Chapter 14
Becki
Royal hasn’t come near me since the night after the basement.
Not since he slammed me against the tree trunk with murder in his eyes. Not since my breath mixed with his and we both leaned in like gravity had given us the same sin. Not since I whispered, I’m not yours even though some traitor part of me already knows I’m lying.
Now the distance between us feels colder than the concrete floor I pace on. His footsteps haven’t come down this hall in days. Not the heavy, purposeful stride that makes the chains on him rattle.
My thighs tighten with anticipation before my brain even catches up. Not the soft scrape of his knife hilt against his belt. My warning, my thrill, my reminder that he is the danger I still want too close.
He’s vanished like the ghost he pretended to be once.
And Oaks hasn’t come back either.
Good.
I don’t trust him.
But I almost miss the way his shadow paused under the crack of my door like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to save me or sell me.
Maybe I crave the attention Legend won’t give me. I stare at his name carved into my leg. I put it there myself. Prez hasn’t come to even interrogate me.
Instead… I get Lex.
Lex, the club’s chaplain, preacher-wannabe from Lexington, left one of them mega churches. He’s got kind eyes and hands that always stay visible, so no one mistakes him for a threat. Heard he was wrongly accused before. But I know he’s not as innocent as he lets on.
Girls in Hell talk.
He brings me food in a Styrofoam tray, and a Spork so I don’t stab someone. He sets it down like he’s feeding a feral animal.
“Don’t bite me,” he jokes softly the first time.
I don’t laugh.
But I do eat.
He brings water bottles, aspirin, tampons, clean washcloths. Even an Ale-8-One, my favorite, not in glass, of course.
I am a prisoner here.
All the things someone had to sit down and think about. All the things Royal never thought of or never wanted to admit I needed. Today he brings something else.
A small canvas bag.
He places it just inside the door. Doesn’t look at me long. Lex never looks too long.
“There’s a mess of stuff in there. Toothbrush,” he says. “Some soap. Two shirts. Jeans.”
He hesitates.
“Thought you might want choices.”
He doesn’t say because Royal won’t bring you anything himself.
He doesn’t have to.
I nod once.
He leaves like he’s afraid Royal will catch him doing kindness.
The hallway goes quiet again.
I dump the bag onto the cot.
Cheap cotton shirts, one gray, one black. Soft from wear, probably donated by someone’s ol’ lady.
They’ll do.
But then something dark catches my eye under the bed. I get down on my hands and knees and reach into the shadows, fingers brushing dust and splinters until they hit fabric.
I tug it free. A shirt. Royal’s. I know it before I even unfold it. Black cotton. Frayed collar.
Smelling faintly of motor oil, leather, and that spice he carries in his skin, the one that clings to the walls after he leaves.
I sit back on my heels, heart doing something stupid in my chest.
Lex brought me choices. Royal left me this without knowing he did. Or maybe he did know. Maybe he shoved it under the bed the way a man drops a confession behind a locked door.
I lift it to my face.
The scent hits me like a hand at my throat, rough, unforgiving, familiar.
My pulse trips.
“I’m not his,” I mutter to the empty room.
The walls don’t believe me.
The cot squeaks as I pull off the shirt I’m wearing and tug his over my head.
It’s too big. Hangs off one shoulder. Skims my thighs like a secret.
But wearing it…
God. It feels like standing in the heat of him again. Like his arms are around me even though he hasn’t looked at me in days, maybe weeks. I don’t know anymore.
I perch on the edge of the bed, fists curled into the hem, teeth sinking into my lip. Avoiding me won’t save either of us. It just makes the need heavier, the chain connecting us tighter, the want meaner.
Royal thinks distance is control.
He doesn’t know I’m learning him through absence. He doesn’t know how it makes me hungrier. He doesn’t know he left a piece of himself under this bed, and I put it on like a hug.
Or maybe he does. Royal avoids me… But his shirt? His scent? His ghost? Those stay. They haunt.
And that’s almost worse. Because now I miss him like he left fingerprints on my ribs. Miss him so bad, it about kills me. I scream out, a blood-curdling howl. Again.
And again.
Until my throat is raw. Until it tastes metallic. Taking a breath, I hear him before I see him. The heavy step, rattling chains. The pause outside the door. The drag of breath like he’s gathering whatever shards of control he’s still pretending to have.
I hear him in the hallway, outside my door like a ghost. The brothers talk loudly around him. About me. Never to me.
Asking him to shut me up.
It’s working. It shouldn’t burn, but it does. It shouldn’t make me ache, but it does harder every hour. So, I keep screaming. When he finally opens the door, I’m on him. Not physically. I don’t get the chance.
But with my words.
