I Am Dressed in Sin: A Reverse Harem Age Gap Romance (Death By Daybreak Motorcycle Club Book 2)

by C. M. Stunich

  Showing each other love? Affection? How are you shocked by this, Gidget? How broken are you?

  I shift uncomfortably in the chair and clear my throat. Leaning back on my palms, I cross my legs, my plaid miniskirt moving halfway up my thighs.

  “That’s the shit right there that pisses me off,” Cat says, curling his lip at me and then tossing over a beach towel while Nellie watches. “Cover yourself, kid.”

  “Kid?” I query back at him, sitting up and resting my elbows on my knees. Who is this guy telling me what to do? He never taught me to tie my shoes or how to cross the street, never sat down with me and scribbled crayon drawings on big sheets of paper, never combed or braided my hair. Queenie did all of those things. All of them. If she told me to change my clothes, I’d listen to her, assume she had some wisdom to impart. But Cat? Cat, of all people. Freaking Cat. “What was it you said to me at the party a few weeks ago? If the little twit wants to be a whore when she grows up, let her.”

  Not to slut-shame or anything, but my sister, Posey, she took on the mantle of groupie from age eighteen and never looked back. She was always at the clubhouse, hanging on men, flirting with them, drinking and partying and fucking. My parents didn’t give a shit then, so why now?

  “Yeah, well,” Cat begins, moving my mother to sit beside him. He flicks a look her direction.

  “Things are going to change around here, baby girl,” she tells me, reaching out for my hands. I pull away from her, maintaining my nonchalance as best as I can, acting as if I don’t see the flare of hurt in her blue gaze. The gaze she shared with my sisters, with Queenie and Posey, the gaze that I somehow missed out on. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that I’ve been making an effort—”

  “You want things to change now?” I quip, knowing that I’m pushing my limits, but not caring. Because I stopped caring. Because caring hurt too damn much. “Gaz is already a loser, and my sisters are dead. Who gives a shit what happens now?”

  Cat backhands me then, just hard enough for stars to flicker in my gaze, and my teeth to cut the inside of my lip. Blood. It’s hot and coppery; it makes me dizzy. It transports me to a memory that I struggle every day to forget.

  Queenie, the marble tiles, her wide eyes. The blood, the blood, all of that blood …

  “Girl, you pop that mouth off again, and you’ll see what real hurt is.”

  I can hear Cat talking, but I’m shaking so hard, and I’m tasting blood, and I wish with all my heart that I had someone around to hold me. Someone to protect me. Someone that’s on my side.

  It never truly occurred to me until that moment how completely and utterly alone that I am.

  My head turns slowly, as if of its own accord, until I find myself staring at Nellie and Cat again. The former is upset, wringing her hands in her lap, as powerless and helpless as always. Ever the brute’s bride. I will not allow myself to become my mother. I swear it. I swear it on my soul.

  “You are done with the makeup, done with the clothes, done with the clubhouse.” The words sound garbled at first, and I realize it’s because my ears are ringing. He hit me so hard that my ears are ringing. The look I throw him is pure venom, and he knows it. He can sense it, leaning forward and mimicking my pose, his elbows on his knees. “You’re going to stop with this rebellious shit. You will go where I tell you, when I tell you. You will ask permission to do things. Mostly, you’ll stay away from boys.” He points a hand at me. “Highschool creeps in particular, but don’t think I don’t see that wild streak in you. Take a note from your dead sister and keep your hands off the Daybreakers.”

  Does he know? I wonder, still holding my hand to my cheek, still tasting blood. Does he know I fucked four of his officers in one night? And that I loved it? That I’d do it all over again if I had the chance.

  But no.

  The image of Nellie, submissive and weak beside my father, makes my stomach churn.

  “The club can burn in hell for all that I give a shit. So can you, if you think you’re going to control me like that.”

  I shouldn’t have said that.

  Cat pops me in the mouth and then grabs a handful of my hair, yanking me toward him as I gasp, tasting that awful copper on my tongue all over again. That’s when I learn a very powerful lesson: to survive, you can pretend, you can lie, and you can swallow back the blood until you find an opportunity for attack.

