Chapter 3
Cami
I feel so well rested. I can't remember the last time I slept so deeply.
The bed beneath me is easily the most comfortable thing I've experienced in months—a far cry from the cramped backseat of my Corolla or the occasional cheap motel when I could scrape together enough tip money.
But guilt immediately replaces the serenity.
This is his room. His bed. The masculine space feels intimate in a way that makes heat crawl up my neck.
Everything is spartanly organized—black furniture, minimal decoration, a dresser with a precise arrangement of items on top. But there's an armchair in the corner with a rumpled blanket thrown over it and a pillow on the cushion. He spent the night there.
Watching over me…?
The thought makes my throat tight, that specific ache that comes before crying, though I haven't let myself cry in months. I hate how much I want that—someone checking on me, making sure I'm safe.
I sit up carefully, my body stiff after sleeping so hard.
The oversized t-shirt Trix gave me swallows my frame, and my reflection in the dresser mirror shows hair that's dried in crazy, wild waves.
My uniform from last night hangs over a chair—mostly dry now.
Not that it matters. Missing my shifts at both jobs yesterday means I'm definitely fired.
More bridges burned in a life full of smoking ruins.
A soft knock interrupts my spiraling thoughts. "You awake, honey?" Trix's voice is caring. Not something I'd expect from a virtual stranger.
"Yes, come in."
She enters carrying a steaming mug and a plate piled high with food that makes my stomach growl. The coffee smells like heaven, and the scrambled eggs, bacon, and buttered toast look like a feast fit for royalty.
"Figured you might be hungry." Trix sets the food on the nightstand, and her hand rests on my shoulder.
It's such a small thing, but nobody's offered me a comforting touch in so long that my eyes burn.
Her shrewd gaze takes in my appearance with the same assessing look from last night.
"When's the last time you ate a real meal? "
I have to think about it. Yesterday morning, maybe? A stale donut from the gas station before my shift at the diner started.
"I'm fine," I say automatically, the lie tumbling from my lips.
Trix settles into the armchair where Wrath spent the night, fixing me with a look that suggests she sees right through my deflection. "That wasn't what I asked."
Heat floods my face—not embarrassment exactly, but shame at being so obviously needy.
"Thank you," I say quietly, reaching for the coffee. "This is really kind of you."
"Wrath would have my hide if you didn't eat." Trix leans back in the chair, studying me. "Man's been pacing the common room since dawn like a caged tiger."
The image affects me in a weird way. He’s concerned? For me? When I picture him out there, restless and agitated, a liquid heat spreads between my thighs. "He seems...intense."
Trix's mouth curves in a small smile. "In all the years I've known him, I've never seen Wrath lose his cool like he did last night. I thought we might have to scrape Tank off the floor—what was left of him.”
I take a bite of eggs—perfectly seasoned and still warm—and try to process this information. "I don't understand why he's helping me. He doesn't even know me."
"Honey, I can't speak for him, but the way he looked at you last night. Whew!" Trix fans herself with a hand, her expression a mix of amusement and amazement. "Like you were the last woman on earth and he'd been searching for you his whole life."
I remember how he appeared from the shadows like some avenging angel when Tank was crowding me. The absolute authority in his voice when he declared no one better touch me. The way he slept in a chair and gave me his bed.
"He scares me a little," I admit, surprised by my own honesty.
"Good scared or bad scared?"
The question catches me off guard. I pause with a forkful of eggs halfway to my mouth, considering.
Good scared or bad scared? I'm used to bad scared—the kind that comes from knowing someone bigger and stronger than you wants to hurt you.
But what I feel around Wrath is different.
Overwhelming, yes. Intimidating, absolutely.
But underneath the fear is something that feels almost like. ..excitement.
"Both, maybe?" I answer truthfully.
"That's fair." Trix stands, wiping her palms on her jeans.
"Fear keeps you alive in this world, but facing your fear can also open up new possibilities.
When you're ready, come on out. Jigsaw's got news about your car, and some of the others are curious about Wrath's mystery guest. They want to meet you. "
After she leaves, I finish every bite of food and drain the coffee mug, feeling more human than I have in weeks.
