Chapter 9 Sasha
SASHA
Ruth hands me another pitcher of lemonade, her hands steady despite the weight. “Just top off anyone who looks thirsty, honey. These boys drink like they’re trying to put out a fire.”
“Thanks, Ruth.” I smile at her, grateful for her constant guidance. Whether it’s explaining club etiquette or showing me how to navigate this strange new world, she’s been my lifeline these past weeks.
The compound’s backyard buzzes with activity—smoke rising from the grill where Tank flips burgers, brothers lounging in lawn chairs with beers in hand, music thumping from speakers.
It feels almost normal, like any summer barbecue, except for the cuts and guns casually displayed alongside the condiments.
“You doing okay there, sweetheart?” Ruth asks, her eyes crinkling with motherly concern.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Just still adjusting to... everything.”
My gaze drifts across the yard, settling on Havoc. He stands with Diesel near the fire pit, surrounded by three women with tight clothes and practiced smiles. Sweetbutts, Ruth calls them. Women who hang around the club hoping to catch a member’s attention.
One leans into Havoc, her hand trailing up his arm, her laughter floating across the yard. Something twists in my stomach.
“Don’t pay them any mind,” Ruth says, following my stare. “Those girls come and go.”
“It’s not—I wasn’t—” I stammer, embarrassed at being caught.
“It’s natural to be curious.” Ruth pats my arm. “But those sweetbutts... they’re just passing through. The boys use them when they need to blow off steam, if you catch my meaning.”
I nod, heat rising to my cheeks as I remember Ruth’s earlier explanation about club life. How these women offer themselves to any brother who wants them. How they move between beds like it’s nothing.
Havoc laughs at something the blonde says, and I grip my cup tighter.
“I don’t care what he does,” I say, the lie bitter on my tongue.
Ruth’s knowing smile makes me look away. “Of course not. Now, why don’t you bring those boys some drinks? They look parched.”
I make my way across the yard with the pitcher, determined to follow Ruth’s suggestion. Whether it’s to distract myself from Havoc and his admirers or just to feel useful, I’m not sure.
Diesel, Ryder, and the two prospects are lounging across lawn chairs near the edge of the property. Their cups sit empty on a small table between them, making them perfect candidates for a refill.
“Lemonade?” I offer, approaching their circle.
Diesel tips his empty cup toward me with a nod. “Appreciate it, Princess.”
I carefully pour, trying not to spill any as I’m conscious of their eyes on me. When I reach Ryder, he gives me that unsettling stare that always makes me wonder if he’s calculating the easiest way to dispose of my body.
“The prospects look thirsty too,” Diesel says, gesturing to the two younger men.
Kade holds out his cup with that easy smile of his, blue-green eyes warm and friendly. “You’re a lifesaver,” he says as I pour his drink.
“Don’t mention it.” I smile back. Out of all the members, the two prospects have always felt the least intimidating, closest to my own age.
Wyatt runs a hand through his dark curls, grinning at me over Kade’s shoulder. “What about me? Am I getting any of that?”
“You’ll get whatever’s left,” I tell him, and he clutches his chest like I’ve wounded him.
“That’s cold, Sasha.” His grin doesn’t waver. “And here I thought we were friends.”
“Club rules say prospects have to do whatever they’re told.” I raise an eyebrow. “So maybe start earning it.”
Wyatt’s smile widens. “Absolutely anything. Just say the word.”
“Don’t go giving her ideas,” Diesel warns.
“I could use help with some boxes in my room,” I say, holding Wyatt’s gaze a second longer than necessary.
Kade sits up straighter. “I can help with that, too. Four hands are better than two.”
“Is that so?” I feel a small thrill at their attention, so different from the weight of Havoc’s stare.
Wyatt leans in closer. “So those boxes... You need help with them right now? Cause we’re happy to lend a hand.” The way his eyes flicker over me makes it clear he’s offering more than just manual labor.
“Yeah,” Kade chimes in, “we could head in right now. Get you all sorted out.”
I hesitate, feeling a thrilling rush of danger. Their attention is flattering. Simpler and more straightforward than the complicated feelings Havoc stirs in me.
On impulse, I glance across the yard. Sure enough, Havoc’s eyes are locked on our little group, his body tense despite the blonde still clinging to his arm. The sweetbutt is talking, but he’s not listening—he’s watching me with those intense blue eyes.
