by Debra Kayn
Jeremy returned to the living room and passed him a wet rag. Cam started cleaning Christina's face working up to the wound. The cold cloth alone almost stopped the bleeding, so the cut wasn't deep.
"Take the top off the peroxide." Cam held out his hand, took the brown plastic bottle, and poured the liquid over Christina's forehead.
Bubbles foamed out of the cut and he quickly dabbed a new rag on the wound until the blood was gone. He inspected the cut again and when all appeared clean, he super glued the gaping skin together and pinched the flesh closed.
"Is she going to be okay?" Jeremy chewed on the nail of his finger.
"Yeah." Cam removed his hand and stood gazing down at her. "She'll be fine."
"Are you going to let her go now?"
"No."
"Dude...she's not happy here."
Cam's hand shot out and fisted the front of Jeremy's shirt. "You can dude your friends, but I hear you using that word around me, and I'll make sure another word doesn't come out of your mouth. You got it?"
The fear he kept deeply hidden roared to the surface. He almost lost her. Christina was his. He'd never let her go.
"Shit. Yeah." Jeremy jerked away from him. "Whatever. I'm out of here. You can deal with her yourself when she wakes up hating your guts."
The door shut. Cam sat. When had life changed?
He answered to no one. The club members answered to him. He had a moody smart-ass kid living with him, a woman who hated him that he refused to send away. He stared down in Christina's face, knowing the hell he was going through now would pay off in the end. Someday, she'd understand he did it all for her.
Since getting out of the pen, he'd orchestrated the setup of the weapons chain, got jobs for the Moroad women to distract not only the girls, but also the sheriff of Federal. He had men in the mines, and no one could question where the club's assets came from.
Christina moaned and turned her face toward the couch. He cupped the back her head, stilling her movements. Everything moved forward according to his plans, except for Christina. It'd be easier to get rid of her. To survive, he needed the chain up and cash in his men's pockets. It was the only way to keep his freedom. If he ended up back in prison, his work on the outside would keep his ass alive.
He wasn't going to let Christina walk away from him. She'd reached out to him and relied on him. Helping her was the one good thing he'd done in his life. While on the inside, her constant letters kept him sane. She seemed to have an uncanny ability to make him question his treatment of her. The feeling was unfamiliar, painful, and irritating as hell.
She belonged to him now, and she'd have to get used to it.
"Hey," he whispered.
Christina turned her head, opened her eyes, and grimaced. He refused to take his hand away. He'd reached his limit, and he needed answers now.
Chapter Nine
Cam sat in front of Christina, watching her too closely. She held her hand to the side of her head and avoided his gaze. The unrelenting pressure pounded inside her skull along with discovering Cam had knowledge of the one man she trusted to tell her the truth overwhelmed her. She glanced at Cam's face and closed her eyes. The pain and worrying about what happened to her when she'd passed out was the least of her concern.
18794.
18794.
18794.
How did Cam get ahold of her letters?
Did he think she was somehow connected to prisoner #18794? Did he kidnap her for vengeance? Was this a sick game two criminals played, using her as a pawn because she communicated with Prisoner #18794?
Cam put the glass of orange juice back in her hand. "Drink."
She drank, unable to taste or gather the energy to tell him she wasn't thirsty. Her messed up equilibrium made her head fuzzy, and her stomach rolled. She held out the glass and shook her head, instantly regretting the movement.
"We need to talk," Cam said.
She swallowed. "I don't know why I fainted. Maybe because I haven't been resting well and today was the first time I've had the sun on me."
"You know what I'm talking about." He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "You went by the name Christina Penny and corresponded with prisoner #18794 for over two years."
He blurred in front of her. She continued to breathe and refused to move a muscle. Whatever he knew, he didn't know her relationship—or whatever he wanted to call it—with the man in prison. Even though prisoner #18794—God, she hated that number—spent time in prison for murder, theft, and who knew what else, he'd helped her when she had nowhere else to turn. Unlike Cam who seemed to enjoy torturing her and didn't care how she was feeling.
Cam could try to get information out of her, but she wasn't going to tell him anything about prisoner #18794. She didn't owe Cam anything.
"I'm Christina Nickelson. I work in Federal in the county social services department. You know this, because I worked Jeremy's case." She closed her eyes and groaned. "My head is killing me. You said I could go home if I answered your questions. I'd like to go home."
Cam stood and walked to the window, giving her his back. "The deal was if you told me the truth, I'd decide if you could leave. You're staying."
"I told you the truth." She grabbed her head at the rush of pain. "What do you want with me?"
He looked over his shoulder. "I thought that was clear."
"I don't understand you," she said, hating how her voice wobbled.
He cocked his eyebrow. "Are you sure you don't know me better than you think?"
She frowned and the skin on her forehead pulled tight, making her skin throb. "You're keeping me locked in your bedroom, threatening to kill me, and treating me like a...like a—"
"Prisoner?" Cam's upper lip curled.
"Yes." She cried out, holding her head. "If you want to kill me so bad, just do it. I don't care anymore."
"Oh, you care." He stalked back toward the couch.
