3. Chapter 2
Honey
I followed Jack down the narrow hallway, my heart hammering like a trapped bird against my ribs.
The sounds of the fight still echoed in the distance, but the commotion tapered off other than the occasional groan or thud.
My neck throbbed where the other guy had come close to strangling me, and my lips still burned from Jack's brutal kiss. I doubt I should have put the two sensations in the same category, but while neither had been invited, I can’t say I hadn’t like Jack’s kiss.
Freaking “Bloody” Jack Mason! He ruled Bound in Blood MC with an iron fist. Though they had a reputation of being brutal to their enemies and there had been a few attempts at pinning various violent crimes on the club, they’d all been proven wrong.
Didn’t mean they were innocent, only that they hadn’t been caught.
The memory of Jack’s kiss sent an unwelcome shiver down my spine as I trailed behind his massive frame, watching the muscles of his back flex beneath his blood-spattered shirt with each purposeful stride.
My legs trembled with every step, adrenaline draining from my system and leaving behind a bone deep exhaustion.
Twenty minutes ago, I'd been dancing awkwardly with Wren, pretending I belonged here.
Now I was following a man called "Bloody Jack" who'd just beaten several men unconscious and then declared me his property.
What the hell was happening to my life?
Jack stopped at a door near the end of the hallway, producing a key from his pocket and unlocking it with practiced efficiency. He pushed it open and motioned for me to enter first. I hesitated, and his eyes narrowed. Not threatening, exactly, but expectant. Used to being obeyed.
I swallowed hard and stepped inside. It would take a braver person than me to defy this man.
The room was spartan but unmistakably lived-in. A large bed dominated the space, its dark sheets rumpled as if he had just rolled out moments before.
Motorcycle memorabilia covered most of the wall space.
Vintage signs, framed patches, and photos of men in leather cuts standing around bikes should have looked cluttered but didn’t.
A rack of knives, guns, and other weapons I couldn't name hung on the wall opposite the bed. Club photos were pinned haphazardly beside the intimidating California King. The faces of all those rough looking men staring back at me reminded me this situation wasn’t the romanticized version.
I could very well be in big trouble. This was the den of a predator, and I was very much the prey.
Jack's massive frame filled the doorway as he entered behind me, closing and locking the door with a decisive click. I jumped at the sound, my nerves already frayed to breaking point.
"You need a property cut," he growled, tossing his keys onto a dresser covered with spare change, and what looked like two sets of brass knuckles. "And until it's finished, you stay here or at my side."
"A... what?" My voice came out small and uncertain.
"Property cut is a vest you’ll wear any time you’re dressed. Tells everyone who you belong to." His glacial blue eyes bored into me, unblinking and intense. "Now. Why the fuck are you pretending to be something you're not?"
The question blindsided me. Of all the things he could have said, this wasn’t even on my radar. "I… What?"
He gestured to my outfit. The black leather corset, the tight pants that felt like a second skin, they’d been what Wren had convinced me to wear to better fit in with the atmosphere I was headed into. "This shit. The getup. You look like you're about to crawl out of your own skin."
Heat rushed to my cheeks. I fumbled at my corset laces, suddenly hyper aware of how ridiculous I must look to someone like Bloody Jack.
The leather felt like a costume for someone braver and wilder than me.
Given Wren said I looked good, I really thought I did.
Maybe we were both wrong. Or maybe this man had been around the block enough to spot a fraud when he saw one.
"Wren invited me. She said I needed to break out of my comfort zone. That I was too..." I trailed off, remembering how her exact words had hurt. I didn’t want to blurt them out and risk showing more of my vulnerable belly.
When I didn’t finish, Jack shifted his stance with a heavy thud of his booted foot. “That you’re too… what?”
I huffed out a breath, blowing a curl out of my eyes. Fuck it. "Too fuckin' vanilla for my own good."
Jack's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes shifted. "And you thought dressin’ like this was gonna fix that?"
"I didn't know what to expect," I admitted. "Wren's been talkin' about bringing me to one of these parties for months. She gave me the clothes and I just... I dunno. Thought it might be fun."