Something reckless unfurls inside me. Two can play at this game.
“Actually, yes,” I say, meeting Wyatt’s gaze. “I could use that help now. Those boxes are too heavy for me to move alone.”
Diesel snorts into his cup. “You boys behave yourselves,” he warns, but there’s amusement in his tone.
“Always do,” Wyatt says, standing and brushing off his jeans.
“We’ll take good care of her,” Kade adds, joining him.
“I’m sure you will.” Diesel’s eyes flick toward Havoc, who’s now staring openly, the blonde forgotten.
I turn away, leading the prospects toward the clubhouse. The weight of Havoc’s gaze burns between my shoulder blades as we walk. Good. Let him watch. Let him wonder.
“So, what kind of boxes are we moving?” Wyatt asks as we enter the building.
“My mother’s things,” I state simply.
Kade nods earnestly. “Happy to help. Whatever you need.”
From their expressions, I can tell they’d expected something more exciting than actual box moving. But they follow me down the hall anyway, the opportunity to spend time alone with me apparently worth the manual labor.
As soon as my bedroom door closes behind us, a wave of uncertainty washes over me. This was supposed to be a harmless way to make Havoc notice me, but now I’m acutely aware of how vulnerable I am alone with two men I barely know.
Kade’s eyes drift over my body, lingering a second too long. There’s hunger in that look—not threatening, but unmistakable. I take a small step back, crossing my arms over my chest.
“So, these are the boxes?” Wyatt asks, pointing to the stack in the corner. His voice sounds louder in the confined space.
“Yes,” I reply, grateful for the distraction. “I need the heaviest ones moved against that wall so I can sort through them better.”
They get to work immediately. Kade lifts a box labeled “Savannah’s photos,” muscles straining under his T-shirt. Wyatt grabs another, and they work efficiently, moving between the door and the corner.
I’m about to thank them when the door flies open with such force it bangs against the wall. Havoc fills the doorframe, his broad shoulders tense, jaw locked tight. His blue eyes scan the room, taking in the prospects and me standing awkwardly between them.
“What the fuck are you two doing in here?” His voice is pure thunder, a dangerous growl that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
Kade immediately drops the box he’s holding, nearly spilling its contents. “Sir, we were just—”
“I asked them to help me move these boxes,” I interrupt, stepping forward. “They’re my mother’s things, and some are too heavy for me.”
Havoc’s gaze lands on me, intense and unreadable. “I could have done that for you.”
“You seemed busy,” I say, chin lifting slightly, remembering the blonde hanging on his arm.
His jaw tightens even more. “Get out,” he tells the prospects without looking at them. “Now.”
“Yes, sir,” they mumble in unison.
Wyatt practically dives for the door. Kade follows but pauses next to me, his voice a quiet murmur. “If you need anything else—”
“She won’t,” Havoc cuts in. “Out.”
The prospects vanish, leaving me alone with Havoc’s thunderous presence and the scent of leather and cedar that follows him everywhere.
The door closes with a decisive click, leaving us alone. The room feels smaller with just Havoc in it, his presence filling every corner. He stalks toward me, each step deliberate, until he’s close enough that I have to tilt my head to meet his gaze.
“What were you thinking, inviting two prospects into your room?” His voice is low and controlled, but I hear the anger simmering beneath. “Men who would take advantage of the first opportunity they got.”
“They were helping me move boxes,” I say, holding my ground despite the thundering of my heart. “And I don’t need your permission to have visitors.”
“They weren’t looking at you like they wanted to help with boxes.” His eyes darken. “I know exactly what they were thinking.”
“And what about that blonde hanging all over you out there?” The words escape before I can stop them. “Should I be concerned about what she was thinking?”
Something shifts in his expression—surprise, followed by something hotter.
“I don’t want you alone with them,” he says, moving even closer. I can feel the heat radiating from his body. “You have no idea what men like that are thinking about when they’re with a girl like you.”
“And what exactly do you think about when you’re with me?
” I tilt my head, holding his gaze despite the heat rushing to my cheeks.
My heart pounds so hard I’m sure he can hear it, but I don’t back down.
This tension between us has been building for weeks, and I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t exist.
Havoc’s eyes darken, and he takes a step closer. I can smell the leather of his cut and the whiskey on his breath.