But the prospect of facing a room full of bikers in broad daylight makes my nerves stand on end.
Last night I was desperate enough to brave anything.
Today, the reality of where I am jangles my nerves.
I find a brush on the dresser and work it through my tangled hair, studying myself in the mirror. The girl looking back at me is too thin, with dark smudges under eyes too large for her face. But the long, deep sleep in a real bed has soothed some of the broken pieces of me.
The main room is less crowded than last night—maybe eight or nine men scattered around tables and the long bar. Conversations pause when I appear, heads turning with varying degrees of curiosity, but the hostile edge I experienced last night is absent.
"Well, look who's finally awake." The voice belongs to the lean man with permanently grease-stained hands who checked my car last might. Jigsaw. He approaches with an easy smile that helps settle my jumping nerves. "Feeling better?"
"Much, thank you." I wrap my arms around myself. "Trix said you had news about my car?"
His expression shifts to apologetic and I brace myself for bad news.
"Yeah, about that. I'm real sorry, but she's done for.
Engine's completely blown, transmission's shot, and there's a hell of a lot of rust damage to the frame I didn't see last night.
Would cost three times what the car's worth to get her running again. "
Even though I expected this news, hearing it confirmed hurts. That rusted piece of junk represented freedom, mobility, independence. Without it, I'm stranded.
"I see." I hate that my voice comes out small and weak.
"Hey." Jigsaw's tone is genuinely kind. "We'll figure something out, okay? This ain't the end of the world."
Before I can respond—though I'm not sure what I would say—the front door opens and every nerve ending in my body suddenly fires at once, like touching a live wire, as Wrath walks in.
He's even more imposing in daylight.
When his eyes find me, the connection between us is electric. I feel it sizzle down my spine. He moves toward me with fluid confidence.
"You eat?" he asks without preamble, stopping close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. His presence seems to surround me completely.
"Yes.”
"Good." His gaze travels over my face cataloging details. "Get enough sleep?"
The simple questions make my throat tighten.
This feels dangerous, having someone checking on me, caring if I've eaten. It’s like feeding a craving. I could get used to it and become addicted to something that can be snatched away. But God, I'm so tired. Tired of being strong. Tired of being alone.
"Yes," I manage. "Thank you. For letting me use your room. I hope you weren't too uncomfortable—"
"Don't worry about it." He dismisses my concern with a slight shake of his head. "Jigsaw tell you about the car?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
I swear there’s concern in his expression. Or maybe I’m seeing what I want to see.
"That a problem?" he asks.
Is it a problem that my only means of transportation just died? That I'm here in a clubhouse with dangerous people I barely know? That I'm attracted to a man who looks like he could snap me like a twig?
"I'll figure something out.” I lift my chin with more confidence than I feel.
"You will." There's something almost possessive in the way he says it. "But not today. Today you rest here, get your bearings."
"I don't want to be a burden." The words tumble out, driven by a lifetime of learning that nothing comes free.
His eyes flash with something that might be anger, though not directed at me. "You're not a burden."
His voice is firm, but I've been taking care of myself for too long to start depending on handouts now, no matter how attractive the man offering them might be.
“I can't just sit around doing nothing.”
"If you want to help out, Trix could use an extra hand behind the bar during dinner rush. Nothing too strenuous. Just restocking, washing glasses."
"I'd like that. I've got experience waitressing."
"Good." He studies my face for another long moment, seeming to catalogue every detail. "You need anything else? Clothes, toiletries, anything?"
"I'm fine," I recite my automatic response.
He doesn't look convinced, but nods and turns toward a table where several other men are gathered. I watch him go, admiring the confident way he carries himself, the subtle deference the other men show him.
"He's something, ain't he?"
I turn to find a woman with shoulder length auburn hair and knowing brown eyes watching me with amusement. She's maybe forty, and very pretty, with laugh lines around her eyes and an air of someone who doesn’t take shit from anyone.
"I'm sorry?"
"Wrath. You're watching him like he hung the moon and arranged the stars." She extends a hand with a smile that reaches her eyes. "I'm Lizzie, but everyone calls me Queen. My old man's the president."
I shake her offered hand, grateful for another friendly gesture in this overwhelming new world.
"Cami."