Chapter 5 - Savannah
I stand in the middle of the hotel room for a long time after he leaves, still holding my phone, still processing the fact that he just blocked half my contacts without hesitation.
Like it was easy. Like I deserved to have that boundary.
Derek would have lost his mind if I'd suggested blocking anyone. He needed access to my phone, my messages, my entire life. Said it was because he loved me, because he wanted to make sure I was safe, because couples shouldn't have secrets.
But really it was because he needed control. Needed to know who I was talking to, what I was saying, whether anyone was putting "ideas" in my head.
Ideas like *you deserve better than this* or *this isn't normal* or *he's going to kill you if you stay*.
I finally put the phone down and look through the bags Ghost brought. There are jeans, actual jeans that look like they might fit. A few t-shirts in different sizes. Underwear and bras still in the packages. Socks. A pair of sneakers that are probably a half size too big but close enough.
Someone went to actual stores and bought me actual clothes. At midnight. Because a biker named Knuckles asked them to.
I don't understand any of this.
I don't understand why he's helping me. Don't understand why he carried me like I weighed nothing when Derek could barely manage a hug without complaining about his back. Don't understand why he stitched my feet and brought me food and blocked my contacts and promised I was safe.
Don't understand why I believe him.
I should be terrified. Should be questioning every decision that led me to this moment. Should be wondering if I traded one dangerous situation for another.
But I'm not scared of him. Haven't been since he knelt in front of me in the casino and asked if I was okay with that beautiful rough voice.
What I am is exhausted. And confused. And so tired of feeling sorry for myself. I sink onto the edge of the bed and let myself cry. Really cry, not the silent tears I've been holding back all night but full, ugly sobs that shake my whole body.
I cry for the two years I wasted with Derek. For the woman I used to be before he systematically destroyed her. For my family who chose his comfort over my safety. For the wedding that should have been happy but was actually an escape plan.
I cry until I can't anymore, until I'm empty and wrung out and my face hurts from the bruise on my jaw.
Then I wipe my eyes and force myself to stand up. To go into the bathroom and wash my face again. To look at myself in the mirror and acknowledge the truth:
I'm free.
Hurt and lost and completely fucking terrified, but free.
And then I notice something else in the mirror. Something I've been trying not to acknowledge since Knuckles carried me through the casino.
My nipples are hard. Visible through the robe.
My face flushes as I realize I've been turned on for the better part of an hour. Since he picked me up, maybe. Since I felt how strong he was, how easily he handled my weight, how his arms felt solid and safe around me.
Since I saw the way he looked at me when the dress unzipped and gaped open. That flash of heat in his blue eyes before he controlled it, stepped back, pretended he hadn't seen anything.
But he had. I know he had.
And God help me, I liked it.
I liked being looked at like I was desirable instead of tolerable. Like my body was something to want instead of something to criticize. Like I was a woman instead of a problem to be managed.
The guilt hits immediately.
What the fuck is wrong with me? The man just spent his entire evening helping me, protecting me, asking for nothing in return, and I'm standing here thinking about him like that?
I left my wedding four hours ago. Four. Hours.
I should be traumatized. Should be crying. Should be doing literally anything except getting wet over a biker I just met.
But my body apparently didn't get the memo because my panties, the new ones from the package Ghost brought, are already damp. I can feel the ache between my legs that I haven't felt in... God, I don't even know how long.
Derek stopped making me feel anything except fear about six months into our relationship.
But Knuckles... He makes me feel things.
I want to know what those strong arms can do. Want to know if his hands are as gentle everywhere as they were on my feet. Want to know if he'd touch me like I matter, like my pleasure is important, like I'm allowed to want things.
Derek never cared if I came. Said women who needed that much attention were high-maintenance. Said I should be grateful he wanted me at all.
I press my thighs together, trying to ignore the throb of arousal that's completely inappropriate given the circumstances.
This is insane. I'm insane. The man helped me, and here I am thinking about what his scarred knuckles would feel like between my legs, what his mouth would taste like, whether he'd be as controlled in bed as he is everywhere else or if he'd let go completely.
The guilt intensifies, but so does the desire.
I spent two years not being allowed to want anything. Two years being told my desires were wrong, inconvenient, too much. Two years making myself smaller and quieter and more grateful for scraps of affection that came with conditions and bruises.
And now I'm standing here, finally free, and my body is screaming at me that it wants this man. This stranger who showed me more kindness in three hours than Derek showed me in three years.
But wanting him and acting on it are two different things.
He's helping me because he's a good person. Because he knows what it's like to need help and not have it. Not because he wants to fuck me.
Even if he did look at me like that when the dress came off.
Even if I saw the way he adjusted himself when he thought I wasn't looking.
Even if every instinct I have is telling me he wants me too.
I can't do this. Can't ask for more than he's already given. Can't be that person who mistakes kindness for attraction, protection for desire.
But I also can't stay in this room alone.
The silence is too loud. My thoughts are too chaotic. And every time I close my eyes, I see Derek's face. First angry, then apologetic, then angry again in that endless cycle I learned to navigate like a minefield.
I need... I don't know what I need. But I know I can't be alone right now.
Maybe that's selfish. Maybe I'm asking too much. Knuckles has already given me so much—safety, medical care, food, clothes, a place to sleep. And now I want to ask for more.
But I've spent two years not asking for what I need. Two years accepting whatever I was given and being grateful it wasn't worse.
Fuck that.
If I want something, I'm going to ask for it. And if the answer is no, at least I'll have tried instead of sitting here drowning in my own head.
The decision crystallizes in my mind with sudden, perfect clarity.
I need to not be alone. And he made me feel safer in three hours than I've felt in two years. So, I'm going to knock on his door and ask if I can stay with him for a while. Just to talk. Just to not be alone with my thoughts.
