Chapter 7 #2
Bile rises in my throat. The memories of Ramon crash over me—him telling his friends I was "trained well," him bragging about how he molded me. Blake isn't Ramon. I know that. But hearing him speak about me like I’m a piece of equipment, a tactical advantage to be deployed... it shatters the fragile trust I’d built in the last twenty-four hours.
Was the tenderness in the kitchen a lie? Was the way he held me while I slept just a way to keep the "asset" calm?
"Alright," Logan says. "As long as you can pull the trigger when the time comes. If Ramon gets to her..."
"He won't," Blake interrupts. "Because I'll kill him first. She’s mine."
Mine. Before, the word felt like a promise. Now, it feels like a cage.
I back away, my heart thundering so loud I’m sure they can hear it through the oak doors. I turn and stumble back toward the main room, my vision blurring. I need air. I need to get out of this suffocating place. I burst back into the common room. Tristan looks up from the bar, frowning.
"Tiffany?" he calls out.
I ignore him. I push past a biker who smells like cigarettes and hit the heavy front door, shoving it open.
The mountain air hits me, cold and sharp, but it doesn't cleanse the betrayal burning under my skin.
I walk to the edge of the porch, wrapping my arms around myself.
The compound buzzes with activity, men working on bikes, but I feel utterly isolated.
"Tiffany!"
The door bangs open behind me. I don't turn around. I can feel him. His presence is a physical weight, a gravitational pull I hate myself for responding to. Blake’s boots crunch on the wooden planks. He stops right behind me, his heat radiating against my back.
"I told you to stay at the bar," he growls.
I spin around, putting distance between us. He looks immense in the daylight, his cut stretching over his broad shoulders, his face hard.
"I needed air," I snap. "Or is that not allowed for the asset?"
Blake freezes. His eyes narrow, dark irises darkening instantly. He steps forward, crowding my space, forcing me to tilt my head back to look at him.
"You were listening," he says. He states it as an accusation.
"I heard enough," I say, fighting the tears burning my eyes. "I heard you call me bait. I heard you tell him I was easy." I shove at his chest, putting every ounce of my betrayal into it. "You made me feel safe just to set a trap? You're worse than him."
Blake’s hand snakes out, his fingers locking around my wrist like a shackle.
With one jerk, he hauls me into him, my chest slamming against the hard leather of his cut.
I can feel the heavy weight of his cock hardening against my stomach, a thick, rigid line of heat that contradicts every lie he told Logan.
"You think last night was tactical?" His voice is a low, dangerous vibration I feel in my teeth. "I don't fuck 'assets' until they scream. I don't spend hours with my face buried in a mission’s pussy because I’m following orders. You’re not a job, Tiffany. You’re a fucking addiction."
"I know what I heard!" I yell, and I see a few of the bikers in the yard stop working to watch. I don't care. "You watched me for three months without me knowing. You manipulated everything. And now I’m just a piece on a chessboard to help you kill Ramon."
"Yes," Blake snarls, the sound vibrating deep in his chest as he crowds me against the porch railing.
"You are bait. Because Ramon is a dog who only responds to the scent of what he wants most. But if you think for one second that makes you just an asset, you haven’t been paying a-fucking-attention. "
He doesn't just grab my neck; his hand wraps around my throat—not to choke, but to possess, his thumb forcing my chin up so I have no choice but to drown in those dark, nearly black eyes.
The soldier is gone. The man who follows orders is dead.
There is only the monster who spent three months lurking in the dark just to hear me breathe.
"I told Logan what he needed to hear so he wouldn't put you on a transport truck and send you to a safe house three states away," he says, voice low and fierce, his face inches from mine, his breath smelling of winter and rage. "I told them you were bait because it’s the only lie that keeps my brothers from dragging you out of my bed. I’m not using you to catch a man, Tiffany—I’m using the club to keep the world away while I finish branding you. "
He doesn't wait for me to argue. He grabs my hand, his fingers interlocking with mine in a crushing grip, and hauls me back inside.
He doesn't care about the brothers watching.
He doesn't care about the whispers. He marches me up those stairs like he’s dragging me to his lair.
He kicks his bedroom door open and slams it shut, the lock clicking with finality.
The room is small, smelling of cedar, gun oil, and him.
"This is my space," he growls, stripping off his leather cut and letting it hit the floor like discarded armor.
He yanks his shirt over his head, revealing the brutal landscape of his chest—muscle and scars that look like they were carved from stone.
"No one comes in here. No one touches the things that are mine. "
He stalks forward until my back hits the door. He slams his palms against the wood on either side of my head, caging me.
"You want to know the difference between you and a mission?
" His voice is a low, dangerous vibration.
He unbuckles his belt, the leather creaking in the silence.
"I don't lose sleep over a mission. I don't get a permanent, aching hard-on just thinking about the way a mission's pussy tastes.
You aren't a job, Tiffany. You're my fucking air, and I’m suffocating. "
He drops to his knees. It’s not an act of worship—it’s a tactical strike.
He rips the button from my jeans and shoves the denim down my legs, pinning me to the door with the weight of his massive shoulders.
He hooks his fingers into my lace panties and tears them down the middle, the fabric shredding with a sound that makes my toes curl.
"Look at me," he commands.
I look down, trembling, as he stares at my bared, dripping pussy. His tongue licks out, slow and deliberate, tasting the air near my thighs. "You're soaking for me. Even when you're mad, your body knows you're mine."
He lunges, his mouth devouring my swollen clit with a punishing, wet suction.
I scream, my hands flying to his hair, my nails digging into his scalp as he drinks me in.
He isn't being gentle; he’s claiming the territory.
His tongue is thick and relentless, swirling around my clit while he slides two fingers deep inside me, stretching my walls until I’m full of him.
"Tell me," he growls against my wet skin, his voice muffled by my soaking labia. "Tell me whose pussy I’m marking."
"Yours," I cry out, my hips bucking against his face. "Only yours, Blake."
"Damright," he rasps. He sucks my clit hard into his mouth, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin until I shatter. I scream his name into the empty room as my fluid spills over his tongue, my body convulsing against the door while he swallows every drop of my surrender.
My body goes limp against the wood, my breath coming in ragged, broken hitches as the last of the tremors leave me. Blake doesn’t move. He keeps his face buried against my pussy for a long beat, his heavy, hot breath soothing the skin he’d just devastated with his tongue.
When he finally looks up, his black eyes are dark, almost bottomless, and my cream glistens on his bottom lip. He doesn't wipe it away. He looks at it like a trophy.
"Mine," he whispers, the word more a vow than a statement.
Before I can find my feet, his hands are back on me.
He doesn't let me dress. He scoops me up, my legs instinctively wrapping around his thick waist, and carries me the three steps to the bed.
He dumps me onto the mattress, my pussy still dripping from his tongue, the springs groaning under my sudden weight.
He doesn't climb in with me. Not yet. He reaches for the gray comforter at the foot of the bed and hauls it over me, tucking the heavy fabric around my shoulders until I am cocooned in his scent—sandalwood, steel, and the musky tang of our shared arousal.
"Stay there," he commands, his voice returning to that low, tactical rumble. "Don't move. Don't think. Just breathe."
I watch him through heavy lids as he walks over to the small wooden desk in the corner.
He doesn't put his shirt back on. The scars on his back flex as he reaches for a heavy black case.
He sits down, the chair creaking under his bulk, and begins the ritual—cleaning his weapon, the only thing that can settle the restless, violent energy still rolling off him in waves.
The misunderstanding hasn't vanished—the words he said to Logan still sting—but the context has shifted. He’s fighting a war on two fronts: the one against Ramon, and the one against his own nature.