7. Damian
CHAPTER 7
DAMIAN
The night air is thick with humidity, pressing against my skin like a second layer. My Harley-Davidson growls beneath me as I take the last turn onto the narrow dirt road leading to her. The only light comes from the pale sliver of the moon, barely enough to cut through the darkness, but I don’t need it. I know exactly where I’m going.
And I know exactly what I’m about to walk into.
My rage burns low and steady, a slow-moving fire that’s been threatening to consume me ever since Alaina called in a panic. Ever since I heard that tremble in her voice, that slight crack when she realized what had been dropped at her back door I have been an inferno of rage inside.
That wasn’t supposed to happen.
That was never supposed to happen.
What I do, what my club does, it doesn’t touch innocent people. Alaina Vasiliev is as na?ve as they come. Konstantin wants it that way and for good reason. Well, that was what he said five years ago when he asked us to allow her to build her business in our building downtown. If he is keeping her away from his world, and she damn sure isn’t part of mine, how did she end up with the pallet?
I have so many questions plaguing me about this. Why anyone is fucking with her? Konstantin has spent years keeping his business world separated from his personal life. Even before moving to Freedom Falls, nothing from work came home with the Russian bastard, and he was a legitimate business owner back then. What started as a way to fund his wife’s care at a skilled nursing facility became a world he can’t walk away from despite how much he has tried to legitimize himself.
His brother is a pakhan in the Morozov Bratva. An organization his father began in Russia back in the thirties. The whole lot of them are ruthless bastards. I swear anyone in the Vasiliev family with a set of balls is willing to eat their damn young. I thought Konstantin was different. He left Russia to live the life of a law abiding citizen with his wife Sasha. In Florida they had a quiet life. When Sasha needed specific memory based care, he moved them to Freedom Falls to be closer to her facility. None of that comes cheap. Boris, being the big brother and boss back home swoops in and offers Konstantin the revenue necessary to cover Sasha’s care.
All he had to do was filter the dirty money through a legitimate business. That business being of Boris’ choosing brought The Velvet Hall to life. The more time passed, the more Boris asked of his brother. After Sasha passed and Konstantin wanted to simply own and operate his strip club without the felonies for money laundering, Boris declined his desire for change. From there, the pressure to move drugs, guns, and hell, even people fell on Konstantin. That’s when he came to me. I paid the buyout to Boris for the strip club. For years, things have been business as usual.
Lately though, some things about Konstantin have been different. He’s edgy, his books aren’t given in the same consistency and the numbers don’t align with past histories. More than that, the smug bastard carries himself much like a pakhan, a Bratva boss.
His changed demeanor makes me doubt everything and everyone. I don’t trust a damn soul right now. Not my own men, not my own system. Something slipped, and she got caught in it. In my world, nothing slips. This mistake, or intentional move touched someone pure. She’s paying the price for someone else’s crime.
Now, she’s locked in a box in the middle of the woods that no one knows about, thanks to Riot’s heavy-handed sense of damage control. I told him to secure her, keep her safe. I never thought he would take her here and lock her inside without an explanation.
Ledger “Riot” Masters, my only sibling. My baby brother who can be impulsive, hot-headed, and a jackass, but he’s as loyal to the club as they come. Whatever vibe he got from her, this was the path he thought we should take. Without hesitation, he walked right into this fire, or started it depending on how it’s viewed.
I need to go inside and talk Alaina down. I’m sure being tucked away here has her on edge and ready to climb the walls.
My jaw tightens as I kill the engine and swing off my bike, dust kicking up around my boots. I shove my gun into the saddlebag, leaving it behind, along with my phone and wallet.
I don’t need any distractions.
I don’t need anything but time to think and answers from her about what she knows. How deep is she embedded in things? Especially with her grandfather. Is she part of this and plays coy well? My gut tells me she’s on the up and up, but I need confirmation.
Riot is already waiting near the container door, arms crossed, his expression unreadable in the low light. His vest bears his name patch in bold letters, his rank beneath it.
Riot – Tail Gunner.
He’s a necessary evil in this club. A man who handles the back end always, no questions asked. He is also always on watch, on guard. Usually, his input, presence, and overall companionship give me a sense of peace. But right now, all I see is a mistake waiting to happen.
"You sure you wanna go in there alone?" he asks, watching me carefully.
I don’t answer. Just stare him down until he exhales through his nose and unlocks the door.
The steel groans as he pulls it open just enough for me to step inside.
And then—the door slams behind me.
The lock clicks.
I barely hear it.
Because the only thing I’m focused on is her.
She’s curled up on the couch, legs pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them like she’s trying to make herself smaller. Her blonde hair is a wild mess, strands falling loose around her face, her eyes wild.
She’s been crying.
I feel that anger again—sharp, visceral, clawing at my insides.
