Chapter 11 Keeley
ELEVEN
KEELEY
Ten days. That’s how long it’s been since I was pulled out of that cage and tossed into the weirdest game of guest, prisoner or hostage. I’m still not sure which one I am, but prisoners probably don’t get booze and takeaway.
They definitely don’t get home visits from a guy who hands out meds like he’s running a pharmacy out of a nightclub bathroom.
The scariest part of all of this isn’t that my brother made me insurance, or that I’ve been essentially under house arrest since I got here. It’s that in the last few days I’ve realised even if I could leave, I wouldn’t.
If there’s a sequel to Stockholm Syndrome, I’m living it. It’s that awkward stage where I definitely should have left by now, but haven’t. Fan-fucking-tastic. I guess this makes me a fully fledged biker cult member. Brilliant. Just fabulous.
The thing is I can’t go. The danger I’m in is no longer theoretical. My brother made me an asset, and the life I had no longer feels safe. Stay and be a prisoner or run and risk getting caged again. Or worse. Far fucking worse.
All of this means my life currently exists under terms and conditions written by Nic and his club. Most of his rules revolve around when I eat, when I sleep, and how I manage my pain.
It’s annoying. Deeply irritating. And also weirdly considerate.
No one has ever monitored my meal schedule before. Certainly not with this level of intensity. Nic audits my food intake like it’s a personal mission. I skipped a meal the day before yesterday and he turned up with leftovers. He didn’t leave until I’d eaten.
Yesterday, he had food delivered to the bar for me, even though he wasn’t around. The man has built a whole system around making sure I don’t starve.
It’s controlling. It’s actually fucking psychotic when I think about it.
And I kind of like it.
Of course I do. Because this entire situation has completely rotted my brain and what little sense I had has vanished.
I’m losing my mind, obviously.
What’s worse is all of it raises an uncomfortable and confusing question.
Why does he care so much?
At first I thought it was guilt, or some sense of fixing what he thinks he broke. Now? I’m not sure. Responsibility doesn’t look like lingering stares across a room. It’s not checking pain levels or tracking someone like a bloodhound. It also doesn’t require actual concern.
And he is worried about me.
It’s suspicious and odd. All of this is. And the worst part is how fast I’ve accepted this as normal. My existence has shrunk to this building and the people in it.
My life outside these walls seems so far away now, like it barely belongs to me anymore. I’m just here, hovering between worlds, moving through corridors that feel more familiar than they should. Surviving on the goodwill of a man who insists on feeding me like I’m a Labrador.
I don’t know how this ends, and I don’t know what happens when it’s over. How do I go back to who I was before all of this?
One problem at a time, Keeley. First, survive being human collateral, then figure out why Nic has adopted me like I’m a stray.
So I focus on the only thing I can control.
My daily routine and the familiar pattern of endless grind that should have me climbing the walls.
I’m not designed for drudgery, but there’s something soothing in having my world contained like this.
I don’t have room to think or worry. Most of my decisions are small, reflexive, while Nic handles the big stuff. The important shit.
Like I said—I’ve lost the plot.
I pad across the room—my room now, I guess—barefoot. I’m dripping water on to the carpet, leaving wet footprints in the pile, just like I do every morning.
I thought a shower would help clear the restlessness buzzing under my skin, but I still feel twitchy and wrung out, like I’ve been spread too thin.
There are a hundred things I should be asking.
Where is my brother? Why hasn’t he tried to recover me? Did his deal finish or flop?
I don’t know why I haven’t asked a single thing. Maybe it’s because I already know the answers won’t bring me peace.
Or maybe it’s because you actually like it here.
I’m an annoyingly compliant prisoner—or whatever I am.
But I’m safe here and right now that’s all that matters. It’s been ten days, and no one has touched me, hurt me, or tried to coerce me. Sure, I can’t leave, but I’m taken care of.
I stop at the edge of the mattress, adjust the towel, and peer down. As always, there’s a pile of clothes folded at the bottom of the bed. I’m not sure who sneaks them in or whose wardrobe I’ve been wearing all this time, but they’re always there after I get out of the shower.
My morning routine is apparently common knowledge to someone. Probably Nic. I’ll bet he hears the shower turn on from halfway across the building like some kind of fucked up biker sonar. I’d guess he’s got half the clubhouse running errands around me.