  So that’s what I do.

  I swipe the blood off my lips with my tongue.

  “Fall into line, Gidget. Or you’ll be damn sorry you didn’t.” He releases me, and I shove up to my feet, scrambling back inside and slamming the door closed behind me. It takes me a minute to collect myself, swiping my arm across my lips and staring down at the crimson smear on my pale skin.

  When I move into the living room, I run right into Grainger.

  His eyes widen slightly when he sees me, and he reaches out, snatching my chin in his hands. His fingers are as rough as my father’s, but they feel different somehow. Not that it matters. It doesn’t matter that I like the way he’s touching me, that I’m not normal.

  I cannot control my thoughts, but I sure as hell can control my actions.

  “Did he hit you?” Grainge asks, and it somehow soothes me to see that he’s surprised by something that’s so damn normal to me. “Fucking Christ, Gidge.” This part he growls out, like it’s my fault, like his precious president isn’t the one backhanding his teenage daughter.

  I jerk away from Grainger only to realize that Crown and Sin are standing there, too. The former is tight-lipped but impossible to read, and the latter looks at me with a pleading expression.

  “Just let him get what he wants for now, Gidge. You can always—”

  “It’s Gidget,” I scream at Sin, shaking and hating and hurting.

  You should have my back, I think at them, even though I know it’s an impossibility. That isn’t how the club works. Cat is their president, and I’m … I’m nothing at all.

  Without another word, I storm past them and up the stairs, throwing myself into my room and locking the door behind me.

  And so it begins. Two years of dealing with Cat, of avoiding his men, of hating my life and myself and everyone in it.

  Then I wake up and realize that I’m not just reliving a memory; I’m having a nightmare inside a nightmare. No matter where I retreat to—inside my head, my heart, or out into the world—the result is the same.

  I’m in big fucking trouble.

  The next time I come to, I’m in the bed, but I’m not alone.

  Fear ratchets through me as I consider my options here. Let’s just say, none of them are good. Not a fucking one. Either I’m leaving here in a body bag or I’m never leaving here at all. And look at me, I grew up in a goddamn one-percenter biker gang. I know what happens to girls when they’re kidnapped: men rape them.

  Lo and behold, there’s a man sitting in the chair closest to me. He has a fucking eyepatch on, I kid you not.

  “Classic movie villain,” I croak out, my voice hoarse and grainy with disuse. How long have I spent passed out? My aware moments seem to be few and far between, but at least I’m not in pain anymore. Whatever drugs are in that IV are high-class. I let myself relax back into the pillows and close my eyes. There’s a bit of sunshine leaking in the window to my left, but not enough to dispel the shadows and darkness inside my heart.

  I betrayed the club; I betrayed my father. Most of all, I betrayed Crown.

  Sucking in a huge breath, I banish those feelings as far from myself as I can get them.

  When I freed Grey, I chose my humanity. No matter what happens, I will always have that. If I die here, I go to the grave knowing that I put my money where my mouth is, that I have morality that can’t be stripped from me in a crisis. More often than not, doing the right thing is the hardest choice of all.

  “Movie villain?” the man asks, his voice cultured and accented. “Oh, I think not.”

  I open my eyes at the sound of his chair creaking. He approa
ches me slowly, observing me with a single eye, his face almost disturbingly reminiscent of Grey. So, this must be Alvise Wolfe, huh? The Don of the Grey Wolfe Mafia. If he’s paying me a personal visit, then I must be special. As Cat’s only surviving daughter, he probably assumes he can use me as leverage against the club.

  I’d laugh if, you know, I wasn’t chained to a bed in a dark room owned by career criminals.

  Clearly, this guy doesn’t know Cat at fucking all. My father wouldn’t give his pinkie nail to set me free; I’m as good as dead to him. As soon as he finds out from Crown what I did—I’m sure he already has—then he’ll start orchestrating my death, just in case the mafia doesn’t do what needs to be done.

  Blood in, blood out.

  That’s my daddy’s motto.

  “You look the part,” I breathe as the man reaches into his pocket and I close my eyes. Rape has been something I’ve been lucky enough to avoid for years; most girls aren’t so lucky. As the daughter of the club president, I was afforded some level of decency from his men and a wide berth from lesser criminals or boys at school. Looks like my luck has finally run out.

