by Anne Malcom
Had I not been claimed—wait, did I think claimed?—by the man dragging me through the room, the erotic promise in Cade’s words would’ve made me swoon, even though it was directed at another woman, the only woman he saw and would ever see by the looks of it.
But I was already claimed. And I was too busy trying to keep my thoughts in order and my breathing steady.
Gage didn’t slow his stride, flying through the room so I could only see the pretty woman wink at me before we were out of the large hall and heading down a slightly dark hallway.
“If you’re taking me in here to murder me, you’ve got too many witnesses,” I snapped, covering my unease at the fact that he was taking me somewhere without witnesses. And I wasn’t scared about him murdering me.
I was scared about what I would do when I didn’t have people around me to remind me not to jump him and let him awaken every single one of my forbidden desires.
“If I’m killin’ someone, I don’t give a fuck about witnesses,” he replied, voice cold, calm, and more unnerving than if he would’ve yelled. “What I do give a fuck about is having witnesses to what I’m going to do to you.”
My stomach dipped once more, and I would’ve stumbled or maybe collapsed altogether with the combination of the dark erotic promise in his words and the pain ricocheting through my body.
But I didn’t stumble because his grip tightened, keeping me upright. Then we were inside a room, the door slamming behind us, and his grip missing from my arm. I felt the loss in a way that didn’t make sense for a man whose presence I’d been in all of two times, and for someone whose name I’d only just learned.
He paced the room.
I looked around it while he did so, mostly because I didn’t know what the heck else to do and I needed to somehow calm my rapid heartbeat and breathing. So I did what I normally did when things started to spiral for me. When the past tried to wrench its way into the present.
I catalogued everything in the here and now.
Everything tangible, everything real, everything solid.
It was a bedroom. I guessed the large clubhouse had a lot of rooms like it, for the members who either didn’t have their own homes or needed somewhere to crash after one of their famous parties… or to do something other than sleep.
I pushed away those thoughts, or I tried to, but it was hard to do with the man my body responded to in such a strong and terrifying way. Especially with the fury rippling from him. The brutal fury that didn’t scare me like it should have.
It excited me.
I gritted my teeth and made myself look at the room.
There was a bed directly in front me. It was a small double, and surprisingly wasn’t ruffled and unmade. It was tidied, military corners, dark comforter, nothing fancy but still of good quality. There was a bedside table only on one side. It had a lamp, a battered paperback—that surprised me too, especially when I glimpsed the cover, The Road by Cormac McCarthy. To the right of the bed was a closed door that I guessed led to the bathroom.
On the left of me was a large dresser with nothing atop it but a large collection of books spanning the length of the wooden surface, held upright by two bookends shaped like guns.
Other than that, the room was empty. Devoid of personality.
Well, it would’ve been if not for the bearded biker pacing the room. With him in it, the walls seemed to pulsate, trying to contain his presence.
And my usual routine of stilling those treacherous memories and calming my thoughts didn’t work. Calm didn’t work with this man around. He killed calm and birthed chaos.
I found myself not wanting to be calm. He was teasing out a part of me that I’d hidden from the world and, more importantly, myself.
The desire to be wild.
“You’re callin’ off the cop,” he hissed, turning to stop and glare at me, as if he sensed that I was going to step forward, say something. Scream. Maybe try and get him to make good on those promises he’d structured as threats.
I blinked, the rapid movement of before and the stillness of now jarring me and my pounding head. “What?”
“The cop,” he said through his teeth. “Call. Him. Off.”
I folded my arms, mostly to make sure my hardened nipples weren’t going to peek through my cotton bra and the linen fabric over it.
Gage’s eyes immediately went there, and my nipples throbbed with his hungry gaze. I struggled to find words before I pounced him. “I thought you weren’t scared of him arresting you. And I’m sure he’s not actually going to, anyway, since I don’t think this really constitutes as theft.” I gestured out the window, which faced the garage. “Plus, no member of the Sons of Templar has had charges brought against them in roughly thirteen years,” I added. “Which means the chances of you getting arrested for technically doing a job connected to your legitimate business are pretty slim. Even if Troy wanted to, he couldn’t make anything stick.”
It was his turn to blink, the desire leaving his eyes as his stare met mine. “How the fuck do you know that?” he demanded, his voice cold. Menacing. Accusing.
I shrugged. Mostly because I needed to do that or I’d flinch in very real fear at the change in the man in front of me.
From Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde.
It wasn’t like he was hiding the darkness inside of him. One needed only eyes to see there was something inherently wrong with the attractive, muscled, blond-haired, tattooed biker.
But the change at my words was something more than that.
And I needed to not show that it scared me. Because didn’t monsters smell fear? Or was that horses?
“I’m a resident of the town,” I said, my voice clear. “I’m an employee of the paper. I know things.”
He stared at me for a long time, gaze ice, body taut, and hands curled into fists at his sides. The softening of his body, his gaze was barely noticeable, but I saw it. Saw him come to the conclusion that I was not some kind of spy sent in to bring them down.
Which he really only needed eyes to figure out.
