by Kim Jones
20
WINTER
“Cain…please. You’re scaring me,” I cry, pulling against the heavy chains that bind my wrists. It’s dark here in this dank cellar. Cain calls it the pit. The coppery scent of blood that permeates the air is evidence that I’m not the first person to find myself strung up and at his mercy. It’s his favorite place to be. Where he spends most of his time. He enjoys this—hurting people.
“You should be scared.” The sinister look on Cain’s face steals my breath. I search his eyes for some sort of remorse. But the dark, midnight blues are filled with evil. I’ve never seen him so angry. Fear grips me as tight as the binds that hold me because this isn’t him taking his anger toward someone else out on me. No. This time, it’s my actions that have caused his rage.
“I wasn’t going to say anything, I swear.” It’s the truth. I had no intentions of seeing Pierce much less speaking to him. But Cain’s not convinced. He just glares at me with simmering hate from his seat in front of me. A glass of whiskey in one hand. The other balled up into a tight fist. In the dim light, I can barely make out the patch on his cut that warns against times like these: SNITCHES ARE A DYING BREED.
I lick my lips, the tangy taste of blood and salty tears mingling on the tip of my tongue. He’d hit me before but was always immediately apologetic—wrapping me in his arms. Telling me how sorry he was. Promising to never do it again. But tonight is different. Tonight I fear I’ll need more than stitches to recover from what he has planned for me.
“You were going to leave me. Go running back to him. Tell him my plans.”
“No!” I cry, shaking my head back and forth. Begging for him to believe my next lie. “I just wanted to visit my mom on her birthday. I was coming back.”
“Don’t fucking lie to me!” Cain spits, his chair landing hard on the concrete as he lunges toward me. He seizes my neck in his hand and squeezes. I bring myself to my toes, trying to lessen the pressure he has on me. The tip of my big toe catches in something sharp and cold. The metal drain in the concrete floor. Convenient for easy cleanup when he’s done with me.
“Not. Lying,” I manage, my tears of guilt pouring from my eyes and pooling at his hand. I might’ve been planning to visit my mother, but it was going to be a quick stop on my way out of town. Seeing him like this, I know I’ll never be able to tell him the truth. I’ll claim the lie about visiting my mother’s grave on her birthday until it is my cold, dead body lying in the ground.
He sears me with his glare. Burning me with it, then dousing me in icy terror when he promises, “I’m going to remind you who you belong to.”
I’m spun around to face a wall. My breathing harsh. Chest rising and falling as I struggle to gain oxygen. Entire body shuddering with fear of what’s to come. Lips parted. Mouth moving. Speaking. Begging Cain to let me go. Not to hurt me. Confessing love for him that doesn’t exist. Reminding him that he loves me too. He laughs at that—a demonic sound that has me nearly blacking out from fear.
“Love ain’t shit without loyalty, bitch.”
The first crack of leather across my ass is heard moments before it’s felt. Slowly, the pain surfaces as blood rushes to the affected area. The second blow overlaps the first and is hard enough to break skin. The agony is excruciating and I cry out just as the third lash is delivered. This one harder than the first two. Deepening the wound. The feeling coming faster. Blood flowing heavier. Just enough to trickle slowly down my ass, gather in the crease below it, slide over my thighs, trail down my calves, pool at my feet and disappear down the drain.
I hear the familiar buzz of a tattoo gun. I stifle my sigh of relief. Tattoos I can handle. Right now, it doesn’t matter what he inks into my skin. I’ll likely regret that thought in the future. But in this moment, I welcome anything that will stop him from hitting me.
“I thought about branding you,” he growls in my ear. “But the scent of burning flesh is the one thing that nauseates me. So instead I’m going to permanently tattoo who you are on your back.”
“Okay,” I say quickly, sniffling and nodding in agreement. “I’ll wear it. Proudly. I’ll show you my loyalty. I-I’ll prove it.”
“What about Pierce?” he asks, his voice deceptively soft. “What happens in a few months when you get to missing big brother?”
Shaking my head, I force out the words. “I won’t. He’s dead to me. I’m yours. Always.”
