Chapter 8 Eliza
Eliza
I’ve never felt so uncomfortably aware of my own body before. The rough denim of my jeans is a constant friction with every step, a persistent, throbbing reminder of the pulse beating tight where both my legs meet.
Each time my thighs graze the other, a fresh, sharp ache makes me bite the inside of my cheek. My brain is foggy, caught somewhere between the memory of his mouth and the dizzying reality of the morning, and I can’t seem to claw my way out.
Even the cool, damp air does nothing to douse the heat simmering under my skin.
I can still feel the phantom press of his hands on my hips, the demanding scrape of his teeth on my lip.
I’m aching for a touch that’s no longer there, a need coiling so tight inside me it feels like a physical pain I don’t know how to soothe.
I’ve never felt like this—so worked up, so desperate, with no relief in sight.
So when Ghost leads me toward the rumbling row of bikes and their stoic riders, I’m utterly distracted, lost in the haze of my own want. I don’t even see him stop, walking right into the solid wall of his back.
The fresh scent of leather hits my nose, and I have to convince myself to take a step back instead of clinging to any contact.
Moving to the side, I watch as he moves to a saddlebag attached to a bike. Shoving cords inside and attaching a small bag, it takes me too many seconds of watching him before I realize he plans to take us on this.
“Wait, you still ride?” The surprise in my voice is genuine as he unclips a helmet from the back. A blush heats my cheeks when he steps close, his body caging me in as he carefully settles the helmet on my head.
“Of course.” His mouth curves into that rare, devastating hint of a smile as his fingers work under my chin, tightening the strap. His touch is surprisingly gentle. “I’m a better driver than I was a few years ago, don’t worry.”
The statement hangs between us, heavy with the unspoken story of his accident, the loss of his leg. But there’s no fear in his eyes, only confidence.
I’ve never been on a motorcycle before, outside of last night. At that point, I was still reeling from being taken from my home to be scared of the ride. Now, there’s nothing distracting me.
His thumb brushes my cheek, a fleeting, reassuring touch that sends another wave of warmth through me. “I wouldn’t dare take any risks with you on the back of my bike. You’re safe with me.”
He swings a leg over the seat with a practiced, powerful grace that makes my breath catch. The engine roars to life beneath him, a deep, guttural vibration that I feel in my bones. He revs it once, the sound a promise of speed and freedom, and the machine seems like an extension of the man himself.
He looks really good on it. The thought is simple, undeniable.
He glances over his shoulder, the intensity in his eyes momentarily shifting into an unspoken question. He motions for me to join him.
Taking a steadying breath, I push aside the last of my nerves and climb on behind him. My arms wrap around him, and I take advantage of the opportunity to press my body against his.
I mold myself against the solid warmth of his back, my front to his back, and as the bike pulls forward, I realize this isn’t just a ride. It’s a leap of faith, and he’s the only one I’d ever trust to catch me.
Diesel and Kansas are a part of the convoy, but there are three other faces I don’t recognize, one being from that meeting. Warden. I’m sure I’ll get the chance to meet them all properly another day once the dust settles.
The roar of the engines is deafening, a thunder that vibrates from the bike through my entire body. The world becomes a blur of muted greens and grays as we fly through the fog, trees whipping past like silent, ghostly figures sending us off.
I tuck my face against the worn leather of Ghost’s shoulder, hiding myself. It’s not just the wind I’m hiding from; it’s the eyes I can’t see, the risk of being recognized and tearing this new reality apart.
We begin the climb, the road twisting up the mountain in a series of sharp curves.
Ghost leans into each one with an effortless grace, the bike becoming an extension of his will.
My stomach lurches, and I squeeze him tighter, my fingers clutching the front of his shirt.
I feel the faint rumble in his chest—not the engine, but a low, approving sound—and I hold on even closer.
When we finally come to a stop, the sudden quiet is almost as jarring as the noise surrounding us. Before us sits a cabin, shabby and weathered, looking as if it grew straight out of the mountain floor. It’s tucked into a clearing of its own, surrounded by a dense wall of pines.
Warden kills his engine and lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Ripper. This place is… rustic.”
Diesel chuckles, swinging off his bike. “Man doesn’t ever bring anyone up here. Got no one to impress. Just needs a space to cool off when he’s pissed.”
Warden snorts as he looks over to the tattoo-covered biker, a mischievous glint in his eye. “I’ll bet you fifty he’s got a secret shrine to Judge in there. Framed pictures, the whole deal.”
Diesel scratches his cheek, considering it as he looks at the dilapidated structure. “Those two have a weird thing, I’ll give you that. But a shrine? I don’t think it’s that bad. Ripper’s just… a little protective of him. In his own, gore-happy way.”
Their easy banter is a stark contrast to the heavy silence of the woods. As the men start a perimeter check, I slowly dismount, my legs feeling like jelly. My arms feel strangely empty without him to hold onto.
Ghost follows soon after, his sharp eyes scanning the tree line, but for a moment, his gaze finds mine.
“Lots of open space up here. Privacy for miles, it seems. May take a little adjusting for both of us.” He looks out toward the town in the distance.
I like the idea of all this fresh air surrounding us. It’s a natural remedy to the suffocation I’ve forced myself to grow accustomed to.
“Maybe I’ll get a tan,” I joke, hoping to ease any stress weighing down on him. “It’s about time I get some sun.”
He cracks a smile, and I know my attempt has been successful.
The men finish their sweep and gather by their bikes. Warden gives Ghost a sharp nod. “Perimeter’s clear. We weren’t followed. You’re good.”
Jinx, a face I recognize as being the one doing unseen things against a certain jukebox, claps a hand on Ghost’s shoulder, his grin widening as his eyes dart between the two of us.
“We’ll keep you caught up on everything that happens down below.
” He leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone meant just for us.
“And as far as I’m concerned, you can treat this whole thing like a honeymoon getaway. ”
Heat floods my cheeks, but it’s not entirely from embarrassment.
A hopeful, fluttering feeling takes root in my chest, so light and foreign it feels like a bird trying to escape its cage.
I dare a glance at Ghost. He doesn’t smile, but the look he gives me in return makes my breath catch. It’s an answer in itself.
He’s thought about what it’ll be like once we get some privacy to ourselves.
As the rumble of their bikes fades into the mountain, a profound quiet descends.
We are truly alone. The shabby cabin isn’t just a hiding place anymore; it’s a threshold.
And as I stand there with him, the man who is both my kidnapper and my rescuer, I can’t help but wonder what will happen now that we’ve crossed it.
“Let’s go see what kind of weird shit that guy is into.” Muttering the words, he grabs my hand and leads me toward the cabin to face the unknown.