Sure, spies didn’t look like spies. But people with that much darkness and menace inside of them had a way of recognizing it in others. And to be a spy, I’d have to be cold, calculating and a killer.
None of which I was.
All of which he was.
And yet I wasn’t running screaming from the compound.
Or at the very least briskly walking.
I was standing right there, in front of the man who looked like he might either kill me or kiss me.
And the logical Lauren who had ran the show for almost a decade was yelling at me that both options were unacceptable and I needed to get the heck out of there.
Like yesterday.
But that Lauren wasn’t in control.
The biker named Gage was.
And he was looking at me with slightly less murder in his eyes at that point.
“Well you obviously don’t know important shit,” Gage clipped. “Like the fact that I’m not talkin’ about a bullshit arrest I couldn’t give two fucks about.” He narrowed his eyes, still cold but hot with something else. “Talkin’ about how the cop wants a piece of you. You’re callin’ it off right now. Unless you want me to do it for you.” He grinned, and it wasn’t a warm smile. No, it sent actual shivers down my spine to match the ice inside of it. “And you don’t want me to do it for you.”
My stomach dipped, but then my back straightened as I struggled to not let him affect me. “Troy does not ‘want a piece of me,’ as you so eloquently put it,” I snapped, my backbone stronger than I had ever thought possible. “We went to high school together. He’s a nice guy. He’s looking out for me.”
Gage folded his arms, and I failed not to notice the way his tee strained as he did so. The way the fabric clung to his arms. I found myself wishing those arms weren’t covered by the long-sleeved tee so I could feast my eyes on them. Imagine them wrapped around me.
“You’re not naive.” His rough tenor jerked me ou
t of my perusal of his arms. “Or innocent. As you made sure to tell me and my fuckin’ cock not five minutes ago,” he growled.
Another stomach dip, a much, much more intense one at the mention of his cock. I struggled to keep my eyes level with his stare. To keep my mind from going to what it would feel like inside me.
Too late.
My panties were soaked.
And I was obviously certifiably insane.
Maybe the crash had knocked something loose. Unhinged me.
But I thought back to a drawer in my closet. What I’d hidden in that drawer, stuffed out of sight, like I did with the thoughts that were harassing me right then. The desires I pretended I didn’t have.
“So you’re not convincin’ me that you don’t know he doesn’t want in there,” Gage continued, his voice thick. Rough. Full of sex. As if he could taste it in the air. His eyes roamed over every inch of me like a brutal and physical caress. Then they stopped pointedly on my hips before meeting my eyes. “And he’s not getting in there.” There was a promise in his voice, a concrete and certain one.
“And why is it that you think you have any say on who gets in where?” I demanded, my hackles rising on principle. I let my anger take the reins. It was rather welcome. Yeah, Gage was hot. Actually he was something else entirely. Just like whatever it was between us.
Inexplicable.
Impossible.
But that didn’t change the fact that he’d known me less than twenty-four hours. So he didn’t get to stare at my crotch—that was staring at him pretty freaking hard—like he owned it and then speak like he owned it too.
No matter how much I wanted him to own it.
That was not how I was going to let it go.
He wasn’t going to own me.
He stepped forward.
I stepped back.
Because no matter what I wanted from the man, I wasn’t ready for the promise in his eyes as he approached me.
“You know why,” he purred, taking another step forward.
I took another step back and my back hit the hard wood of the door.
Just when I thought he’d cage me in with his arms, he stopped, eyes seeming to turn pure black. “You know there’s only one man who’s getting into that pussy that I’m guessin’ is sweet as honey and as greedy as my cock,” he murmured, his voice gravel, a freaking siren song to the pulsating need between my thighs.
My heart beat in my throat and my knees at the same time. I had never in my not-so-experienced sexual life had anyone talk like that to me. Not even when they were inside me. I didn’t like dirty talk; I much preferred to seek out my orgasm in silence.
And I chose my men in regards to that preference. Sensible. Well dressed. Pleasing to look at. But safe.
Turned out I did like dirty talk.
It just had to come from the right man.
Or the so very wrong one.
“You can’t speak to me like that,” I breathed, my words a limp protest.
“Can speak to my woman however the fuck I want,” he challenged. “However the fuck she wants me to.”
He leaned forward and I couldn’t stop myself from inhaling. He smelled of smoke, of soap, and of a scent that was so purely male, so purely him, I would’ve breathed it in my whole life if I could.
“And I know you want me to speak to you exactly like that. Can see it in your eyes.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “I can fucking taste it in the air.”
“I’m not your woman,” I lied fiercely, clutching onto the last of my control. The last of my fight. Because I knew I was somehow his. Like in all those stupid movies and books I’d scoffed at, sure those things didn’t happen in real life.
I wasn’t entirely sure I was in real life.
In the real world.
Or maybe I hadn’t been.
Until now.
Gage’s face was granite. “You are. You know it. And I’m not doing this shit. Shit I’ve seen five times over, my brothers fighting for bullshit reasons, running around wasting time with battles.” He narrowed his eyes. “I’m not afraid of a fight, or a battle. And I’ll fight for you, make no doubt about it. But there’s gonna be none of that shit. You’re agreeing right now that this is somethin’ between us. That you’re my woman.”