He fists my hair in his hand and jerks my head into an awkward, painful angle. I cry out—my eyes brimming with fresh tears and slanted from my skin being pulled too tight. “You fucking belong to me,” he seethes, splattering my face in spit. “I’m gonna make sure you never forget.”
Releasing me, he tells someone to start. I’m too absorbed in the throbbing ache in my temples to notice the sting of the needle at my back. It’s comforting, despite the brand it delivers. The buzz of the gun and the slow drip of water from the pipes could actually lull me to sleep. But I know if Cain thinks I’m not suffering, he’ll do something worse. So I force myself to cry and beg—pretending it’s Pierce’s forgiveness I’m pleading for. Not Cain’s.
After the first letter, I’m given another three lashes. The pattern continues until I’ve been tattooed. Until the large, black letters are inked into my skin as if they were patches on leather.
Property of Cain Malcovich.
Twenty-three letters. Three lashes for each one. Every time on a different part of my body. My legs. Thighs. Stomach. Chest. Even the soles of my feet. Everywhere but my back, which is reserved for his name. My title.
I’m conscious the entire time. My body refuses to break. I count every crack of the strap. Saying the number in my head. My voice too occupied with my screams. My pleas that fall on deaf ears. But I know he hears me. Just like I know he’s enjoying this. Giving me pain. Torturing me.
He stops only to trace the cuts with his finger. The salt in his sweat burning me as he smears the fine lines of blood across my body. Mixing it with the beads of sweat that pepper my skin. Then his lips are at my ear. Saying my name.
“Winter…”
No that’s wrong. He doesn’t call me Winter. I shake through the fog in my head and listen harder.
“Winter…”
Something’s not right. It’s not his voice. It’s not his touch. It’s not him calling my name.
“Winter. Come on, baby. Wake up.”
My eyes fly open and I blink away the tears to find Jinx staring back at me. His face twisted in worry. A simmering anger in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” I gasp, shaking my head. Telling him no. My mind confused as it lingers in that space between my dream and reality.
His rage vanishes and those bright, gray eyes, so different from Cain’s deep blue ones, are just as reassuring as his words. “You’re not sorry. You’re safe. It was just a dream.”
“No,” I say, my voice shaky. Lip quivering. Eyes pooling with tears. “It wasn’t.” His face relaxes in understanding just as his fingers move across my back. I stiffen in his arms. Waking fully. Differentiating between what is real and what’s in my head.
I’m on the couch. The cover pooled at my feet. My sweater next to it. He’s sitting beside me—his arms around me, forcing me to sit up. Not just around me but on me. Touching me. One hand pushing the wet, matted hair out of my face. The other on my T-shirt that’s soaked in my sweat.
“What did he do to you?” Jinx asks, his thumb trailing dangerously close to the inked flesh on my back as if he already knows.
“Stop,” I choke out, trying to pull away from him.
He slides his hand to the side of my neck and curls his fingers around the back of it to hold me in place. “He did more than slap you around, didn’t he?”
“Just…stop.” My eyes roam the room to find something other than him to focus on.
His hands slip from my back and around my neck, but he doesn’t move away from me. I drop my head and stare at my hands in my lap. Trying to clear my thoughts and control my emotions.
“I want to take a bath.” I’m not asking for permission, I’m telling him I need space by dismissing him in the nicest way I know how.
He must get it because he nods and stands, offering his hand to me as I kick away the covers at my feet. I take it and absorb the comfort of his cool skin even though I shouldn’t. This man is unraveling me. Comfort is the last thing I should feel from him.
Without releasing his hold, he leads me down the hallway and stops in front of the locked door. Only now it’s not locked and he pushes it open before pulling me inside behind him.
I’m too engrossed in my own thoughts to really pay attention to my surroundings. Everything just seems gray. Fuzzy. Unimportant.
“I’ll get you some clothes,” Jinx says, releasing my hand and pulling the door closed behind him.
I barely notice that the bathroom I’m in is very spacious. That the tub is massive and already running with hot water. That the scent of pomegranate, my favorite, coupled with the low lights and rising steam should calm me. But it’s not calm I feel. It’s defeat.
