Chapter 5 - Holly

My hands are still trembling slightly, but I force them into steadiness. I need to focus and help him. Sure, Chance seems like a big, bad man on the outside.

But he protected me without hesitation, put himself in harm's way. A man like that can't be truly bad deep down, can he? And despite the trickles of blood seeping from his muscular arms, I can't help but notice how ruggedly handsome he is.

"I've told you. I don't need your help," Chance growls, folding those massive arms across his broad chest.

I lift my chin defiantly. "Well, it's the least I can do after you saved me...again."

He huffs out a gruff breath, rolling his eyes.

"Whatever. Don't you got a kid to be getting back to?" He jerks his chin towards the shattered windows. "Don't know if those biker enemies will circle back around."

A spike of cold fear lances through me at the thought of Jayden. What if those maniacs had come after us at home instead? The idea of my son being put in danger like that makes me feel sick.

"But...your friends went after them, right?" I ask hesitantly.

Chance gives a curt nod. "Sure, I trust Trickster and Knowledge with my life. But I can guarantee you we got more enemies besides just those two dumbasses that attacked us."

Instead of feeling scared by his ominous words, I can't help but let out a shocked little laugh.

"Trickster and Knowledge? Those are your friends' names?"

Chance's brow furrows into a scowl as he scrunches up his nose.

"We all got codenames in the club. Don't you go mocking our traditions."

"Oh! No, I wasn't mocking at all," I reassure him quickly, waving my hands. "It just...caught me off guard, is all. I'd actually love to know your codename."

Chance lets out a disgruntled sigh at my question like he's not too happy about indulging my curiosity. Finally, he grunts, "Don't know why I'm telling you this, but...they call me the Mercenary."

I gulp, feeling my throat go dry. The man who just saved me - twice in less than 24 hours - is known as the Mercenary? A tremor runs through me as the realization sinks in. He must have seriously hurt people, maybe even worse, to earn a name like that.

"Wh-Why do they call you that?" I stammer, unable to keep the tremor from my voice.

Chance's eyes narrow, and he shakes his head curtly.

"You're asking too many questions. It's time you realized the real world isn't all daisies and sunshine. We got too relaxed here—you should get back to your easy, peaceful life."

The rebuke stings, and I feel my cheeks flush hot with indignation.

Raising my voice, I snap back, "You don't know anything about my life! I'm a single mom doing my best to raise a teenager on my own. Sure, it might not be as dangerous as your...lifestyle, but it's far from easy!"

Chance grunts, seeming taken aback by my outburst.

"Didn't mean it like that," he mutters gruffly. "Just saying...you can't expect kindness and cuddles from a man called the Mercenary."

Lifting my chin defiantly, I hold his intense gaze.

"A name is just a name - it doesn't have to define who you really are inside."

For a long moment, Chance is silent, simply staring at me with those piercing eyes. Then he sucks in a deep breath and rakes one broad hand back through his short dark hair.

"Maybe for normal folks," he allows grimly. "But I am who I am 'cause I choose to be. Don't go feeding me no cliché bullshit about changing."

"Okay, okay..." I murmur, throwing up my hands in surrender. I'm just too tired to keep arguing philosophy with this stubborn man. "Where's your med kit? I'll patch you up and then leave you be."

Chance eyes me warily for a moment as if wondering whether to trust me. Finally, he jerks his chin towards the bar.

"Under the counter."

Nodding, I retrieve the battered old kit and bring it over. As I pop it open and survey its meager contents, I realize I'll need better access to properly clean and dress his wounds.

"You'll need to take your shirt off so I can see the full extent of the damage," I tell him matter-of-factly.

Chance hesitates, those intense eyes locked on mine. For a wild moment, I wonder if he's going to argue or refuse. Then, with a resigned huff, he reaches down and yanks his torn, bloodied shirt up over his head in one smooth motion.

I can't help but suck in a sharp breath at the sight of his bare torso. Thick cords of muscle ripple beneath tanned skin riddled with old scars. Running across his broad shoulders and down his powerful back are a series of nasty-looking gashes from the broken glass.

Swallowing hard, I force my wandering eyes to focus as I wet a clean rag.

"This might sting a bit," I warn before gently starting to clean the first jagged wound.

To his credit, Chance doesn't so much as flinch, his jaw merely tightening slightly.

I continue carefully cleaning and disinfecting each slash and laceration, trying to avoid openly staring at the rippling muscles of his arms and back. Chance remains stoic and still through it all, not even a flicker of discomfort crossing his rugged features despite the pain he must be feeling.

My mind is an utter mess. I just wanted to properly thank him for his heroics, and now here I am with my hands roaming over his strong, tattooed flesh. It's all too easy to imagine what those powerful arms would feel like wrapped around me, carrying me to...

No. I give my head a firm shake to derail that dangerous train of thought.

Chance is clearly a dangerous man—they don't call him the Mercenary for nothing. Getting any more tangled up with him than I already am would only put myself and Jayden at risk—a risk I swore I'd never take again.

