Fifty-One
JENNA
The muffled conversation battles for space with my overbearing breaths in the tiny closet. I’ve twisted and fought against the bounds enough that the wide duct tape my fucking father wrapped around me in haste has rolled into biting strips which cut at my wrists.
If only I could remove the one from my face.
But that fucker winds around my whole goddamn head, stuck in my hair and pulling at my scalp each time I turn or cant my head.
I just need to be able to make noise somehow.
Move my goddamn legs enough to kick at the door.
The wall. Anything that would tell them I’m here.
Fuck. I knew confrontation with my father wouldn’t go well, but I sure as hell didn’t count on her being here. Suzannah. I know her by name. Name and a goddamn reputation that kept everyone at the bar in line without the woman ever needing to step a foot inside the place.
“Would one of you fuckers tell me something useful! Fuck me!”
My lungs capture what air remains, frozen like my muscles. Fang. He’s still here. Who did he bring with him? Please tell me he didn’t come alone.
I close my eyes and draw a deep breath through my nose. Think, Jenna. I can’t use my hands, and my legs are too restricted to move me any which way. All I have left is… my head. Goddamnit. This better work.
Eyes squinted shut preemptively, I roll my shoulders back and swing right, away from the door on my left side. I throw everything I’ve goddamn got into the movement, damn sure my second ride in the Devil’s Breed pipeline won’t be so gentle, and this is literally a fight for my life.
My skull connects with the door, pain jolting through my head in a wave.
The noise wasn’t enough. My fucking head isn’t big enough.
A manic giggle bubbles out my nose before I try again, tears leaking down my face on the third and fourth hit. My ears ring, and I don’t know if anyone’s still talking. If they’re still here. For all I know, I could be smashing my potato against the door only to come face-to-face with a Breed gun.
Or knife.
Maybe worse.
The irony strikes me with the same force as the closet door—here I am, beating my head the same goddamn way I must have abused Mary-Beth’s.
And yet, I can’t stop. Not when the tears become rivulets, nor when the occasional giggle turns to restricted laughter behind my tape gag, saliva pooling against the sticky residue.
Great. Now I’m going to drown myself, too.
I swing right, set into a rhythm, and throw myself left, only to careen off course when the door abruptly opens. I’m sprawled on my side, bound hands stuck against the doorframe, and staring at a pair of dusty black boots.
I swear a chunk of hair tears free when I twist my head up to see who the hell let me out.
Inked eyes stare down at me, the text bold against his brow a welcome sight. Circus. Thank fuck.
He drops to his haunches wordlessly and assesses the tape. I could hug the man for not tearing it off hastily and taking half my goddamn hair with it. His large hands are gentle as he first unbinds my wrists, and then slowly and delicately peels at the binding around my head.
I do my best not to move until he coaxes me to sit. After which I stare at the badges stitched to his cut while he works. The mania settles, the tears dry, and my panic resumes when my thoughts shift to Fang.
Why didn’t he let me out? Where is he? Why can’t I hear anyone else?
I tilt my head up and lift my gaze to Circus’s.
He stalls in his work, one side left to go, and starts from the other end to at least release my mouth.
“Where is everyone?”
The giant holds up a single finger and resumes taking the last of the tape off my hair.
The seconds pass painfully slow. I catch the faint sounds of yelling on the street, an engine roaring.
A gunshot. Two. I can’t see shit from here.
My room is the last one down the hall, and whatever the fuck happens outside this house is impossible to view.
Circus pulls the tape away, swiftly crunching it into a ball between his hands.
I throw my arms around his neck before he can stand and utter a quiet, “Thank you.”
The guy seems a little too stunned to move when I then bolt from the room, well aware I run toward the unknown but out of fucks to give. I need to know. I have to know.
“Did you kill him?”
Fang spins in the doorway at my question, seemingly startled by my presence.
As though he didn’t think I was here. As though my father told him different.
“Freckles.” My nickname falls from his lips on a gust of breath. “Where the…?”
“Did you kill him?” I ask again, failing to see any sign of my father on the street, or Suzannah for that matter.
Loki wanders up the path towards us. “No. They got away.” His steely gaze flicks to Fang. “Just.”
I drop my focus to Fang’s hands, flexing at his sides. The knuckles are red and raw, blood delicately spattered over his wrists. I lift a hand to his ribs and place my palm over his gun. It’s still warm.
The pieces sit before me, yet I refuse to acknowledge the picture they make. Surely not. He wouldn’t have done that. Not because of me. Would he?
“Are you okay?” He steps forward, raising those boxer’s hands to take my face in his grasp. “You’ve got bruising here.” His thumb brushes my temple.
I wince. My head pounds like a motherfucker, and I’m doing my goddamn best to ignore the fact I may have done some serious injury. “I’m fine.”
An exhale. He doesn’t believe my bullshit, and he shouldn’t. Maybe on the outside I’m relatively okay, but inside, I break. Everything I knew about my life was tumbling sideways, shaken up and yet to settle into any normalcy. I feel lost. Uncertain. As though my entire personality were a lie.
And it’s as though he sees that, as he stares into my eyes, unraveling me with his ocean-green gaze.
Fang abruptly slides his arms around me and pulls me close against him.
Tight enough that I feel the outlines of his pistols against my chest, even more so when I gingerly slip my arms around him too.
Hand buried in my hair, he holds me to him, the things he cannot say pushed through the sincerity of his embrace.