His words curled around me, cutting at my skin. Because they weren’t gentle, tender, romantic. No, they were harsh, sharp, almost ugly in their delivery. And that’s how I knew they were true.
Because if it wasn’t ugly, it wasn’t the truth.
Still, I was going to argue it. But of course he wasn’t going to let me.
“Now, you’re gonna walk your ass out the door and get in the car with the fuckin’ pig—the very last time you’re in an enclosed space with an asshole who wants what’s mine,” he rasped, stepping forward so our bodies almost brushed.
Almost.
He caught himself just before that happened.
“You can educate him on how to back the fuck off. Maybe use the numbers you’re so fond of. Like how 100 percent of the men who look at you the way he does die if they do it more than once,” he continued.
I blinked. “You’re not going to kill a police officer for looking at me,” I whispered. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough,” he clipped. “I know you’d risk your life to swerve for a fucking dog in the middle of the night. I know that instead of sitting in the car and waiting for someone to help you, you get yourself out of that car and prepare yourself to walk six fucking miles, possibly battling a concussion and a hefty amount of pain.” His eyes flickered over me, as if he was cataloguing every inch of that pain. And not just my visible bruises. “Then you fuckin’ sass the biker who corners you on an abandoned highway, despite being vulnerable as fuck. You sure don’t fucking act vulnerable. You got on the back of my bike, even though you knew what I was.”
He gave me a look as I opened my mouth, as if he knew I was going to protest his point. My mouth snapped closed.
“And you fuckin’ knew the man I was, ’cause you know statistics about fuckin’ helmets. You know about a motorcycle club on your doorstep,” he said, showing me he saw a lot, saw me. “Then, knowin’ all that, you could’ve let the cop handle shit for you. You didn’t. You came here. Got in my face. Threatened to have me arrested. And I’ve buried a fuck of a lot of people for doin’ a lot less.”
I knew his words weren’t an exaggeration to make a point. No, there was that ugliness injected in them which only came with the truth.
I swallowed razors. “Are you going to bury me?” I asked, voice low and timid. I hated it.
He smiled. And it was unnerving, because it wasn’t a smile that came from happiness. The way his face moved with the expression, the hardness in his eyes told me it had been a long time since he’d smiled in happiness.
“No, but you know that already. But what you don’t know is what I’ll do for you already. Not knowin’ everything, but knowing enough. And you don’t know near enough about me, so here’s something. I won’t hesitate to put another person in the ground, whether they wear a uniform or not, whether this club walks on the right side of the law or not. Because that’s the kind of man I am. And it’s not good. But you knew that before your ass was on the back of my bike last night. And you got on anyway. You had a choice then. You don’t have one now.”
He stepped back, and I let out the rush of breath I didn’t realize I was holding. He watched me exhale, his eyes hard, his body taut.
“So you get in the car with the cop. Let him down hard, or easy, your choice. Because both ways end with him breathing. But you need to get the fuck out of here right now before I change my mind and do it my way.” There was a long pause as his eyes devoured me, my body shaking under the gaze. “And my way is fucking you right here, right now.” His fists clenched at his sides as if he was holding himself in place with great effort. “But you’re hurt. That’s what’s stoppin’ me from doing that. From taking you wherever you want to go
in the way you’ll be goin’ once you heal. That’s on the back of my bike.”
I didn’t move.
It seemed like I didn’t breathe.
That was a lot of information to take in at one moment.
In one freaking lifetime.
Especially mine.
Because I’d crafted my life so I knew what awaited me around every corner. Planned my life that way. It needed to be that way. I didn’t have many friends, but that was okay, because it meant I had more control over my life.
That meant I worked. Diligently. Efficiently. And then I went home. Read. Spent time in my studio. Cooked—something healthy and nutritious, of course—watched something on television—something informative and educated, of course—took myself out for dinner now and again, on a special occasion, obviously.
I went to the yoga class the little studio two doors down had on Sundays. Had a coffee afterward with one of the couple of women I was friendly enough to have Sunday morning coffee with. Then I’d get a pedicure. Every Sunday. Clean the house. Do a face mask. Exfoliate. Pamper myself.
Called my parents.
I did that every Sunday too. No matter how much it hurt. And it hurt so much that it was why my entire Sunday was spent being kind to myself, treating myself, because I knew what pain awaited me at night.
And then it was Monday and the routine started all over again.
No surprises.
Certainly no bikers talking about how I was ‘on the back of their bike’ like it meant something. Not before telling me they were willing to kill for me—after knowing me less than twenty-four hours and barely speaking to me—that they wanted to fuck me, and that I was theirs.
Certainly no Gage. The purest and most sinful antithesis of the order and safety of my life.
“You’re not movin’,” he hissed, my back still pressed against the door.
“Your name isn’t Gage,” I said instead of responding to that, or moving from the door.
He froze. Literally froze. Something cold and evil moved across his features like it had when he’d thought I was a spy. When he’d thought I’d known too much.