She bent at the waist, bracing her elbows on her knees, wanting to disappear. "I don't," she mumbled.
God, she was so tired. Her head killed. Her chest ached. She hated the way he forced her to answer questions. Why wouldn't he leave her alone?
He sat down on the couch beside her, picked her up, and held her to his chest. Panicked, she fought, scratched, kicked, screamed. He locked his arms around her, holding her still. She squirmed to get away, but against his bigger, harder, stronger body, she only made herself weaker. Her cries suffocated her. She gasped, closing her eyes, hoping she'd pass out again to get away from him.
The door banged open. She opened her eyes and screamed for help. Jeremy rushed into the living room. She strained against Cam's bulging arms.
"Call 911," she yelled, groaning under the effort of trying to get away.
Cam tightened his hold and brought his leg around her shins, clamping her completely immobile. Her vision darkened, and she blinked through the black tunnel growing bigger.
"Please, help me," she said, her voice breaking.
"Cam, let her—"
"Kid, think about what you're seeing." Cam's low, rough voice tickled Christina's ear. "Before you go making a fucking mistake that'll cost you your life, think about what you have here. You want to put on a Moroad patch; you always have your brother's back."
Jeremy ran his hand over his face, backing up. His gaze darted to Christina. She couldn't look at him, and hung her head. She was truly alone. Jeremy's need of being with his father, having a family, and staying out of the foster system meant too much to him.
The door shut quietly, and she bit her lip to keep from screaming in frustration. Cam lifted her off the couch and carried her toward the bedroom. She refused to fight. Whatever disturbed game he could come up with to put her through next would never compare to what he'd done to her. She shut off her mind and let her body relax. He could rape her, sell her, beat her, and nothing would change. It never changed. No matter how much she wished for a better life, she never got it. She'd prayed for her parents to return and th
at morning at the store to be a nightmare she could wake up from and forget. All she could do was accept her fate. She didn't give a damn anymore.
Cam laid her on the soft mattress. She curled onto her side, away from him. He laid his hand on top of her head and she ignored the warmth soothing the ache. She lay there wondering if someday, someone would explain what she'd done to deserve more than her fair share of bad things in life.
Chapter Ten
Silence invaded the house. The Moroad members left after a night of drinking and partying in the yard, Jeremy took off to who knew where the fuck, and Christina continued to sleep. Cam held on to the stack of letters he'd found in the boxes that were brought back from her apartment yesterday afternoon. He'd wanted solid proof Christina couldn't deny, and he had everything he needed in his hand.
He sat down in the recliner, kicked back, and decided to wait for her to wake up. He yawned. It'd been a long day and night, waking her up every few hours to make her take a couple of Motrin and to make sure she was okay in case she had a concussion.
Sunlight hit the end of the bed. He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the top envelop. It hadn't surprised him a bit she'd kept every letter. What staggered him was her strength not to admit her relationship with prisoner #18794. Far as he knew, no one had ever protected him before.
The club had his back, but it took years to earn that position. Not everyone succeeded on wearing a lifer patch. Even then, shit happened and members lost their rank. He never relied on other people, patch or not.
His parents kicked him out of the house before he'd finished high school and never welcomed him back. Not that he'd go back to the physical and emotional shithole they called home. He hoped they were dead, though dying was probably too easy for them. He inhaled deeply. Between going to prison for murder before his eighteenth birthday and getting out at the age of thirty-two, he hadn't seen much daylight. It took him two and a half years of wandering in society, looking for an MC, before he'd found himself back in the concrete jungle on theft and carrying a loaded weapon, which was against his probation.
At that time, he was glad to be back on the inside. He knew the system, the other convicts, and had established himself as a lifer within the Moroad MC. He did more work inside than out, until now. Christina and completing the setup of the largest gun chain in the United States gave him a reason to want his freedom.
The money the chain brought to the club secured his future and gave him the power to run his own life. The order he brought to the outside, while supporting his men back in the east wing of the state pen was bigger than he'd ever imagined. He was living the life, and nobody was going to take that away, even Christina.
For someone who never thought life meant much, he could take it or leave it, he wanted to experience a normal relationship for a while, make his ties to a woman, and further her protection. He wanted to protect her. He wanted her to know the difference between how he lived, and what she'd done to survive.
He wanted to prove to himself that he wasn't a bad man, the way he'd told her. Maybe for her, he could show her good. He looked down at the letters. Fuck knows, he wasn't doing a good job at showing her the difference between him and the man who killed her parents. She could have it all, and he'd let her down. He'd hurt her. Hell, he was still hurting her.
Christina's hand came up and touched her forehead. With the discovery that yesterday had happened, she sat up and gazed around the room, landing on him.
Her eyes lit up and dimmed in a matter of a heartbeat, finally she settled on indifference, masking her reaction to finding him in the room. He waited until she got her bearings.
She pulled the blanket up higher and shivered. He slipped the package of letters between his thigh and the seat of the recliner.
"How's your head?" he asked, quietly.
She lifted one slender shoulder in a shrug of indifference. "It feels heavy."
"You probably have a concussion. You hit the floor hard."
