Chapter 4
FOUR
KEELEY
My eyes are gritty and heavy when I open them the next morning.
Day two of my enforced guest status—also known as my kidnapping.
Sunlight peeks through the curtains, and I squint against the obnoxious light. Why the fuck is it so bright?
I bury my face under the covers. I want to go back to sleep. Waking just reminds me I’m still a prisoner—sorry, a guest—of the Untamed Sons, and that my brother has done his usual disappearing act after ruining my life.
He locked me in a fucking cage.
And potentially drugged me.
He definitely beat me. Though judging from how sore I am, I put up a good fight. Good. Hope he’s bleeding, bastard.
I’m annoyed I don’t remember if I got in any hits.
There are so many things I’ll never forgive my brother for, but this? Yeah, this is the last straw.
Why did he drag me into this nightmare? I was living my life, happy… ish. Surviving, mostly. I didn’t need a sibling reunion from hell and a forced stay at Costa Del Clubhouse.
I should have attempted another escape last night. Nic’s guard might’ve been down after my first attempt. It’s hard to say. He’s apparently a professional lurker. I’ll need to be more careful next time.
Hm, yeah, maybe next time actually escape.
I didn’t even try again. I just sat with my jailer-slash-bartender and got buzzed into the early hours of the morning on overpriced whisky like a moron.
By the time Nic walked me back to my room—or the five-star cell, as I’m calling it—I could barely keep my eyes open. Since any escape plan requires consciousness and a functioning brain, which I was lacking last night, I… went to sleep.
Or passed out. I’m not sure which.
Brilliant job, Keeley. Ten out of ten.
Fuck a duck.
I really said, let’s play the dumb side character in this movie.
Jokes aside, this isn’t exactly ideal. Nic might’ve let me drink his top-shelf whisky, but I’m not under any illusions about my status here.
I am a prisoner. Not a guest. Not a visitor. Not a drinking buddy. Just a budget Rapunzel. Except I don’t have a tower. I have a room that smells like men and a bed that is annoyingly comfortable. There’s also the small, inconvenient matter of a locked door between me and the outside world.
That’s a big fucking problem.
When I gather enough strength—and desire—I sit up in the bed and immediately regret everything. My head hurts, and my stomach swirls.
Fabulous.
I groan, and blink the haze from my vision—or try to—and regain my bearings.
There are still no bars, no chains, but there’s a pile of clothes folded at the end of the mattress. They weren’t there when I went to sleep.
What the—?
I snatch it up and unfold each piece, frowning. There’s a dark t-shirt that looks like it belongs to a mountainous man, jogging pants I’ll have to tie unless I want them around my ankles, and a thick pair of sports socks that belong to someone with feet the size of canoes.
It’s disturbing how grateful I am for even this small act of kindness.
We are not grateful to our captors for basic care, Keeley.
I’ve been here five minutes and I’m already suffering Stockholm Syndrome.
I dress slowly, not out of choice but because every movement feels painful, and go over everything that happened last night. The conversation with Nic was irritating. The whisky was perfection.
But the reality is I was stupid to let my guard down like that. Yeah, it helped shave off some of the panic that’s been sitting in my chest since I woke up here, but Nic isn’t my friend. He’s the enemy.
Or meant to be. The jury’s still out on that one.
Weirdest kidnapping ever.
The moment I stand, my leg buckles. Shit a brick. I grab for the dresser, bracing before I hit the carpet.
Great. That’s fan-fucking-tastic. How am I supposed to run if I can’t even stand properly?
I lift the hem of my borrowed t-shirt and wince. Oh, that’s nasty. The bruise over my hip is purple and pissed. It wasn’t this bad yesterday. I mean, it hurt, but that pain is now a deep ache I can’t shake off.
How in the fuck am I going to run on this?
I limp forward, testing my weight, putting more pressure on it until it holds. Mostly. Good enough for now.
It’ll have to be.
I test the window first, but it doesn’t budge. Not when I push or lift. Not even when I wedge my fingers under the frame.
Fuck all of this.
I break my nail trying and with it the last threads of my patience—and potentially my sanity.
What kind of cursed building doesn’t have windows that fucking open?
There’s a split second where I consider breaking the glass. It would shatter easy enough, but the noise would bring bikers. I’d limp three steps before someone dragged me back.
Right now, I have some freedom, which might be the key to getting out of here.
So the window is out. At least until I can run.
Instead, I hobble over to the door and stop in front of it. Then I stare at it like it might bite me. Last night, it was open. I’m not sure it will be this morning.
