Chapter Twenty-One
THE NIGHT KEEPS changing its shape, moving like a kaleidoscope. The house is there and not there, a black cut-out against the sky. I’m trying to find the door, but the path shifts. The grass turns to gravel, turns to slick mud, turns to nothing at all.
A man appears in front of me. Adrian Mercer. Neatly but unremarkably dressed in a tie and ill-fitted jacket.
“It’s Maxwell, right?”
Behind me, someone presses a hand to my mouth, too tight. “Hold the fuck still.”
Silas.
Adrian Mercer tilts his head, a slow, sick, satisfied smile spreading across his face.
The darkness opens behind him and spreads, wide as a van door, a gaping maw, an open throat.
He steps toward me, smile too big. Too many teeth. I pull back and try to twist away—
I wake with a start only to find that I’m pinned in place by a heavy weight behind me. For a second I don’t know where I am, the panic from my dream drumming inside of me.
Breath on my neck, a heavy arm. I breathe and blink, breathe and blink.
Slowly, the room comes into focus. The faint outline of the dresser, the pale square of the window. I look down at the arm over me and recognize it. The wolf tattoo on the back of Ryder’s hand. The fuzz of blond hair over the ink that runs all the way up his forearm.
I remember his hand at the small of my back last night, steering me up the stairs when my legs went soft, his mouth at my ear—“Bed, Max”—a gentle order. Wyatt had peeled off toward the basement, stiff and careful with his ribs, and Ryder had come upstairs and laid down with me and held me.
His chest rises slow and even against my back, his hand splayed on the sheets in front of me. I shift carefully, testing whether moving will wake him.
“You okay?” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
I swallow. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
But I kind of did. It’s easy to wake these army men. They sleep with one eye open.
“Mmph,” he groans and pulls me in tighter.
His breathing slows again, heavy and even against my neck, and I know he’s about to slip back under.
“Ryder,” I whisper, catching him before he’s gone.
A low sound vibrates in his chest. “Mm?”
“I had a bad dream.”
His hand loosens, fingers drifting up, skimming my shoulder, then into my hair, making long, slow strokes.
“What happened?” He presses his mouth to the back of my head, a soft, sleepy kiss.
I stare into the dark, the soft strokes of his fingers soothing. “It was the night they took me. Silas was behind me, his hand over my mouth. That guy was in front of me, the one from the TV, Hargrove’s aide. I don’t know, it was scary. Like reliving it.”
“You’re safe,” he whispers, his low voice rumbly. “Your brain’s just trying to process it. But you’re here with me now.”
I let my eyes close with a sigh.
“I’ll always protect you,” he promises. “Always.”
“Okay,” I say with a smile. I wriggle back into him, pressing my spine tighter to his chest. There is no safer place I can imagine than this. He exhales and lifts my hair and then his mouth is at my neck—one kiss, then another.
“Hey,” he murmurs, fingers threading through mine where my hand rests on the sheet. “About tonight.”
“Yeah?”
“You good?”
“Yeah…?” I say slowly, unsure why he’s asking.
“I just want to check in, you know. Parts of it were a little rough.”
Ryder spanking me, Ryder telling me that naughty girls get punished, Ryder telling me to take his cock…
“Um, it got rough in all the right ways,” I breathe, smiling.
He laughs low. “So you liked that, did you? Brat.”
“Oh, very much.” I turn my head over my shoulder so I can look at him. Dark, shining eyes, full lips with a curve of mischief in them, his hair loose and falling over his shoulders. “I came very hard, as you may remember.”
“I do remember.” He smiles. “I think that’s what I was dreaming about.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Mm. Yeah.” He leans forward, over my shoulder, and kisses me softly. His tongue teases the seam of my lips until I open for him, and then his hand tightens at my jaw, angling my face so he can taste me fully.
My whole body melts into the kiss, every muscle unwinding with relief.
The tension from the nightmare vanishes, replaced by the slow heat that spreads from my core.
My hand curls around his wrist, holding him there.
It’s sweetness threaded with hunger, and when he finally pulls back, I notice how quickly my heart is beating.
He lies down on his side again and draws me in until my ass is pressed against him. His thigh slides between mine, and the hard press of his cock along my spine makes my whole body ache with answering need.
His mouth finds my neck and lingers this time, his hand gliding over my stomach, then up my ribs, fingers spreading. He cups one breast in his large, warm palm.
“You’re hard,” I whisper, smiling.
“Mm-hm,” he murmurs. “Pretty much every second of the day for you.”