I strip off my clothes, and discard them on the floor. Then I’m in the tub. Numb to the hot water swirling around me. The grainy bath salts beneath me. I draw my knees up. Lay my cheek on them. Wrap my arms around my legs. Expose my back. My past. My brand. Completely uncaring. Doesn’t matter now. Who cares if Jinx knows? Pierce or anyone else. It won’t change anything.
Will it?
Of course it will. I’d be stupid to think otherwise. And that inevitable change that’s coming has tears leaking from my eyes.
Jinx is probably calling Pierce right now. Telling him about my nightmare. What he’s discovered. Letting him know that what they’d assumed about me, might not be true at all. That maybe my staying with Cain wasn’t a choice, but an act of survival.
My relationship with my brother will change. I’ll become a victim. He’ll become outraged. Blood will spill. People will suffer. Lives will be lost. And for what? Respect? Pride? Me? It doesn’t matter whose name is inked into my skin below the words “Property of.” As long as I’m alive, I’ll belong to someone. That’s just the life of the MC. It’s a man’s world. And if you’re unlucky enough to be born or dragged into it, then you’ll always be reminded of your place. Your role. Your title.
Property.
Little sister. Cutslut. Ol’ Lady. Whore. Mother. Pass-around. House mouse. We all have something in common. We’re beneath a man. Not above. Not equal. Always below. Some women get off on the idea of a man going to war for her. Expressing his loyalty. Willing to die for her. Kill for her. Bring hell to anyone who wrongs her. Those women are selfish. There’s nothing good about losing someone you love. They don’t die with honor, knowing they gave their life avenging the loss of a woman’s respect. They just fucking die.
I know my brother. He’ll let the guilt of the past six years eat away at him. It’ll take over his life. Consume his mind. Brew to rage. He’ll feel worthless. Less like a man. More like a coward. He’ll retaliate against Cain.
I know my brother’s club. Their creed. By-laws. Beliefs. They’ll follow my brother into the pits of hell because that’s what you do in a brotherhood. You charge. Fight. Kill. Die. Loyalty knows no bounds. Has no conscience. Respect is earned. Never forgotten. To the Devil’s Renegades, revenge is air. And they all have to breathe.
Turning off the faucet, I lie back—sending water splashing over the side onto the floor. I float on top of the water and stare at the ceiling. Minutes later, I hear the muffled sound of knocking. I don’t answer. Jinx calls my name. I don’t answer then either. When he steps through the door, I pull my eyes from the ceiling and look at him. Wondering if it’s his grave I’ll be standing next to once the war is over. Or will he be standing next to me, shovel in hand, waiting his turn to toss a blade of dirt onto someone else’s grave. Pierce’s perhaps.
Tears blur my vision. He’s nothing more than a fuzzy shape as he crosses the floor to me. “Why are you crying?” he asks. Such a simple question. Such a complex answer. One I simply don’t have the energy to explain. So I stay silent.
He turns to leave, his boots slapping against the water and reminding me of the sound my hand made when I slapped him. Yet, he never slapped me back, even though I deserved it. Because he’s not Cain. He’s not evil. He’s good. And this tug-of-war shit happening between me and the two clubs will be the start of a domino effect of terrible things in his near future. Things that, like Pierce, he doesn’t deserve.
Sitting up in the tub, I call out to him. “Did you tell him?” I ask in a scratchy voice.
“Who?”
“Pierce. About the nightmare. About what happened. What did he say?”
“Nothing,” he says, those bright eyes as void as ever.
“Nothing? Why would he say nothing?” I whisper, more to myself than to Jinx.
I’m dissecting Pierce’s silence. Analyzing all angles. Wondering if it was silent rage he responded with, or silent remorse. Then Jinx speaks again. And his words change absolutely everything.
“Because I didn’t tell him.”
21
JINX
Winter’s been here two weeks. That’s three hundred and thirty-six hours I’ve spent alone with her. Every day she challenges my patience. Tests my will. Pushes me to a point that leaves me wanting to choke her or fuck her or do both to her simultaneously. But until tonight, I’ve managed to keep my shit together.