That's all.
Even if my body wants more. Even if my panties are embarrassingly wet and I can't stop thinking about his hands. Even if every nerve ending is awake and screaming for something I haven't let myself want in so long.
I'll ignore all that. I'll be appropriate. I'll take what he's willing to give, which is apparently kindness and protection, and I won't ask for more.
I change out of the robe and into one of the t-shirts Ghost brought, a plain black one that's soft and hangs to mid-thigh. No bra because mine is still attached to the ruined wedding dress and the ones he brought are either too big or too small.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and almost laugh. I look exactly like what I am, a woman who just ran from her wedding, borrowed clothes hanging off her frame, hair a mess, bruise on her jaw, eyes red from crying.
Not sexy. Not desirable. Just broken. But Ryan didn't look at me like I was broken. He looked at me like I was strong for running. Like I was brave for leaving. Like I mattered.
I leave the room before I can second-guess myself. Room 312 is just down the hall like he said. I stand in front of the door for thirty seconds, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
This is probably stupid. He probably wants to be alone. Probably thinks he's done enough for one night.
But I knock anyway. Three times, like he taught me.
There's a pause. Then footsteps. The door opens and Ryan is standing there in jeans and nothing else, his chest bare and decorated with tattoos I didn't know were there.
Holy fuck.
Broad shoulders, defined chest, abs that I want to trace with my tongue. More tattoos than I can count in the two seconds before I force my eyes back to his face.
"Savannah?" His voice is rough, concerned. "You okay? Something happen?"
"I'm fine. I just..." I take a breath. "I don't want to be alone. Can I... can I stay with you for a while? Just to talk or just to... I don't know. I'm sorry. This is stupid. You've already done so much—"
"It's not stupid." He steps back, opening the door wider. "Come in."
I walk into his room. It's identical to mine. Same layout, same generic furniture, same view of the Strip. But it smells like him, that combination of leather and something clean I noticed when he was carrying me.
He closes the door but doesn't lock it. Keeps his distance, which I'm grateful for because if he got too close right now I might do something stupid.
"You want to sit?" he asks, gesturing to the bed.
I nod and sit on the edge. He grabs the chair from the desk and sits facing me, maintaining that respectful distance.
"Bad thoughts?" he asks.
"The worst. Every time I close my eyes I see..." I trail off. "I just needed to not be alone for a while. But if you want me to go—"
"I don't want you to go." His voice is firm. "You can stay as long as you need."
"Thank you."
We sit in silence for a moment. It should be awkward, but somehow it's not. It's just... quiet. Peaceful, even.
"Can I ask you something?" I finally say.
"Yeah."
"Why are you being so nice to me? And I know you said it's because you can, but there has to be more to it than that. People don't just... do this. Not without wanting something. There must be a story."
He's quiet for a long moment, those blue eyes studying me. "You really want to know?"
"Yes."
"Because I see myself in you," he says finally.
"The running. The fear. The not knowing where to go or who to trust. I've been there.
And when I was there, someone helped me.
Pope. The club president. Found me breaking up a fight, watched me handle three guys at once, and offered me a prospect patch that same night. "
"How old were you?"
"Twenty. I'd been on the streets for two years before that. Foster kid who aged out with nothing. No family, no money, no plan. Just survival."
My heart clenches. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It made me who I am. And it taught me that sometimes people help you just because they can. Because they see someone who needs it and they have the power to make a difference." He leans forward slightly. "Pope did that for me. Now I'm doing it for you. That's how this works."
"Paying it forward."
"Something like that."
"What happened to your parents?" I ask, then immediately regret it. "Sorry. That's too personal. You don't have to—"
"Mom overdosed when I was four. Don't remember much about her except a smell I can't name. Hits me sometimes in random places and stops me cold." I can hear the old pain underneath. "Dad was never identified. Birth certificate has a blank where his name should be."
"You grew up in foster care."
"Until I aged out. Never got adopted. Never even got close. Some kids get chosen. I wasn't one of them." He shrugs like it doesn't matter, but I can tell it does. "Eventually you stop expecting it. Stop hoping for it. Just focus on surviving until you're old enough to leave."
"And then you ended up on the streets."
"For two years. Did things I'm not proud of.
Things I've never told anyone. Things that live in the part of me I keep locked up tight.
" He meets my eyes. "So yeah, I know what running looks like.
I know what it feels like to have nowhere to go and no one to turn to.
And I know what it means when someone offers help without asking for anything in return. "
I'm crying again. Silent tears running down my face because this man, this strong, scarred, man, just gave me a piece of himself he clearly doesn't share often.
"Thank you," I whisper. "For telling me. For trusting me with that."
"You trusted me with your shit. Figured I owed you mine."
"It's not a transaction."
"No. But it's fair." He stands and grabs a box of tissues from the dresser, hands it to me. "You need anything? Water? Food? I've got some snacks if you're hungry."
"I'm okay. I just..." I wipe my eyes. "Can I just sit here for a while? With you? I don't need to talk. I just need to not be alone."
"Yeah. Of course."
He sits back down in the chair, and we fall into a comfortable silence. I curl up on the edge of his bed, my feet tucked under me despite the bandages. He picks up a worn paperback from the nightstand and starts reading.
"What are you reading?" I ask after a few minutes.
He holds up the book so I can see the cover. Some thriller I've never heard of.
"Any good?"
"It's okay. Helps me shut my brain off before sleep."
"Can you read it out loud?"
He looks surprised. "You want me to read to you?"
"If you don't mind. I just... I need something to focus on. Something that isn't my own thoughts."
"Okay." He clears his throat and starts reading from where he left off.