The Pull of Steel

Blake

I spotted her on the side of that empty road like a shadow that had lost its way. Small frame, arms wrapped tight around herself, looking like the night had already chewed her up and was fixing to spit her out. Most women out there at that hour, dressed like that, they’re either waiting on someone or trying to outrun something. The second I saw her eyes—wide, guarded, darting around like a trapped bird—I knew which one she was.

Lucy. That was her name. She said it soft, like she was afraid to claim it, like someone had taught her it didn’t belong to her anymore. I don’t forget details like that. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they say their own name.

I told myself I should’ve kept going. My life doesn’t have room for stray souls on dark highways. The road is full of them—broken people, looking for something, bleeding from wounds no one else can see. I usually leave them where they stand. I got enough weight of my own to carry.

But with her… something in me stalled.

She was trembling even when she pretended she wasn’t. The kind of trembling that comes from living too long on edge, waiting for the next blow. I’d seen it before—in brothers who came back from war, in women who’d been swallowed up by men who thought fists were a language. It’s not fear of the moment; it’s fear burned into the bones.

So, yeah, I offered her a ride. Not because I thought she’d take it—hell, half expected her to bolt the second I stopped—but because leaving her there felt wrong.

When she climbed onto my bike, I felt her hands clamp down on my jacket like she was hanging off a cliff. She didn’t trust me, but she trusted the machine under us, the escape it offered. Sometimes that’s enough.

At the diner, I kept it simple. Coffee, fries. Something warm to put in her stomach. Didn’t miss the way she watched me, all nerves and questions she wouldn’t ask. She wanted to bolt, but she didn’t. I don’t know if that made her brave or just desperate.

Then the clubhouse. Maybe it wasn’t the smartest move, bringing her there. That place isn’t kind to outsiders. But I wasn’t about to dump her back on the road, and she didn’t have anywhere else to go. I could see it plain as day.

The second we walked in, I felt the shift. Eyes on us, whispers under breath. I’m used to it—it comes with the patch. But her? She’s fragile, even if she doesn’t know it yet. Every stare weighed on her like bricks.

And of course, Riker had to open his damn mouth. Calling her a stray. That word burned hotter than I expected. I’ve seen the way people get broken down by words like that, how they stick deeper than fists ever could. She didn’t need that. Not tonight. Not when she’d already been through enough.

So I stepped in. Made sure he backed off. One look was all it took, because Riker knows where that line is and what happens if he crosses it.

After that, I watched her hands shaking around that glass of water, trying to hide it. Didn’t call her out on it, though. Sometimes the worst thing you can do to someone holding on by a thread is let them know you see how close they are to snapping. Better to give them space to breathe, let them think they’ve got control.

I told her she didn’t have to be scared with me. She probably doesn’t believe me. Hell, maybe she shouldn’t. I’m not the hero type. Never was, never will be. I’ve done things that’d make her run if she knew. Things that stain a man’s hands no matter how many times he washes them.

But looking at her—eyes darting, shoulders drawn in tight like she expected the world to hit her again—I felt something I don’t let myself feel anymore.

Protective.

That’s a dangerous thing, protection. It ties you to people. Makes you weak. Gives the world a way to gut you. I’ve learned the hard way that when you care, you bleed.

So why the hell did I let her climb onto my bike? Why did I bring her into my world, knowing damn well it’s the last place she belongs?

I don’t have an answer that makes sense. All I know is that when I saw her standing on that road, I couldn’t keep riding. Something in her called to something in me, and now I’m tangled in it whether I want to be or not.

She doesn’t trust me yet. Hell, she probably shouldn’t. But when she looked up at me in that bar, eyes wide and scared but still standing her ground, I saw something that damn near stopped me cold.

Hope.

It’s faint, buried under scars, but it’s there.

I don’t know what she’s running from, and I’m not sure I want to. But I do know one thing: whoever put that fear in her eyes better pray I never find them.

Because Lucy might not know it yet, but she’s under my protection now.

And I don’t let go.