Pushing those thoughts aside, I move on to cleaning the jagged cuts along his broad back. That's when I notice it - a thick, puckered scar in the shape of a bullet wound, the skin gnarled and twisted from what was surely a near-fatal injury at some point.

Unable to contain my curiosity, I gently trace the pad of my finger over the old scar.

"Looks like you got some professional help patching this one up," I can't help but remark.

Chance tenses at my touch, his shoulders tightening. "Ain't none of your business," he bites out gruffly. Drawing his good arm across his chest, he gestures vaguely at the scar. "Got careless on a tour overseas back when I was dumb enough to buy into the whole serving my country' bullshit. Those days are long gone now."

My eyes widen at this new revelation. The brutal, infamous Mercenary...was once a soldier? Is that where his codename originated?

So many more questions spring to my lips, but I bite them back, sensing I've already pushed him far enough tonight.

Instead, I simply murmur, "I'm surprised you used to be military, but...I can understand why you were so quick to protect me then."

"Had nothing to do with that," he growls, shooting me a sidelong look. "Only reason I stepped in was because having folks killed in my own damn bar is bad for business reputation. That's all there is to it."

Of course he had some selfish, pragmatic reason for protecting me. I should've known better than to read too much into the gesture from a man like Chance. Clearly caring about anyone beyond his biker buddies is the last thing on the cold Mercenary's mind.

A flare of anger rises in my chest - at him for his callous attitude, but mostly at myself for getting swept up in silly romantic notions. I let myself believe, even for a moment, that he stepped in as some noble act of chivalry to safeguard me. What an utterly foolish flight of fancy that was.

Gritting my teeth, I press the rag down harder than intended against one of his wounds. For the first time since I started tending to him, Chance flinches, his body going rigid. Before I can so much as blink, his massive hand clamps down on my wrist in a vice-like grip.

"You might wanna be careful there." he rumbles, eyes boring into mine with an intensity that makes me tremble.

"S-Sorry," I stammer out, a spike of fear shooting through me.

Every self-preservation instinct is screaming at me to run, to get as far away from this dangerous man as possible.

But then, just as quickly as the menace flared in his gaze, it's gone. Chance releases my wrist and actually looks...sheepish? Remorseful even?

"My bad," he mutters gruffly, raking a hand through his shaggy hair. "I'm just...used to acting first, thinking later around threats. I didn't mean to scare you—or hurt you either."

I rub my wrist absently, the brief flash of fear already fading.

"You didn't hurt me," I reassure him. Then, seizing my chance, I lift my chin boldly. "But...I think I'm owed one question from you. To make us even."

Chance lets out a low rumble, almost like a growl. But instead of shooting me down, he simply leans forward.

I can barely breathe, mesmerized by the sight of his hulking frame, every cut and bulge of his muscles rippling beneath tanned skin. Despite the potential danger radiating off him in waves, I feel an inexplicable pull, a desire to remain right here at his side.

"Well?" he prompts gruffly. "You got one question, so ask it and make it quick."

Swallowing hard, I force my wandering thoughts back into focus.

"Why don't you believe in protecting your country anymore?"

Chance arches one thick brow, as if surprised by my query.

"That's what you really want to know about?"

I give a small nod, undeterred.

"I'm curious...why a man like you, who's clearly capable of protecting others, would just throw away everything you fought for by leaving the military."

A low, humorless chuckle rumbles from his broad chest as he shakes his head slowly.

"I see." With a weary sigh, Chance leans back, his face growing pensive. "Truth is, I did believe in defending this country with every fiber of my being for years. Spent damn near two decades of my life serving, putting my ass on the line more times than I can count."

His jaw tightens, cords standing out starkly on his neck. "But then I got out, and ain't nobody gave two shits about old me no more. Was left to fend for my own, get by on scraps with zero support."

Chance's fist clenches, and I can see the muscles straining beneath the scarred skin.

"I accepted that shitty reality for myself. But then they did the same worthless song and dance when it was my baby brother who needed 'em most. The kid came back from his last tour an absolute mess," Chance continues in a low, pained rasp. "Unbearable PTSD - every loud noise, every unexpected bang made him jump out of his skin, sent him into a panic attack."

He shakes his head slowly, eyes downcast as he clenches that massive fist so tightly his knuckles turn white. "And those bastards who'd praised him as a brave soldier did nothing to help him. Just left him to suffer, to spiral deeper and deeper into his living hell."

Chance's arm gives an involuntary twitch, and I watch in dismay as fresh blood begins welling up from the split skin, staining the crisp white bandages I'd just applied. He doesn't even seem to notice, so consumed by the bitter memories.

"Ended up with my brother losing his grip on reality entirely," he bites out through gritted teeth. "Putting himself and others at risk with his episodes until the police had to lock his ass up for public safety."

Only then does Chance finally raise his turbulent gaze to meet mine, and the anguish burning in their depths makes my heart clench. In that moment, I see the scared, helpless older brother he must have been, forced to watch his younger sibling self-destruct while the system they gave everything for turned its back.

"So, you tell me..." he rasps, fist clenched so tightly now that fresh rivulets of crimson are snaking down his forearm. "Why the hell would I ever put my faith in a country that abandons its own like that?"