His hand slides back down my stomach and this time I take it and guide it between my thighs to where I’m still tender. He growls low and soft in my ear, fingers gently finding their way. I gasp when he touches me, so gentle at first. Careful.
I arch into his hand, needing his touch. I’m wet already, and I moan as his fingers slip easily through the slick heat. I reach back, grabbing at his arm, not wanting him to stop, and he laughs softly, pleased.
“Christ, Max. I’m absolutely fucking obsessed with you.”
I run my hand blindly over his body. The hard line of his abdomen, the ridge of muscle, the warmth of his skin. Then lower, to his hip, and then the soft hair at the base of his cock. His breath shudders against my hair.
“Are you sore?” he asks quietly.
“Yes,” I whisper. “But I don’t care.”
“We’ll go slow,” he rasps, voice rough.
His fingers spread me apart, rubbing softly against my clit and making my breath come faster.
“Turn for me,” he murmurs.
I roll onto my back, sheets twisting, and he follows, hovering over me in the dark.
He props himself up on one arm and reaches for me with the other, fingers brushing my cheek, then my throat. His head dips. He kisses my forehead. My cheek. The corner of my mouth.
“Max,” he says, “I love you.”
It hits me right in the ribs, knocking the breath out of me. The words shouldn’t shock me, he’s proven it in a hundred ways. But hearing it anyway makes a bright feeling pop in my chest.
I swallow, fingertips sliding up his jaw, and whisper, “I know.” A beat. “But…thank you for saying it.”
He lifts his face and watches me for a second, lip twitching into a soft smile. Then he bends down, his mouth taking my nipple, warm and wet. I gasp and grab his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. He sucks gently, then harder, then eases off and kisses the ache away.
“Ryder,” I whisper.
“Mm?” he murmurs.
“I love you.”
He huffs out a short breath that’s half laugh, half ache. “Good,” he whispers against my skin.
He moves down my body slowly, kissing my stomach, my hip, the inside of my thigh. His stubble grazes sensitive skin, making my toes curl.
He spreads my legs apart with his hands, and I let my knees fall open.
The first touch of his tongue on my clit is excruciatingly gentle. I press my hand over my mouth to stifle the gasp that escapes me.
His tongue slides over me slowly, making circles, then flicks just right, and my whole body jolts. He doesn’t speed up, doesn’t chase my orgasm. He holds me at the edge and keeps me there with steady pressure, his rhythm never faltering.
My thighs tremble. My hips start to lift on their own.
His hand presses down firmly on my stomach. He hums against me, the vibration making my vision blur. Then he sucks lightly and my head falls back.
I’m so sensitive. Everything feels amplified—his tongue, the wet heat of his mouth, the way he keeps me right on the edge.
I come with my hands fisted in the sheets and my legs shaking, breath tearing out of me in short cries.
He presses soft kisses against my pussy and my inner thighs, soothing the oversensitivity until my body stops trembling.
Then he kisses my hip. My stomach. He climbs back up my body, sliding between my legs, his weight settling over me.
His mouth finds mine again, and I taste myself. His hand slides down between us. I feel him, hard and thick, against me. He drags the head of his cock through my slick heat slowly, coating himself, and then he pushes in.
Slow.
So slow I gasp.
I’m tender from earlier, but the pain mixes with pleasure as Ryder fills me. His size is impossible, but somehow it feels just right.
He pauses halfway, forehead dropping to my shoulder.
“Too much?” he asks, voice tight.
I wrap my legs around his hips, pulling him closer.
“No,” I whisper. “More.”
He exhales roughly and slides all the way in, deep, until he’s fully seated inside me. I gasp, nails digging into his shoulders, my body clenching around him, and he swears under his breath.
He stays still for a beat, letting me adjust. His mouth brushes my neck, his hand cupping the back of my head, fingers threading into my hair.
When he moves again, he pulls out just enough to make me feel the stretch, then pushes back in until he’s buried. I meet him instinctively, hips lifting, my breath coming out in soft broken sounds.
“You’re safe,” he murmurs against my lips, and my chest tightens. I nod, eyes burning for no reason.
His hand slides down my body and finds my hip, anchoring me. My body starts to melt into the rhythm, the slow burn spreading through me.
Ryder’s breathing gets rougher. He’s holding back, I can tell. He’s trying to keep this slow. Trying not to break the spell. I reach for him, pulling him down until his chest is pressed to mine, and lift my hips, making his cock go in deeper.
He groans, forehead dropping to the pillow. “Max,” he warns.
“Fuck me,” I whisper. “Like this. Don’t stop.”
