Owned By Knuckles (Steel Sinners MC #8)

Chapter 1 - Savannah

The worst part about running for your life in a wedding dress isn't the looks you get, though those are plentiful.

It's not even the way the elaborate beading digs into your ribs with every gasping breath, or how your bare feet keeps touching on the hot pavement because you had no time to get your shoes.

No, the worst part is that everyone thinks you're having the time of your fucking life.

"Congratulations!" a woman shouts as I stumble past her outside what I think is the Bellagio. Or maybe it's the Aria. I've been walking for two hours and the casinos have all started bleeding together into one continuous blur of lights and noise.

I force a smile. "Thank you."

My phone vibrates again in my death grip. I don't look at it. I already know what it says. Some variation of what the last forty-seven messages have said.

*Where are you?*

*Come back.*

*You're being ridiculous.*

*Think about what you're doing to your family.*

*Derek is worried sick.*

That last one was from my mother. Derek is worried sick. Not *are you okay* or *what happened* or *did he hurt you again* because we don't talk about that. We decided two years ago that we weren't going to talk about that.

I decided I was done not talking about it approximately four hours ago, standing in the bridal suite at the Four Seasons, looking at myself in the mirror while my sisters fussed with my veil.

The makeup artist had done an amazing job covering the bruise on my jaw. You couldn't see it at all. I'd smiled at my reflection and felt nothing but the echo of Derek's knuckles against my face three days ago, and the casual way he'd told me I needed to learn when to shut my fucking mouth.

Then he'd kissed my forehead and gone to his bachelor party.

My sister Melissa had squeezed my shoulder. "You look perfect, Sav. Derek's going to lose his mind when he sees you."

And something in me had just... broken. Or maybe it had finally healed enough to break properly.

I don't know. I just know I looked at that beautiful stranger in the mirror, wearing a dress that cost more than my first car, about to promise forever to a man who'd put his hands around my throat hard enough to leave fingerprints, and I heard myself say, "I need a minute. "

Then I grabbed my purse, walked out the side door, and ran.

I'd made it three blocks before my heel snapped. I'd stopped long enough to break the other one off. Some distant, hysteria-bright part of my brain noting that at least I'd have a matching set of broken things, and kept going.

That was two hours ago.

Now my feet are bleeding, my phone won't stop buzzing, and I'm so tired I can barely see straight. But I can't stop. If I stop, I'll have to think. If I think, I'll have to decide what the fuck I'm going to do next.

And I have absolutely no idea.

A bachelor party stumbles past me, drunk and laughing. One of them points at my dress. "Hey! Did you just get married?"

"No," I say, and it's the first honest thing I've said to a stranger all night.

They laugh like I made a joke and keep walking.

I duck into the next casino I see, desperate to get off the street, to find somewhere to sit down and catch my breath and figure out what comes next. The air conditioning hits me like a wall and I almost sob with relief.

The sign outside said Elysium. I've never heard of it, which probably means it's not one of the big ones. Fine by me. The last thing I need is to run into someone from the wedding. Half of Derek's finance buddies probably have their bachelor parties in Vegas.

The casino floor is busy but not packed. Slot machines chime and flash. Somewhere in the distance, someone cheers at a craps table. Normal Friday night in Vegas. Everyone here is either celebrating something or trying to forget something.

I'm definitely in the second category.

I spot a quiet corner near the back, away from the main floor, and make my way toward it. My feet leave small smears of blood on the patterned carpet. I should probably be more concerned about that. Add it to the list of things I'll deal with later.

I sink into a chair and finally let myself stop moving.

Everything hurts. My feet, my ribs where the dress has been digging in, my jaw where the bruise is hiding under all that expensive makeup, my chest where something feels cracked and raw and new.

My phone buzzes again. I pull it out with shaking hands.

Seventeen new messages. Six missed calls.

I open the texts because apparently I'm a glutton for punishment.

