Chapter 7 Wren
WREN
I scramble out of bed the second the door clicks closed. It’s such a soft noise for his storming out. Or maybe Sin wasn’t storming, but his every move is amplified by an abundance of intensity.
I check the door to make sure it’s locked before I crawl back under the covers. And I roll, shifting fitfully as I fall into a light slumber. My mind won’t let me abandon consciousness completely. Not after being yanked from nightmares a few minutes ago.
And the way Sin touched me, how he barged in at the sounds of my internal struggle like I might actually be hurt.
The man who held me at gunpoint out front.
A spark went through me at that moment. My instincts telling me that he wouldn’t hurt me unless I gave him a good reason to.
Again, in the darkness of Saint’s room, once I knew it was Sin, I stopped being afraid. He wasn’t Grant, and that meant I was safe.
It’s naive. I know. Because I’ve fallen into a den of vipers—surrounded by strange, dangerous men. But Sin could have hurt me just now.
He didn’t.
Why?
And the way he touched me…those small caresses like he wanted me. But more so, he wanted to make me feel good. Not scare me.
Even if he is intimidating and scary.
I know the man is dangerous. They’re all dangerous.
But somehow…I’m not terrified the way I was with Grant.
My thoughts shift to Doc. His kindness. Also he’s so much more gentle than I imagined a biker could be. Careful. Nurturing. His short dark hair styled, smoothing out the roughness of the rest of his demeanor.
Touching me like I’m some kind of prize. He doesn’t know I noticed how he protected me on the way through the bar, down to his office and then to Saint’s, hovering at my back. Almost touching me, watching me with intent. He can see too much of me already.
Then there’s the enigma of Saint. I’m supposed to marry that man. And even though it’s in name only, the dreams I had of him last night…before the nightmares took over…
If Sin had been just a little earlier, would he have heard me moan instead of struggle? Would he still have barged in?
Because the things Saint did to me with those big, rough hands of his…they send a pang between my thighs that has me shifting under the sheets. What would it feel like for him to touch me like that?
What would it be like for him to want me that way?
He’d run out of here so fast after unbuttoning the back of my dress. It seemed like torture to him. Surely, I’m not his type. Someone he has to protect constantly, so inexperienced he would have to teach me what he likes.
Heat licks up me again, and the image of his face dropping to my core has me scrambling from under the sheets.
And I’m up, ready to poke around. To distract myself.
I can’t let this circle back around in my thoughts, or I’ll frustrate myself more.
The cool air helps settle my racing thoughts.
It’s time to investigate. To poke around the room, but there’s not a lot to see.
Clothes.
Boots.
A locked cabinet in the closet that I imagine holds weaponry of some kind. It’s nothing like the gun safe in my dad’s office, but it serves a similar purpose.
Along the top of his closet shelves are boxes. Most of them hold gloves, shoes, and holsters. I’m surprised by the one suit he has in the back, shiny shoes, tie, cufflinks included. It’s a nice one. Expensive by the feel. No brand that I know. Corneliani. Italian if I had to guess.
It’s not part of the world I invested myself in. I liked quality garments, but ones that kept me from gaining attention in a room full of people who thrived on reasons to cut you down, pick you apart, and spread lies.
Besides, I had my mother to pick the stores I shopped in, a personal stylist to ensure I represented my father the right way whenever I was in public.
In the back corner up at the top, a place I’m precariously balancing on a bag of clothes and military-looking gear to reach, I find a small, wooden box with a nice latch. It has my heart beating faster because it looks handmade, stained a deep cherry red, and worn around the latch.
I can’t resist, although I know I should. I’ve poked too much not to take a peek. At least.
But when I flip the latch and open it carefully, I’m greeted with papers. Folded notes. Faded pictures.
I more than want to riffle through and read every one of them, but when I slip the top picture out from under the loose papers, my heart twists.
A young version of Saint peers back with the same intense eyes. He’s in a military uniform, hair shaved tight to his head. A five or six-year-old boy is clinging to his shoulders as he holds the kid easily. His son. Same nose. Same chin. Poutier mouth.
One that matches the woman on the other side of the boy, her smile small but lovely. And she’s beautiful. It’s not just her features, which are symmetrical at first glance. Her essence is vibrant, inviting, captivating.
I put the photo back. I don’t want to dig into something so personal quite yet.
Because whatever happened to them, it’s more than I can poke at right now.
A knock sounds at the door, and I quickly stuff everything back in place before I answer it.
Saint fills the doorway, so much bigger than I remember from last night. He’s looking down at me with a closed off expression, but he can’t hide the way his pupils dilate when he sees me.
My skin tightens.
“Did the clothes Doc brought you not fit?” His voice is flat but his throat works.
Right, I’m still in his oversized shirt and nothing else. My flimsy, lacy bra and matching underwear are hanging in the bathroom to dry. They were meant for my honeymoon.
I bite my lip and turn to the pile still sitting on the low dresser beside my violin case. I go to them: cut off shorts and a flimsy tank top. Boots. And oversized leather vest. “You expect me to wear this?”
He crosses his arms over that broad chest, feet wide. Such a boss stance. Saint doesn’t need to bother with it.
“You’re not exactly going to blend in wearing silk and heels.”
No, I’m going to be displaying a hell of a lot of skin, though. Probably more than I’m comfortable with.