"Fun." He spat the word like it tasted bad. "Getting caught in the middle of a club war is your idea of fun?"
"No! I didn't — how was I supposed to know that would happen?
" My voice rose slightly, a flicker of indignation cutting through my fear.
"I'm just a barista, for God's sake. I serve coffee.
I don't know anything about... about motorcycle clubs or rivals or property vests!
" I was starting to spiral. But, honestly, who wouldn’t in this situation?
Jack never once blinked while I spoke. His face remained impassive, but I could feel the intensity of his focus like a physical weight.
He was cataloging every word, every expression, filing them away for future reference.
"You sure about that?" His voice dropped lower, the gravelly rumble sending involuntary shivers down my spine.
"You were in that hallway with Shank. What did he want from you? "
I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the room. "He asked what I'd heard. Said to tell him what I knew."
"And what do you know?" Jack took a step closer, and the room seemed to shrink around us.
"Nothing! I swear!" The words tumbled out in a rush. "I was just trying to get away from the fighting. He grabbed me and dragged me down that hallway."
Jack studied me for a long moment, his head tilted slightly.
I shrank under his gaze, acutely aware he was much larger than me.
Close to a foot taller and probably twice my weight, all of it hard muscle.
He could break me in half without breaking a sweat.
But he'd also protected me. Claimed me as his.
Which, I really needed to get defined sooner rather than later.
"Doesn't matter what you know now," he finally said, his voice a low rumble that I felt more than heard. "You're in this. They saw you with me. And I staked my claim."
"About that..." I began, then faltered when his eyes narrowed. "Why did you... I mean, what made you..."
"Claim you?" His mouth quirked up at one corner, not quite a smile. "Because you were about to be sentenced to a fate you couldn’t even imagine. What do you think would have happened if Shank had taken you back to their clubhouse?” When I couldn’t answer, my mouth going dry at the mere thought, he nodded.
“That’s what I thought. You had no clue what you were potentially walking into yet here you are.
The damage is done. You're mine now, Honey. Whether either of us wants it or not."
The way he said my name, like he was tasting it, maybe trying it out, sent a shiver through me that had nothing to do with fear. Which made me too stupid to live because this was not someplace I could stay and it very much looked like I’d be staying for an extended period of time.
I swallowed hard. The finality to his statement made me believe this could possibly have been the biggest mistake of my life.
His claim on me should have sent me running for the hills, but here I was, standing in his bedroom while my heart performed gymnastics in my chest. The question burned in my throat, demanding to be asked despite the danger.
I took a deep breath and met those icy blue eyes.
"Why did you protect me like that?" I asked, my voice steadier than I expected. "And why are we pretending to be a couple? There had to be other solutions."
Jack didn't answer immediately. He moved around the room with controlled precision, each motion deliberate and economical.
No wasted energy. He checked a handgun that had been tucked into his waistband, ejecting the magazine to inspect it before sliding it back into place with a click that made me flinch.
He peeled off his leather vest with the club's insignia and hung it carefully on a hook by the door, his fingers lingering on the patches for a moment.
I watched him, transfixed by the fluid way he moved. For such a large man, he had an unexpected grace, like a tiger padding around its territory. It was obvious he was taking his time, choosing his words carefully.
"I staked my claim on you in front of a rival club," he finally said, his voice flat and matter-of-fact. "There's no backing out. That's not how this shit works."
"But—"
"No." He cut me off with a single sharp word. "You don't understand how this world operates. Once I marked you as mine, that's it. If I walk it back now, I look weak. The club looks weak. And you?" His eyes raked over me, sending heat crawling up my neck. "You become fair game."
My throat tightened, making it hard to swallow. "Fair game?"
"They'd take you to get to me. To prove they could. To humiliate me and my club." His voice stayed eerily calm, but his eyes hardened. "And they wouldn't be gentle about it."
The blood drained from my face as the implication sank in.
I didn't want to believe him, but the memory of Shank's hand around my throat, the way he'd looked at me like I was a thing to be used, made his words ring with terrible truth.
“Why would you do this? To your club? To me?” I shook my head, unable to believe this was actually happening.