His hand slides under my back and he lifts my hips slightly, changing the angle. It hits a spot inside me that makes my whole body jolt. I cry out, and Ryder’s mouth seals over mine to swallow the sound.
He moves again, the same angle, the same deep stroke, and my hands fly to his shoulders, gripping hard.
“There?” he asks, voice shaking.
“Yes,” I gasp. “Yes.”
His pace stays slow but more insistent now, each thrust dragging a sound out of me. My body starts to tighten, that familiar build returning, but it’s softer this time, more diffuse—like the pleasure is braided with comfort.
Ryder’s hand slides between us and his thumb finds my clit.
“You with me?” he asks.
I nod, breathless. “Always.”
He circles slowly, light pressure, and my body starts to tremble again.
“Come for me,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Give it to me, Max.”
I come with his name on my lips. He grips my hip hard, holding me down while he rides out the spasms, still moving slowly until the final shudder racks my body, and then his pace falters. His breath breaks.
“Fuck,” he groans, burying himself, and I feel him come inside me, a shudder running through his whole body.
He stays there, pressed deep, forehead against my shoulder, breathing hard for a long moment. I can feel his heartbeat against my ribs.
His hand strokes my hair. Once. Twice. Then he lifts his head slightly and kisses my temple.
“I love you,” he whispers, voice raw.
I nod, still floating. “I love you, too.”
He lets out a breath, rolls onto his side and pulls me into him, tucking my head under his chin. I let the quiet sink back in, the adrenaline from my dream all gone, the release leaving me calm—but not sleepy.
For a while we just breathe. His palm moves in slow strokes over my hair, over my shoulder.
“I hate that you have bad dreams,” he says after a while. Plural, like it’s an ongoing thing.
Is it? And I realize, this isn’t the first one.
Of course I do.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t apologize. That’s not criticism. I just…wish you didn’t. I wish there was something I could do.”
“Maybe over time,” I suggest, “they’ll pass. Right now everything’s still fresh.”
“I’ll never let anything happen to you,” he promises quietly. “Never again.”
The words make my eyes sting. I blink hard into the dark.
For a long time, Billy was safety, too. Billy was my protector. But Billy’s safety always came with a price, even when we were kids. I owed him my attention, my obedience, and ultimately, my body.
Ryder—all these men—they never ask anything more from me than I am willing to give.
“You hate motorcycle clubs,” I say, to get out of my own skull. “Like, really hate them. I’ve never asked you why.”
He takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly, ruffling my hair.
“Wyatt told me you lost someone,” I add.
“Mm,” he says. “Yeah.”
“Who?”
I feel his intake of breath against my back.
“My sister,” he says. “Samantha.”
The words shock me. A sister is too close, too painful. I’d been bracing for a colleague or a friend, not family.
“Oh,” I whisper. “Ryder…”
“She was sixteen. And she was…annoying.” He breathes a light, affectionate laugh.
“Loud. She never left you alone. Always chatting. She started seeing this guy with a bike and a leather jacket. That whole thing. She thought it was romantic, like being chosen by somebody dangerous gave her some kind of protection or meant she was special. I was overseas and my mom kept saying she was worried. That Samantha was slipping, coming home late and not calling. Skipping school.”
He takes a deep breath and pauses for a long beat.
“They found her in a cheap motel. She’d gone to a party there.
Cops said she overdosed, but Sam wasn’t that kind of kid.
She was messy and stubborn and she’d lie about where she was going, but she wasn’t a user.
She hated pills. Couldn’t even swallow a fucking Tylenol without gagging.
And they left her. Her boyfriend and his friends just took off because they didn’t want to get caught.
They didn’t call for help. They didn’t even drag her into the hallway and bang on a door.
They didn’t do anything except save themselves. ”
His hand squeezes my shoulder.
“I hate everything about them. The mythology. The idea that they’re a ‘family.’ Because when it matters, there is no fucking family. It’s all a lie.”
I stare into the dark for a long moment, the image in my head of a teenage girl abandoned to die a nightmare. Then I wriggle to turn myself toward him and press my mouth to his throat, right over the steady beat of his pulse. I have no fucking idea what to say.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
He tightens his arm around me. When he speaks, his voice is rough.
“That’s why I don’t want you near that fucking clubhouse, that’s why it kills me to know that I lost you to them at all.”
“You didn’t lose me. I’m here, and I’m not going away. Jesus. I’m so fucking sorry about your sister.”
“I know,” he says on a sigh. “I know you are.” A beat. “But…thank you for saying it.” And he squeezes my arm again and gives me a kiss on the top of my head.