Huffing, I take them to the bathroom to dress.
The shorts are so short. I’d never be able to leave the house in something like this at home, with my cheeks hanging out of the bottom.
The tank shows off the white lace bralette that easily hid under my wedding dress.
I step out, pulling the vest on. I swim in it, and his eyes narrow in on me.
“That’s mine.”
“Oh.” I freeze. “You want it back?”
“No.” His gaze darkens. “Looks better on you.”
Tension spikes between us—like static along my skin.
I lose my balance pulling on the boots, he steadies me—big hands at my waist. Supportive. Strong. Hot. My breath catches.
I like the way they feel far too much.
Neither of us move right away, and I struggle to breathe. I’ve never been this close to a man…and enjoyed it. Wanted more. To be closer. To have his hands wander where I’ve always been afraid to let others touch.
Saint’s hands squeeze at my waist before he finally steps back, voice rough. “We’ll get you something that fits. Something that doesn’t scream hostage. But for now, you need to look like you belong.”
I bristle, tugging my boot fully on. “You mean look like your property.”
His eyes narrow, muscles popping under his short sleeves. “If that’s what keeps you breathing, yeah.”
I hate that it makes sense. It’s the mold I’ve been fighting against my entire life, and it’s what’s going to keep me safe.
“So here’s the rundown. Club rules. First—loyalty here isn’t optional. You’re in, you’re family. You don’t half-trust anyone in this building.”
“And if I do?”
“Someone takes advantage of that, and I put them in the ground. You don’t want that.” He studies my face, making sure I get the weight of what he’s saying.
I do. People will die if I don’t trust him and his people to help me like they’ve said they would. It’s not an easy ask, but I’ll try. I nod.
“Second—no cops. Ever. You see a badge, you shut your mouth and find one of us. You talk, Sheriff Knox twists it, and people die.”
“I’m sensing a theme.” I didn’t mean for that to come out petulant, but the way his frown deepens says he hasn’t let it go unnoticed.
“Third—you don’t leave without one of us. Not outside. Not alone. Not for a minute. Grant’s men are sniffing around, and there are other clubs watching us, too.”
Great. This is just getting better and better. “So I need a chaperone.”
“You need protection. There’s a difference.”
Doesn’t sound very different. “Fine. What else?”
“No debts. No deals. If someone offers you anything—information, help, a favor—you tell me. No exceptions. Favors here come with prices you don’t want to pay.”
A shiver drives down my spine at the image those words manifest, my eyes unfocusing on his chest for a few blinks before I swallow the dread back. “Okay.”
My voice comes out froggy. I catch my lip in my teeth to stop myself from saying anything else.
“You respect anyone wearing our patch. Even if you hate their guts. Because if they’re family, they bleed for you. And because disrespect from you reflects on me.”
It’s like I’m living in some other dimension where this is home but filled with a biker club instead of politicians and businessmen. “Right. Got it.”
“Last one—outside these walls? I speak for you. That’s appearances. That’s how you stay untouchable.”
My gaze shoots back to his, still stern, still merciless, still commanding. I hate how the gray taking over the sides of his dark hair gives him all the more authority. And how that signals to my brain that he knows what he’s talking about.
His arms uncross, and we’re in a standoff. I’ve been without my voice for so long, and I finally broke free of it. There’s no way I can go back. I’ll shrivel up and die inside.
“What happens if I talk out of turn?”
“Then someone decides you’re weak. And they try to claim you. And I kill them.” The weight of it hits me again. Saint is promising to kill anyone who tries to hurt me. Like a real husband might.
But it’s not real. So why? Image? Pride? Honor? Why go through the trouble if I’m this much of a burden?
“So, we put a ring on you today. Not because you belong to me. But because it makes you untouchable to anyone who wants leverage.”
My chest caves in on itself a little. Can I do this?
“Grant is looking for you, and this will keep him from dragging you back. Making you part of the family.”
I suck in a slow breath and nod again. My past sinks its nails into me, yanking me back into survival mode—the place I’ve spent most of my time simply trying to survive the expectations of being Ronan Delaney’s daughter.
Numb spreads, and so do his hands down my shoulders. “Let’s get you upstairs and fill your belly before the justice gets here.”
That sends a jolt through my heart. “I’m marrying you in this?”
He stills, big and intimidating.
“Unless you want to put that back on.” He points to my tattered and dirty wedding dress.
A small bit of horror builds in my chest. I shake my head. No, I don’t want to wear that. As beautiful as it was, it’s an omen of something I never wanted.
An hour later, I’m standing in front of Saint again. This time, with witnesses—Judge and Doc. Sin leans against the wall, watching.
We’re sequestered in Saint’s office, and the five men take up so much space that I struggle against claustrophobia. Panic and numb chase each other, and before I know it Saint has my shaking hands in his steady grip.
Those hazel eyes pierce me as the justice gives us the perfunctory notes—“for protection,” “for safety”—but the eye contact makes it feel real.
When he says my name, my heart stutters.
I say “I do,” voice trembling but clear.
He doesn’t kiss me, just lowers his head close enough for me that his beard tickles against my cheek, and he whispers, “You’re safe here, Wren. For now.”
He’s the embodiment of safety and danger all tangled together.
I notice Sin’s smirk from across the room, eyes on my new husband’s ring on my finger.
I married one man, but three of them are already inside my head.