“I thought you got bored,” I say, voice low and breathy, not on purpose. My throat is on fire. “Thought maybe you found someone else to stare at in the dark.”
His jaw tics, just enough to make warmth pool low in my stomach. He doesn’t answer.
Good.
Silence is something I can use.
I step closer until the chain goes taut, metal biting into my wrist. “You keep avoiding me, Royal. I must scare you.”
His eyes lift. Cold. Wrong. A warning.
“You don’t scare me,” he says.
“Then come here.”
He doesn’t move.
I smile, slow and cruel, because I know he hates it. “Are you afraid you’ll lose control again?”
His body reacts before his voice does. Shoulders tight. Hands flexing like he’s remembering the feel of my throat under his palm.
“I’m done playing your games,” he says.
“No,” I whisper. “You’re done losing them.”
That snaps something.
Biker crosses the room in three strides, steals my chin, drives my head up. His breath sweeps my lips, sore from screaming. I’m on the verge of collapsing.
“You want to be broken?” he growls. “That your problem?”
“No,” I whisper. “I want you to break me.”
His eyes burn. “You do? You fucking sure about that?”
“More than sure.”
At my words, he shoves me away so hard I stumble. Before I can catch myself, he yanks open the old wooden closet, the one with the slats that let air in but keep secrets contained and grabs a roll of duct tape from the shelf.
My heart stops.
“Royal!”
He grips my jaw again, not gentle, cruel, just final, and presses the tape over my mouth. I let out a quiet, muffled gasp.
“You don’t get to taunt me anymore,” he says.
Before I can twist free, he drags me into the closet. My bare feet scrape the floor. The chain rattles against my wrist.
I say his name but all that comes out is, “Mmph…”
He locks the closet door. Darkness swallows me except for the thin slats letting in pale strips of light. I can see out. He can’t see in. My pulse shakes the walls. He leaves. Goes where he can no longer hear my screams.
Eventually, outside, I hear voices. Laughter. Music. A party. The kind of club night I’d sneak into when I wasn’t welcome. Girls hanging on bikers. Beer bottles clinking. Bass shaking the floors.
Any other time, I’d be out there at the Lockup partying with the Kings of Anarchy MC in my “Property of No One” shirt. Not locked in here like a secret mistake.
The door to his room opens again. I freeze. Royal ain’t alone. Footsteps. Soft. Feminine. A breathy giggle.
A fucking club bunny. The one who freed me. Her name is Joey. One of the ones who wears short skirts, longer lashes and knows how to make men forget themselves. Glitter and sunshine on a fucking stick.
Not Royal’s type at all. She’s all giggles to his goth.
Royal’s voice comes out low. Controlled. Too controlled. Heated. “Shut the door.”
She laughs. “You finally calling me in, baby? Thought you forgot I existed with that preacher’s daughter taking up all your attention.”
My chest caves inward. The tape muffles my involuntary cry. Royal doesn’t correct her. He doesn’t say I ain’t his. He doesn’t say it’s not like that. He doesn’t say anything.
But I hear clothing rustle. What the hell?
My vision blurs as I watch him undress her. I hear her breath hitch. I hear the bed creak under her weight. Hear the belt as he takes it off. His cock is out. Blinking through tears, I watch him shove it down her throat.
He’s doing this on purpose. Not because he wants her. Because he wants me to see. Because he wants to punish me for wanting him. Because he wants to remind himself, he doesn’t need me.
Once he finishes, her giggle cuts through me like a knife. His low voice follows, saying something I can’t make out, but I know the tone.
Detached. Self-hating. Cruel to himself first, and now to me. I press my forehead to the slats, fingers gripping the wood until the edges cut my palms.
The bed creaks again. Her long pink nails scrape his back. Her moan fills the room as he enters her.
Then I recognize the blade. He slices her shoulder, barely. Blood trickles. Sticking out his pierced tongue, he laps it up.
And I break.
Hot tears spill over. My breath comes ragged behind the tape. The closet walls close in. My pulse slams in my ears so loud I feel sick.
He wanted this.
My suffering.
I ain’t supposed to matter. I know I ain’t. I know I’m nothing. I’m the enemy. The traitor. The girl in chains. But hearing him… hearing her… It guts me in a way nothing ever has.
The sounds keep going. The bed where I lay, creaking under them as he pounds her. He says her name once. Joey. Not my name. Never mine.
I cry silently. Violently.
The kind of tears that come from the soul, not the eyes. And through the slats, blurred with tears, I see Royal’s shadow move.
His shoulders tense. His hand pauses where it shouldn’t. And for a moment, one tiny, shattered moment, he looks toward the closet.
Toward me.
Then he forces himself back into motion. Breaking the both of us with the thrust of his hips.