She glanced at him and went back to picking at a thread on the blanket. "You woke me up last night."
He nodded. "Several times."
She chewed on her lip, processing the information. He braced his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together. He had to make a run tonight, and she'd be all alone with Jeremy. One of the men would hang out on the porch and make sure she stayed, but he wanted her to stay because she wanted to be here with him. He had to push her to accept him.
"I need you to write a letter of resignation." He watched her carefully. "You won't be going back to your job."
She rearranged the blanket, kicked her feet out, and stared down at her toes. He'd taken her shoes and socks off, because he noticed she was afraid to be undressed.
"If you plan to kill me, it won't matter if I resign or not." She reached down and grabbed her socks, slipping the material over her feet.
"I'm not ready to kill you." He stood and picked up her shoes, squatting in front of her. "Though after finding the handle of a hairbrush in your sock, I can only guess that you were planning on using it against me."
"What do you expect? I want to leave. I'll never stop trying to escape," she said.
She pulled her feet away and he grabbed her slim ankle and tugged her forward, not letting her get away from him. "You'll learn my decision to keep you here have everything to do with protecting myself. I have many men relying on me, and trust no one. You'll write the letter, giving them the reason for your leaving is because you've got a new job and apologize for the lack of warning, but the offer came and you can't let it escape you."
"It's all a lie." She scoffed. "Are you going to let me deliver the letter myself?"
"No. I'll make sure it gets where it needs to go." He slipped her shoe on her other foot and tied the lace.
"I don't understand why you're holding me against my will." She jerked her legs back. "You obviously want to hurt me."
"Have I hurt you?" He stood, gritting his teeth when his knee stiffened.
She raised her gaze and lifted her brow, only one thin sculpted eyebrow moved because of the butterflies on her cut across her forehead. He caught a strand of her hair, holding her still while he checked for any spreading redness around her wound. From what he could tell, her cut remained clear.
"Yes, my head hurts, my stomach hurts, and my body hurts. You've hurt me. The least you could do is give me a reason why you won't let me go," she said. "You owe me that much."
He rocked back on the heels of his boots and tightened his lips over his teeth. "Fair enough."
She sat straighter, pushing the blanket off the rest of her body. He forced himself to slow down, so she understood everything happening. The last thing he wanted was her passing out and hurting herself again.
"You know prisoner #18794." He walked over, picked up the stack of envelopes, and returned to her. "You know him well."
She glanced at the bundle of letters in his hands and raised her gaze back to his face. "I don't know what you're talking about."
He tossed the tied envelopes on the bed beside her. "You're denying these letters found at your apartment and the play on your name isn't you?"
"You went through my apartment?"
"You don't have an apartment anymore. Your stuff is upstairs in one of the spare bedrooms, waiting for you when you decide to start living again. What you want to keep, you can put wherever you want in the house. Your clothes can go in the closet in this room."
She stood, wobbled, and stepped away from him when he grabbed for her. "I lost my apartment?"
"From now on, you're living here," he said.
She pointed at the letters. "Because of that...you believe I'm someone else?"
"I know that's who you are."
She shook her head. "Why? Why would you think I'm this...Christina whoever? I have a very common name."
"I'll tell you if you explain why you're protecting yourself," he said.
"I'm not." She clamped her lips together and for the first time, sh
e let him see the struggle she was going through to keep her composure.
"If you're not protecting yourself...," he whispered. "Are you protecting someone else?"
She folded her arms and cupped her elbows. He almost missed the slight nod, but it was there.
"That's the truth I wanted." He slipped his arm out of his jean MC vest and tossed it on the bed.
Her gaze snapped to his and she backed away, shrinking her shoulders and wide eyed. He grabbed the back of his T-shirt and pulled it over his head, and bared his chest. Her gaze flickered to each of his shoulders, to his stomach, and back to the left upper side of his chest where #18794 was tattooed in faded green ink.
She covered her mouth and shook her head in denial of what she was seeing.
"This whole time I've kept you here, you've willingly protected a man you only knew as #18794. Even when I was going to hand you your freedom, you refused to give any information over about me." He stepped forward, and Christina jumped back. "It's okay. I'm just grabbing my vest."
She scooted to the end of the bed and dropped her hand from her mouth. "You followed me?"
He shook his head. "The club picked up this house over thirty years ago after the previous owners abandoned it when the silver mines went through layoffs. I've been the president of Moroad for the last fifteen years. What came as a surprise was finding out you lived in Federal when your letters were mailed from somewhere else in the state, but I figured you were covering your identity and location."
"H-how did you know my real name?"
"It wasn't hard to get enough details out of your letters to follow a trail. There aren't many young women who've lost both parents in a store robbery. That kind of news hits the papers and is all over the internet. I handed the information over to one of my MC brothers, and to my surprise you lived in the same town I reside when I'm not in prison." He pulled his shirt over his head. "I wasn't going to contact you, and then damn luck landed in my lap when you notified me that Jeremy's mom died. Once I saw you, I decided to keep you."
She put her hand on her forehead, flinched, and said, "Why am I here?"