I can deal with her running. I can accept that she’s a borderline alcoholic. I can cope with her attitude. Hell, I’ve even succeeded in not blowing a fuse when I see her in my shirt, or when I see her dancing, cleaning and singing in it. But her panicked, bloodcurdling, frightening screams—I can’t handle that shit.
I was outside when I heard it. Nearly broke my fucking neck tearing through the door like a mad man—ready to kill who or whatever it was terrorizing her. Because a scream like that, like I’ve never heard, didn’t happen simply because someone was hurt, pissed or had a bad dream. It came from someone in imminent danger. It was a cry for mercy from a torture too agonizing for the human mind to comprehend.
When I found her still on the couch, I felt relief—but only for a moment. Seeing her thrashing, covered in sweat, watching her body buck with guttural sobs…it was like someone had reached into my chest and squeezed the life right out of my fucking heart.
I grabbed her. Tried to shake her awake. She begged for me—or someone—to stop. At the sound of that, I no longer felt wrecked. I felt rage. Burning, furious, ready-to-rip-a-motherfucker’s-spleen-out-through-his-throat rage. I wanted to kill the man responsible for this. Even if he only existed in her nightmares.
She finally snapped out of it. Opening those big, green eyes and turning them on me. They were filled with raw fear. Something I’d never seen in her. While I tried to assure her she was okay, she fought to breathe. To calm down. It took a minute for the fog clouding her mind to dissipate. Only then did she finally seem to understand that what she just experienced was only a dream. But something tells me that while it might’ve been a dream this time, it wasn’t always.
My first instinct was to call Pierce. Explain the shit that happened and see if he could help me figure out what she refused to talk about. Problem with Pierce is, he doesn’t know how to talk to Winter. His pride won’t let him be the man he once was with her. He cares about her. Loves her. But only I get to see the wrecked man her situation makes him. With her, he just lashes out. Between the two of them, it’s like a battle to see who can hurt who the most.
While she was in the bathroom, I paced back and forth—my finger hovering over the screen on my phone. This is something he’d want to know. Something he’ll be pissed I didn’t tell him about. I’ve decided, he’s just going to have to be pissed.
Whatever she’s hiding is monumental. There’s a reason she’s keeping it from Pierce. My gut tells me it’s for the best. And this is the first time my gut has sided with someone who wasn’t a brother.
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So now I’m hiding something from one of my own. The price for my betrayal won’t come cheap. She’ll have to tell me her secrets no matter how much she doesn’t want to. If I have to tie her up for days or pry it from her pretty pink lips, I aim to get the truth out of her any way I can. Even if I have to break her to get it.
22
WINTER
He didn’t tell him…
I turn the question of why over and over in my head as I mindlessly scrub at my skin. Wash my hair. Drain the tub. Dry off. Brush out my hair. Clean the water off the floor. Until finally, anticipation gets the best of me. And in nothing but a towel, I slip out the door and into the bedroom—taking it in for the first time.
It’s so much nicer than the one I’ve been staying in. Bigger too. A king sized bed centers the room with nightstands on either side. There’s a sitting area to the left with an overstuffed couch similar to the one in the living room positioned in front of a gas fireplace that’s lit and glowing a deep orange. Books line the top of it and a flat screen T.V. is mounted above it. There’s also a massive dresser, vanity, walk-in closet and the bathroom.
Jinx is standing by the bed. Watching me with a guarded expression. His arms at his sides. His chest naked. Beautiful. Designed in tattoos. Sculpted in muscle. His head lacking a beanie or a hat. It’s the first time I’ve seen his hair—short on the sides. Longer on the top. Brushed back in that classic, sexy, James Dean style.
Swallowing hard, I focus on his nose. It’s the most unattractive thing on his face—only because it’s a nose. “You said you didn’t tell Pierce?” He nods. “Why?”
He studies me a full minute before answering. “Because I don’t really know what you’re hiding. And even if I did, it’s not my secret to tell.”
I keep underestimating this man and he keeps surprising me. Flooring me with responses that don’t coincide with those of a man dedicated to his club. Maybe that’s why he rides alone—nomad. Why he floats from chapter to chapter and refuses to have roots anywhere. Because with that comes responsibility. An entirely deeper level of commitment. Not to mention vulnerability.