  The man— Alvise—pulls a key out of his pocket, unlocking one shackle and then the three others.

  Freeing me.

  “Get up and follow me,” he says, turning and heading from the room with absolutely no fear of leaving me at his back. I sit up, breathing heavily, eyes wide as I look down at my hands. The bandages have been removed, and the road rash looks quite a bit better than it did that first day when I was tied to the chair.

  Flicking my eyes toward the open doorway, I scramble to stand up—and then promptly fall to my knees on the floor. Not only have my legs buckled, but my head is spinning, my vision blackening at the edges.

  “If you have to crawl, crawl,” the man says, and there’s an ironclad authority to his words that says he’s used to being obeyed. My jaw clenches and I grit my teeth, but I’m nothing if not stubborn. Forcing myself forward, I plant one palm against the ground, then the other. Again and again and again, I move forward. Progress is slow, but that doesn’t matter much. All that matters is that careful placement of my palms, the scooting of my knees. I’m sure I’m bloodying the skin underneath the bandages, but if it means I get to live, then I’ll do it.

  After a while, I find myself at the Don’s feet again. He seems to like that, looking down and seeing me there on my hands and knees.

  We’re in a doorway leading to a luxurious suite, one that’s outfitted with champagne silk and burgundy wallpaper, dark wood furniture, iron sconces on the wall. Hell, there’s even a chandelier.

  “Do not disappoint me again, Grey,” Alvise says as I finally notice the boy sitting on the edge of the bed. As soon as he hears his father’s voice, his head snaps up and we’re staring at each other like our lives depend on it.

  Clearly, they do.

  “I won’t,” he promises, his voice as hard as his father’s as he flicks his attention over to me. “I swear it.”

  “Not necessary,” Alvise replies smoothly, moving toward a set of double doors against the far wall. He glances back just once and lets a sickening smile take over his genteel mouth. “Next time you mess up, you both die. I’m sure it won’t happen again.”

  And then he leaves, and I’m left on my hands and knees on the floor.

  “Shit, let me help you up,” Grey says, moving over to me. I slap his hand away when he tries to help me up, too consumed by pride and too shaken up by the idea that I might’ve just escaped the worst fate known to womanhood and managed to survive all in one go.

  Grey sits back on his heels and watches as I struggle pathetically toward the bed, using the comforter to pull myself up to my knees and then, blessedly to my feet. I manage to keep them for all of two seconds before I collapse on the mattress, but there it is. I’m on top of the bed. I’m lying down. All on my own. Cat would be proud.

  The thought disgusts me.

  “Don’t touch me.” The words don’t sound like me, more like a poor imitation of the person I used to be. I’m tough as nails, right? I can handle anything, right?

  Thing is, I just fucked myself into a corner. A corner made up of mafia men and pissed-off outlaws, outlaws that I betrayed. Crown’s face flashes in my mind, the deep-set melancholy that was etched there when I stole his bike and took off.

  Cat will know everything by now; he’ll want my head.

  Finally, the thing I’ve feared the most my whole life will come true: my father will actively be trying to kill me.

  “If that’s what you want,” Grey posits, sitting down beside me on the bed. I notice that his hands are bandaged. Well, his fingertips more like. He notices me looking and smiles, but it’s a hideous expression, more like a ghost of what a smile should actually be. Possessed. Wicked sad. Almost defeated.

  But that can’t be true, right? This is the guy who looked me right in the eye and told me to kill him without a drop of fear in his voice, a guy who knew he was about to die but was trying to save me the guilt of actually ending his life.

  I groan and start to cough, spattering blood across the cream-colored comforter. That cannot be a good sign.

  “They pulled all my fingernails off, remember?” Grey continues, lifting his eyes up to look at the ceiling. Frankly, I’ll be lucky to live through the night, so I don’t bother following his gaze. Whatever he’s looking at doesn’t matter, not anymore.

  I have no life.

  I’ve thrown mine away in exchange for his, in exchange for some teenage boy that I don’t even know, whose brother was in love with my sister.