She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be anywhere near the likes of me and my kind.
She shouldn’t be scared.
And yet, when her eyes lock onto mine, something flickers in them—something just as dangerous as my own rage.
Attraction.
Heat.
Passion.
Desire.
I take a slow step forward.
She doesn’t move.
She doesn’t speak.
She just breathes, ragged and uneven, her chest rising and falling too fast as I get closer.
The space is small—too small—and she knows it just as well as I do.
Her voice finally breaks the silence, quiet but sharp. "What the hell is going on?”
I take my time crossing the room, my boots heavy on the wooden floor, my gaze never leaving her.
She doesn’t shrink away, but she doesn’t move toward me either.
She’s on edge—breathing too fast, fingers digging into her bare arms, her whole body coiled tight like a rabbit caught in a snare.
And fuck me—I shouldn’t enjoy this.
Shouldn’t enjoy the way her chest rises and falls, the way her lips part slightly when she pushes down her fear, the way her skin is flushed, her pulse visible at the very base of her throat.
But I do.
Because I am in control here.
And she knows it.
I drop onto the couch beside her, my body stretching out, legs splayed wide, my arm draping over the backrest like I own the place.
Like I own her.
She stiffens, her whole body reacting even though I haven’t touched her.
Not yet.
I smirk, slow and deliberate. "Relax, sweetheart."
Her jaw tightens. "Screw you."
A chuckle rumbles in my chest. There she is the spit-fire. "Now that’s not very polite," I murmur, tilting my head as I watch her squirm.
She shifts slightly, her hands balling into fists, trying to control the panic threatening to spill over.
I lean forward just a little, close enough that she can feel my heat, feel the weight of my presence without me even laying a finger on her.
"You gonna keep glaring at me," I say, voice low and amused, "or are you gonna start asking the questions you really wanna know?"
She sucks in a sharp breath, her fingers trembling just slightly before she shoves them under her thighs hiding the shake.
I see it anyway.
And I like it.
"What the hell am I doing here?" she finally bites out, her voice stronger with every word.
I drag my tongue over my teeth, eyes still locked on hers. "Insurance."
She blinks. "Excuse me?"
I smirk again, letting the word settle between us.
The panic in her gaze shifts, turning into something else—confusion. Frustration. Fear edged with anger.
She doesn’t like not knowing the rules.
But sweetheart, in this game? I make the rules. She will learn.
I watch her, letting the silence stretch, letting the weight of the situation acclimate in that pretty little head of hers.
She’s trying to keep it together, trying to fight through the fear, but I can see the cracks.
Good.
She should be uncomfortable.
She should be terrified, sitting here alone with me, locked in a place she can’t escape.
I shift slightly, letting my knees spread wide, making sure she feels just how much space I take up, how much of her air I’m invading.
She needs to understand. "You’re in this now," I tell her, my voice slow and deliberate. "Not because you chose it, but because your grandfather put you here."
She flinches slightly, just barely, but I don’t miss it. "He—" she hesitates, then shakes her head. "He wouldn’t do that to me."
I cock my head. "You sure about that?"
Her lips press together, uncertainty flickering behind her eyes. She’s questioning it now. She needs to question a lot of things.
Because the reality?
She doesn’t know what the hell her grandfather has done for us, what lines he’s crossed, what blood he’s had to ignore.
She’s been living in a pretty little fantasy, tucked away in her bakery, oblivious to the world that keeps her doors open.
"I don’t know what’s going on," she says, her voice a little weaker now. "But I—I swear, I won’t say anything. I’ll forget all of this. I’ll go about my life. You won’t have to worry about me."
Oh, I’m not worried about her. Never have been. She’s a quiet little mouse. She understands family and loyalty. She won’t be sharing anything that I don’t doubt. I just stare at her, saying nothing.
Because she doesn’t get it yet. She thinks this is something she can walk away from. Something she can pretend never happened.
She sees my silence, sees the way I don’t nod, don’t agree, and that panic starts creeping back in.
Her hands curl tighter in her lap, and then—she swallows hard and makes another offer.
"I can move," she blurts out, her voice shaky. "I can leave town. Disappear. You’ll never have to see me again."
I can’t help it.
I let the smile play on my lips, slow and dangerous.
Then I lean in, just enough to make sure she feels the heat of me, my voice a low, quiet threat that sends a visible shiver down her spine.
"Sweetheart," I murmur, watching her breath hitch, "the only way you disappear from my view ever again is when one of the two of us ain’t breathing anymore."
Her whole body goes still. Her throat works like she’s trying to swallow a scream or fight the urge to puke.
And I just sit back, satisfied watching as the realization sinks in.
She’s not leaving here unchanged.
She’s not walking away.
And no matter how much she hates it…
She belongs to me now.
In time, she’ll learn to love it and me.
This I have no doubt.