Please don’t be locked…
There’s a faint tremor in my hands as I reach for the handle. Guests get left t-shirts and socks.
I brace and turn it.
It clicks open.
Huh. What the fuck?
I guess I got the deluxe prisoner package. I can leave the room, just not the building.
At least it’s not a cage.
I shove that thought down with a ruthlessness I’m becoming far too good at and peer around the door. The corridor is empty and quiet. Too quiet.
Maybe it’s a trap.
Or maybe Nic knows there’s no way out without going through that main room.
Since that’s the only path to freedom, I head that way. I need to watch, assess, track patterns—figure out how the fuck I’m getting out of here and back to my life.
I don’t even know why I’m fighting so hard for that. My life is shit. No, it’s a shit sandwich with shit icing on top.
I’m married to my job, barely have any friends, and am depressingly and chronically single.
I haven’t entirely committed to all the stereotypes, but I’m getting here. I don’t have a cat. Yet. But there’s still time.
What I do have is a sad half-eaten tub of freezer-burnt ice cream in the bottom drawer of an appliance that gets more action than I do.
I pause in front of the door. The low rumble of conversation bleeds through from the other side. No scream. No crying. Nothing that makes me want to turn around.
Yet.
I take a breath, then another before pushing inside. It’s busy. The tables are full and there’s a baby fussing in a blonde woman’s arms. The sound feels sharp and heavy, like my nerves are dialled up way too high. Someone laughs and I flinch.
Flinch. At a laugh.
Fuck me. How broken am I that a fucking laugh hits me like a threat?
Yeah, I’m not doing this right now. I can’t. I’m too wired, too exhausted, and I’m not built for the hostility I know I’ll get.
I’m about to back out of the room when every head seems to turn to me.
Oh, fuck.
The men wearing the club name on their backs stare at me like I’m a live wire. The women are curious, though one is outright hostile. I don’t know what the fuck I did to her, but I make a note to watch that one.
Guess I’m doing this then.
I force my shoulders back and cross to a table near to the exit as if that was always my intention. It’s far enough away from everyone that I have breathing room, but most importantly, it’s in a good position to watch the door. I need to see if it’s ever unlocked and if so, when.
My steps are unsteady as I move, and I skim my fingers over the back of a chair to right myself. I don’t want to fall in front of them. Weakness seems like a dangerous thing here.
I practically fall into the chair, gripping the table so I don’t slide onto the floor. That was humiliating. I’ve never been gawked at like that. I feel like I’m behind glass.
My chest tightens in that familiar way that means my anxiety is flaring.
Nope. I’m not having a panic attack in a hostile environment. It’s too dangerous. But my body doesn’t care about trivial matters like enemy territory.
So I slow my breathing. In for seven, out for four. Rinse and repeat until my heart slows.
“It’s Keeley, right?”
The soft, hesitant voice has my head snapping up so fast my vision spins. It’s the woman I saw as I came in, the one holding the baby—and she’s smiling at me.
Fucking hell.
I blink, ready to fight or flee. Honestly, I’m not sure which. But she’s not poised to attack. She’s just… standing there, looking as tired as I feel.
Her hair is twisted into a messy knot and there’s a suspicious stain on her sweater. She gives me a smile that reaches her eyes and sways gently, trying to soothe the tiny baby held to her chest.
Okay… breathe. She’s not going to shank me with a baby in her arms.
My muscles unclench. She obviously isn’t worried I’m going to hurt her either because she’s not armed and she’s not shielding the kid.
“I’m Maylie, and this little one is my son, Theo.”
She presses a kiss to his head that’s so soft and gentle it makes my chest clench. I didn’t expect this, not from a motorcycle club.
I thought it would be—what? Whores and drugs? Guns and bodies?
This is domestic.
“He’s cute,” I say to fill the growing silence between us. I’m not really a baby person, but it feels like the right thing to say.
“I think so, but I’m kind of biased. Do you want something to eat or drink?”
I don’t want to ask for anything, but I need to keep my strength up.
“Do prisoners get water?”
Maylie actually laughs, like I’ve said something hilarious. Then she glances over her shoulder. “Can you grab a bottle, please, Dayna?”
Dayna walks over to the bar and returns a second later, holding the water. Her other hand rests lightly over the small curve under her sweater.
She’s pregnant—noticeably.
Women, babies, bumps…
I squint at her as she passes over the bottle. Neither of them seems traumatised or like they’re being held against their will.
I don’t understand.