**Derek: Where the fuck are you?**

**Derek: This isn't funny, Savannah.**

**Derek: You're embarrassing me. Get back here NOW.**

**Mom: Savannah Marie Cross, you call me this instant.**

**Mom: Whatever you think Derek did, I'm sure there's an explanation.**

**Melissa: Sav, please. Everyone's asking questions. Just come back and we'll figure this out.**

**Derek: I swear to God if you don't answer your fucking phone...**

I close the messages. My hands are shaking so hard I almost drop the phone.

*Whatever you think Derek did.*

I think Derek broke my rib last week. I think Derek told me I was lucky he put up with a fat bitch like me. I think Derek made sure I knew that nobody else would ever want me, that my own family thought I was the problem, that I should be grateful he was willing to marry me at all.

I think Derek was going to kill me eventually. Maybe not today. Maybe not next month. But someday, when I said the wrong thing or looked at him the wrong way or burned dinner or committed whatever small, unforgivable sin would be the last one.

I think I knew that, standing in that bridal suite. I think I've known it for a while.

"You okay?"

The voice comes from my left. Male, rough-edged. I look up and find a man watching me from about ten feet away.

He's tall. I can tell even with him standing at a distance. Broad-shouldered. Buzzcut black hair. Sharp blue eyes that are currently fixed on me with an intensity that should probably be alarming but somehow isn't.

He's wearing jeans and a black t-shirt under a leather cut that says STEEL SINNERS MC across the back and KNUCKLES on the front.

A biker. Great. Perfect. Exactly what my night needs.

But he's not moving closer. He's just standing there, hands loose at his sides and watching me.

"I'm fine," I say.

His eyes drop to my feet, then back to my face. One eyebrow raises slightly.

"Okay," he says. "You're fine."

He doesn't believe me. I don't blame him. I'm sitting in a casino in a wedding dress with blood on my feet and tears I can't quite suppress making tracks through my makeup. I'm the opposite of fine.

"Do you need help?" he asks.

And fuck, that's the question, isn't it? Do I need help? Yes. Obviously yes. I need so much help I don't even know where to start asking for it.

But this stranger, this biker with scarred knuckles and eyes that have clearly seen shit I can't imagine, can't give me the kind of help I need. Nobody can.

"I just need to sit for a minute," I say.

He nods slowly. Doesn't move. "You being followed?"

The question catches me off guard. "What?"

"Someone chasing you? You keep looking at the door."

I hadn't realized I was doing that. But he's right. Some part of me is waiting for Derek to burst through the entrance, furious and apologetic in equal measure, ready to drag me back to the wedding and the life I just burned to the ground.

"No," I say. Then, more honestly, "I don't think so."

"But maybe."

"Maybe."

He seems to consider this. Then he moves, not toward me but to the side, positioning himself so he's between me and the main entrance. It's a subtle shift, but I notice it.

"You can sit as long as you need," he says. "Nobody's gonna bother you."

I don't know this man. I don't know anything about him except that he's a biker in a casino on a Friday night. But he's the first person in two hours who's looked at me and seen something other than a Vegas bride on a fun adventure.

He's looking at me like he recognizes something. Like he knows what running looks like.

"Thank you," I whisper.

He nods once. "You need water? Food? First aid kit for those feet?"

I should say no. I should keep my distance from strange men, especially ones who look like they've been in more than a few fights. The scars across his knuckles are obvious even from here.

But Derek had soft hands and a nice smile, and he still made me afraid to fall asleep in my own bed.

"Water would be good," I hear myself say.

"Stay here," he says. "I'll be right back."

I watch him go and try to figure out what the fuck I'm doing. Sitting in a strange casino. Talking to a strange man. Wearing a wedding dress I was supposed to wear down an aisle toward a man who would have eventually killed me.

My phone buzzes again.

I turn it off completely and shove it back in my purse. The man returns less than three minutes later with a bottle of water and a first aid kit. He hands me the water and sets the kit on the table beside me.

"You know how to patch yourself up, or do you need help?"

I look down at my feet. They're a mess. Bloody, bruised, probably full of whatever debris was on the Vegas sidewalks. I should be able to handle this myself. I've handled worse.

But I'm so tired.

"Help," I admit. "Please."