  Fuck.

  “I think I might be dying,” I choke out, because when you cough up blood, you’re in trouble. Big trouble.

  Grey just shakes his head slowly, curling his bandaged hands up in his lap.

  “My father’s doctor personally saw to it that you wouldn’t.” He flicks his pretty gray eyes over to mine, and I wonder what it is that’s going to happen to me now. I might not have had much, but I had something before all this. I had Faith, my dog Feminist … those stupid asshole officers. But if I’d killed Grey, none of that would’ve mattered, would it? My soul would be forfeit. Even if I die now, this is better. “You’re bleeding because he had to pull a cracked tooth. It’s in the back so nobody can see it, but you might want to get a crown later.”

  A crown. Crown.

  I snort, but the sound just makes my whole everything hurt, and I end up coughing again. More blood on the blanket.

  “What happens now?” I ask when I can finally catch my breath, forcing my tired body up to slump into the pillows. It’s a journey, but once I get there, it’s all worth it. My eyes close, and I can feel the fingers of sleep digging into my psyche.

  “We either prove to the family that we’re in love …” Grey starts with a long sigh, dragging his bandaged hand over his face. “Or we die. Your choice.”

  Six weeks later, and I’m feeling a fuck of a lot better. My skin is still scabbed over in places, and I wake up sore every morning, but each day is better than the last.

  “Coffee?” Grey asks, and then he mutters something in Italian that makes me grit my teeth. I’m not sure why, but it just pisses me off when he speaks other languages. Apparently, he knows like six. Also, he’s been to thirty-two different countries, and he’s eighteen fucking years old.

  “No. Leave me alone.” I roll over in the bed, the one that we’ve been sharing for a month and a half now. It’s comfortable, I’ll give you that, and the thread count on the sheets is astronomical, but it doesn’t mean we sleep happily or comfortably in here. I’m on guard every second; I wake up at every sound. “Your early bird shit annoys the fuck out of me.”

  “Suit yourself.” Grey prepares himself an espresso just as he does every day. The way he stands there and sips it, staring at the stone walls like he can see straight through them and to the world beyond, scares me sometimes.

  He looks at those walls like they’re impenetrable
—and I don’t just mean physically. He’s as trapped as I was. As I still am. I force myself up, balancing on my elbows as I watch him take his usual seat. See, while Grey’s settled himself into a comfortable routine, I’m starting to go crazy.

  I was never meant to be caged. That’s why I ran. Because I couldn’t stand the thought of being trapped by bars of blood and chrome, attached to one of Cat’s leashes for life. So for me to be stuck here, under the thumb of the very mafia who sent assassins to rape and murder my sisters? Doesn’t exactly work for me.

  “Is there someplace we could go to, you know …” I pause and think about using a euphemism or maybe some raunchy motion to get my point across, but I’m too damn tired, physically and spiritually. “Fuck. Is there somewhere private we can go to fuck?”

  Grey turns very slowly to look at me, the ghost of a smile playing about his lips. He knows I’m screwing with him, that I just want a moment where we could talk in private, scheme or plan or something. He’s in as much trouble—if not more—here than I am.

  I’ve considered sleeping with him, I’ll admit. I mean, I’m trapped here, and there isn’t much else to do. We have absolutely zero access to the Internet, a smart TV with a handful of apps, and some books. Our food is brought to us, and we have an attached bathroom to bathe in.

  I am bored shitless.

  The thing is … as pretty as Grey is, I can’t find that spark inside of me that encouraged me to gangbang a group of outlaws. The hatred I feel for Grainger, the disdain for Crown, the desperation for Sin, the frustration with Beast. As much as I can’t stand the lot of them, I can’t bring myself to fuck Grey Wolfe.

  Guess I was born ruined, but now I’m dressed in sin. It’s an outfit I wear like a designer dress, as proud of it as a red-carpet gown, something to show off. It’s in my blood, that awful, awful blood that I share with Cat.

  “There’s nowhere. I’m sorry, Gidget.” Grey looks up at one of the cameras in the corner. They’re all over the place—even in the bathroom. When I sit down to take a piss, I make sure to flip them off with both hands.