered how the fuck the clerk didn’t immediately
call the police.
    “Can
you get us a room? We’d like to clean up?”
    “I...”
He swallowed, glancing from her to me. “I can call an ambulance?”
    I
didn’t want to shoot my gun again, but Martini laughed. Her sweetness burned
away any of the road grime and mud in her hair.
    The
kid melted.
    “No
ambulance. We have bad insurance.” She winked. “Don’t worry about us. I’ll take
care of him.”
    He
tossed a key on the counter. “Uh…Room Three. Be out by eleven.”
    She
grabbed the key and bathed the boy in a smile so sensual he blushed. “Thanks,
sweetie. You’re a lifesaver.”
    Martini
took my arm and forced me to follow. The room wasn’t much, but the instant the
door closed every nerve ending in my body exploded in a bombardment of pain. She
locked and chained the door. I pointed to the windows