And I melt. Because it’s everything I need in the moment.
Sure, I could pull away and pick at all the things we’ve said and done wrong to each other, question his sincerity. But what would be the point? Nobody has truly cared about me since Mom passed, and I’ve missed this: feeling wanted. Valued.
Yet there’s more to the moment, even as Loki clears his throat and interrupts.
More that I intend to figure out later.
“As cute as this is, we need to figure out what we’re doing here.”
“You got anything you want to take with you?” Fang runs his fingers down the back of my left arm, taking my hand in his.
I stare at the connection, dumbstruck. Do I? My mother didn’t have any keepsakes. No family photo albums, no hand-me-down jewelry. Nothing of meaning or sentiment. We lived basic. Fewer belongings meant fewer things to shift if we needed to leave.
I glance about the room and then back to our joined hands before daring to look in his eyes. “What changed?”
“When?”
I hesitantly smirk. “I thought I was a Breed mutt that couldn’t be trusted? Why do this for me when you could have easily left me to my fate?”
He glances to our hands and gently lets mine go. “I need to make something clear.” Fang’s eyes move back to mine. “Whatever I do is for you. But whatever the club does is for them. You understand what I’m saying?”
I nod, circling back to the middle of his statement. “Whatever I do is for you.”
“What does this mean for us?” I whisper. “Your club doesn’t have to like me, but I can’t go back somewhere I’m not wanted.”
He glances to the door.
I get it—we need to go. Figure out where the fuck my father and Suzannah have run off to. But I have to hear this first before I do.
Before I know if it’s worth it.
“I can’t speak for the club; that’s Chaos’s job.
” He retakes my hand, thumb stroking the back reverently.
“But having you in my life has woken me up to a lot of shit, Jenna.” He pauses to swallow.
“I wasn’t on a good path. I treated people wrong, and it showed.
You forced me to face up to that.” He lifts his gaze to mine, and all I can find is the sincerity of a man who regrets a lot.
Painfully so. “I treated you wrong, and I’m sorry.
” He takes my other hand. “I’m sorry for how I pushed you, knowing it would put you in a bad place.
I was selfish, thinking it’d get you out of my life quicker, but it did the opposite: it proved why I need to keep you in it—in my life.
I don’t want you to leave us, Freckles. I need you to stay.
I want you to stay so that we can figure this shit out together.
Because I get the feeling, girl, that we’d make one hell of a team if we’d only learn to stop fighting one another. ”
I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry. Fuck this man and all his flaws.
I couldn’t fall for somebody perfect. Their brilliance would shine a light on all the cracks in my soul, making me feel inadequate and unworthy.
No. I was always destined to find somebody as flawed and remiss as I am.
Somebody who understands the ache in my chest that never truly goes away, no matter how many times I make amends or apologize for what I’ve done.
I need to know I’m not judged for the mistakes of my past, and I think, perhaps, not judging Fang for his is how we do that. Give each other what we hope to get from the relationship.
Lead by example.
Take the scary step into the unknown together.
“They’re pretty words, Nibbles,” I say with a coy smile. “But they don’t change one thing.”
“What?” He frowns, grip tightening on mine.
“Where I come from. I’ll always be a Breed mutt, and you’ll always be one of them crowned fuckers.”
He smiles, ducking his chin slightly to hide it.
I yelp when he pulls me against him, arms banding tight around my waist. The movement makes my head throb, but it’s a small sacrifice to make for the way he looks at me.
“If Romeo and Juliet could make it work, then so can we.”
I lift an eyebrow. “You do realize they both died at the end, right?”
He shrugs. “Isn’t that what we’re trying to do? Kill the past versions of ourselves and start again?”
“I guess.”
“What d’you say?” Fang leans in, grazing the tip of his nose against mine. “Want to be my tragic love story?”
“Why does it have to be a tragedy?” I tease.
He smiles, gaze dropping to my mouth. “Because you’ve already ruined me, Jenna.”
“How?” I eye his lips also.
“I’m here, aren’t I?” He dissolves the distance between us, claiming my mouth in a demanding kiss.
Back arching in his hold, I thread my arms around his neck and bury my fingers in the soft hair at his nape. We need to leave—get the fuck out of here before Acid or the Breed intervene—but the world can wait for this.
It has to wait. I’ve had my life on pause in the name of helping others long enough; it’s time I did something solely and selfishly for myself.
I breathe a sigh, encouraging Fang to deepen the connection. He tilts his head, tongue sweeping against mine in a move that can be nothing else but a claim. A declaration that he’s all in. That everything he said was true.
We’re far from being good people, far from starting this out right.
But we’ve done it true to who we are: conditioned to a world that was never ours and tasked with the impossible job of changing that mindset.
Only love could carry a power strong enough to facilitate that shift.
Only a soul-deep connection with the enemy could challenge the status quo.
“We’ve got to stop this,” Fang pants. “Unless we want someone to find us both here butt-naked and otherwise occupied.”
I dot a last kiss to his lips. “Don’t you go changing your mind on me between here and home.”
His eyes light a little at me calling his clubhouse home. “Only thing my mind’s gonna be doing, Freckles, is imagining all the ways this could have ended.” He takes a step back, unraveling himself from me, and adjusts his jeans. “You ready?” Fang holds his hand out, waiting for mine.
I set my palm against his.
I’ve been ready for this for years.