I rummage through the stack of stuff. Another huge t-shirt, thick sports socks and today there’s cotton underwear. I almost squeal and then remember I have underwear at home. In my bedroom. In the apartment I pay for. Or did. I doubt I’m still employed.
There’s no bra, but I’m not exactly flash in the boob department anyway and the other bonus is no oversized sweatpants, but a pair of leggings.
Oh. Yeah, this is… fuck. I’ve missed proper pants. I stretch the waistband against my belly, hip to hip, grinning like a moron.
Fucking leggings.
After I’m dressed, I take the mystery pills Spencer left for me, and hobble out of the room. I stop by the kitchen to grab a cereal bar and something from the fruit bowl.
It’s all about balance.
When I enter the bar, it’s busy, as it always is at this time of the day.
Most of the guys are here, huddled around the bar like they’re holding a military briefing. I’m surprised there aren’t battle maps on the walls.
Guilt mixed with shame gnaws at my belly. They’re only holding these little war councils because of me.
I cut the thought off before it can take root and tank my mood.
Nope. I am not circling the therapy drain today. Nope. Absolutely not.
I’m already unpacking more baggage than the average person carries in ten lifetimes. I don’t need to carry more. I physically can’t. My brother has piled enough shit on my shoulders, all of which isn’t mine to hold.
I hover awkwardly in the doorway, taking in the rest of the room before anyone notices me lingering. Makenna and Chloe are playing pool while Dayna sits watching, hand stroking her bump. She’s probably throwing out inappropriate jokes every few seconds.
Maylie is settled on one of the sofas, talking to her brother and sister while nursing her son. Ivy’s daughter sits on a mat in front of them, playing with blocks like this is a creche and not a motorcycle clubhouse.
A few days ago, walking into a room like this would have made me feel like I’d wandered into someone else’s house without an invite. Now… it’s different.
It’s not comfortable, but it’s not hostile anymore either. No one questions why I’m here or makes me feel like I should leave. Chloe’s finally stopped glaring at me every time she sees me, which feels like a win, even if it’s only small.
But it’s not the girls I’m looking for.
It’s him.
And I’m not unpacking why every time I step foot in this room, he’s the first person I search for.
Nope. Not touching that with a ten-foot pole.
Maybe Rhys’s dick isn’t the only thing in this building capable of brainwashing people.
Fantastic. Now I’m thinking about dicks.
I’ll bet Nic’s cock is just as annoyingly perfect as the rest of him. Of course it is. The man was blessed with ridiculously good genes and a five o’clock shadow that could cut glass.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I shut that down before I can take that thought process any further into the gutter. I do not need to imagine Nic’s… appendage.
Fuck a duck.
I glance back at the bar. Nic’s not here. He’s not with the girls or his men. He’s not tucked into a corner or leaning against the bar like he usually is.
I scan the room again, slower this time, like he might magically appear, but it’s the same faces I just clocked.
A small, cold knot forms in my stomach. Is he avoiding me? Did I say something stupid when we ate the leftover food? Have I upset him?
No, men like Nic don’t sulk. He’d say, wouldn’t he?
Get a grip.
Of course he’s not here. He’s the fucking president. He’s got people who rely on him. Problems to fix. His entire club is in war mode because of me. Because someone wants to own me.
You’re just not that important, Keeley.
I press a hand to my chest as my lungs seize. Obviously I’m not important to him. He’s known me five fucking minutes and all of which I’ve made his life a complicated nightmare.
I’m a temporary snag. A loose end he’s tucked away until the situation is sorted out. I probably imagined the looks across the room, the checking in, the care. I do that sometimes, create stories in my head that didn’t happen.
I stare at the men, hunched around the bar, talking fast and urgent. Planning survival tactics for the people in this room.
Because of me.
Nic should just hand me over. That would end all of this. I don’t understand why he hasn’t. The trouble I’m bringing to him, to his men, the girls. Fuck.
My chest tightens another notch. The room is suffocating and too loud. My heart is beating so fast and uneven, I feel dizzy.
I need air. I need to see the fucking sky, even if it’s only for a second, or I’m going to unravel.
My vision narrows and wobbles while my limbs go loose like they don’t belong to me.
I back out of the room, clawing at my throat as the air sticks behind my tongue, and turn.
I instantly collide with a wall. At least that’s how it feels. I stumble back, but hands latch around my arms, steadying me.
Even though my vision is so blurred, I can barely see more than shapes and colours, I know who caught me. My body recognises him before my brain.
Nic.