“Trust me, princess, you don’t want to fucking know what goes through my head.” His voice drops lower, rougher. “The difference is, I have restraint. Those boys don’t.”
Something electric pulses between us in the narrow space. I should be backing away, should be putting distance between us, but my feet stay rooted to the spot.
“Maybe I do want to know,” I whisper, my voice steadier than I feel. The words hang in the air between us, a challenge I’m not sure I’m ready for him to accept.
Havoc’s jaw clenches, his eyes never leaving mine. I watch his chest rise and fall with a deep breath, see the momentary flash of hunger that crosses his face before he locks it away again.
Havoc steps back and drags a hand through his silver hair. “Don’t invite any men into your room again. Not prospects, not brothers, not anyone.”
“Why not?” I cross my arms, my pulse racing with a mixture of fear and rebellion. “I’ve got to live my life, Havoc. I can’t just be a nun locked away in this room forever.”
His eyes flash, and the muscle in his jaw twitches. That composed, controlled exterior cracks just enough for me to see the rage simmering beneath.
“So, what you’re saying is you want to fuck Wyatt and Kade? Is that it?” He moves toward me again, closing the distance until we’re almost touching. “You got the hots for a couple of prospects who haven’t even earned their patches?”
My eyes narrow as I look up at him. The air between us feels charged. He’s trying to intimidate me, but I refuse to be cowed. Some reckless part of me wants to push him, to see what happens when that famous control finally breaks.
“Maybe,” I say, the word barely above a whisper. “They’re closer to my age. And they seem interested in me, not just protecting me because of some promise to my father.”
His hands curl into fists at his sides, and for a moment, I think he might hit something.
“I swear to fucking god, Sasha, if you go near either of them again, I’ll get rid of them. They’ll be out of this club so fast they won’t know what hit them.” His voice drops to a menacing growl. “Don’t test me on this.”
A defiant heat floods through me as I watch his control slipping. I want to break that iron discipline he wears like armor.
“Fine. Not them.” I lift my chin and lock eyes with him. “Maybe Ryder or Diesel would like some fun instead. They’re experienced, at least. Men, not boys.”
The change is instantaneous. Before I can take another breath, his hand is around my throat. Not squeezing, not hurting me—just holding me there, his thumb pressing lightly against my pulse point. A warning.
“Listen carefully,” he growls, his face inches from mine. “No man goes near you. Not prospects, not brothers. No one. Fucking. Touches you.”
My heart hammers against my ribs, fear and excitement warring inside me. I should be terrified. I should push him away. Instead, I feel a liquid heat pool between my thighs. His possessiveness shouldn’t excite me this much.
I lick my lips slowly, watching his eyes track the movement.
“You’re not my father,” I whisper, the defiance in my voice undermined by the breathless quality of my words.
Havoc’s grip tightens slightly, his thumb tilting my chin up. His eyes are midnight storms, pupils blown wide with something dangerous and hungry.
“I may not be your father,” he says, his voice dropping to a rough growl that makes me shiver, “but I would love to hear you call me Daddy, baby girl.”
I can’t stop the soft moan that escapes my lips, betraying exactly how his words affect me. His eyes darken further at the sound, his body tensing as though fighting to maintain the last threads of his control.
My body betrays me completely, a rush of heat flooding through me that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with want. His hand still rests against my throat, where my pulse must be racing beneath his touch.
His eyes drop to my lips, and I see something crack in him—that iron control finally splintering. I’m not afraid of the darkness I see there. Instead, it calls to something wild in me, something I never knew existed until this moment.
“Havoc,” I breathe, his name escaping my lips on a whisper of desire, of need so pure it frightens me.
He groans, a deep, primal sound that reverberates through his chest and into mine. His hand slides from my throat to cup my jaw, fingers threading into my hair. His thumb traces my lower lip, and my eyes flutter closed at the sensation.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs, his voice rough like gravel.
When I open my eyes, his face is so close to mine that our breaths mingle. I can taste the whiskey on his breath, feel the heat of his body mere inches from mine. His lips hover above mine, so close that the slightest movement would bring them together.
I lift my chin, heart hammering in my chest, every nerve ending alive and waiting. The tension between us is a living thing, electric and dangerous.
Havoc’s eyes are wild as he holds himself there, suspended in that moment of almost. His lips hover over mine, not quite touching, the promise of a kiss that hasn’t happened yet.