Chapter 8 #2
"Yes." The admission comes without hesitation. "I know I have no right to be. He's known you longer. He'll be here when I'm—" He stops, jaw tightening.
"When you're what?"
"Nothing."
"RJ." I step closer, forcing him to look at me. "What's going on? And don't tell me not to worry about it. I'm done being kept in the dark."
Something flickers across his face. Guilt, maybe. Or frustration. "It's club business. Your father asked me to—"
"I don't care what my father asked. I care about what's happening. Why have you been doing extra perimeter checks. Why do you tense up every time I go near a window. Why do you look at me sometimes like you're afraid I'm going to disappear." My voice cracks on the last word. "Talk to me. Please."
He's quiet for a long moment. I watch the war play out behind his eyes—the instinct to protect me from the truth versus the knowledge that lying is slowly poisoning what we have.
"There's a threat," he says finally. "Beyond the Krajncs. Something local."
"What kind of threat?"
"I can't—" He stops, exhales. "Your father asked me not to tell you. He doesn't want you to worry."
"Well, I'm worrying anyway. So, you might as well give me something."
"Dalla..."
"No." I step back, putting distance between us. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to claim me in front of Njal, tell him you're not going anywhere, and then refuse to treat me like a partner. Either I'm in this with you or I'm not. Which is it?"
His expression hardens. "You're in this with me."
"Then act like it."
The air between us crackles with tension.
We're standing three feet apart, but it feels like miles.
Everything I've been holding back—the frustration, the fear, the exhaustion of being protected instead of included—rises up in my chest like a wave.
"I'm trying to keep you safe," he says.
"I don't want to be kept safe. I want to be kept informed."
"It's not that simple."
"Then explain it to me!"
"I can't!"
"Why not?"
"Because if I tell you, you'll do something stupid!" The words explode out of him, raw and desperate. "You'll try to help, or investigate, or put yourself in danger to prove you're not afraid. And I can't—" His voice breaks. "I can't lose you, Dalla. I won't survive it."
The admission hangs between us, heavy and fragile.
"You're not going to lose me," I say quietly.
"You don't know that."
"Neither do you." I close the distance between us, reaching up to cup his face. "But pushing me away isn't going to keep me safe. It's just going to keep me alone. And I'd rather face whatever's coming with you than be protected from it without you."
His hands find my waist, grip tightening like he's afraid I'll slip away. "You're impossible."
"So I've been told."
"And stubborn."
"Family trait."
"And I am so fucking in love with you that it terrifies me."
The words steal my breath. He's never said it before. Neither of us has—not really.
I told him I could see myself falling for him, and he's shown me in a hundred different ways how he feels, but the actual words...
"Say it again," I whisper.
"I love you." He leans his forehead against mine. "I love you, and I'm terrified, and I don't know how to do this without breaking both of us."
"Then let me help you figure it out."
He kisses me.
It's not soft. Not gentle. It's desperate and hungry, all the fear and frustration and jealousy pouring out of him and into me. His hands slide into my hair, tilting my head back, and I gasp against his mouth as his tongue sweeps against mine.
"Mine," he growls against my lips. "Not his. Not anyone's. Mine."
"Yours," I agree, breathless. "Always."
Something snaps in him.
He spins me around, pressing my front against the back of the couch.
One hand tangles in my hair, pulling my head back until my throat is exposed.
The other slides around my waist, fingers slipping under my shirt to splay across my stomach.
"I'm going to mark you," he murmurs against my ear. "So everyone knows who you belong to. So he knows."
A shiver runs through me. "Yes."
His mouth finds my neck, and he bites down.
Not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to bruise.
Hard enough that I'll be wearing his mark for days.
I cry out, the pain mixing with pleasure in a way that makes my head spin.
"Anyone who looks at you will see this." He soothes the bite with his tongue, then moves lower, finding a new spot just above my collarbone. "Will know you're taken."
"RJ—"
"Shh." His hand slides lower, undoing my jeans with practiced efficiency. "I'm not done with you yet."
He pushes my jeans and underwear down in one motion, leaving me bare from the waist down. The couch presses against my hips as he bends me over it, and I feel exposed, vulnerable, completely at his mercy.
I've never been more turned on in my life.
"Look at you," he breathes, running a hand over the curve of my ass. "So perfect. So desperate for me."
"Please—"
"Please what?"
"Touch me. Fuck me. Something. Please, RJ, I need—"
He slides two fingers inside me without warning, and I moan so loud I'm sure the whole club can hear.
I'm already soaking wet, my body primed and ready from the fight, the tension, the raw possessiveness in his voice.
"This wet already?" He curls his fingers, finding that spot that makes me see stars. "Just from fighting with me?"
"From—ah—from you. Always from you."
"Good answer."
He works me with his fingers, slow and deliberate, building the pressure until I'm shaking. Every time I get close, he backs off, leaving me gasping and frustrated.
"RJ, please—"
"Tell me who you belong to."
"You. I belong to you."
"And who do I belong to?"
"Me." The word comes out fierce, possessive. "You're mine too."
He groans, and I hear the sound of his zipper, feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance.
"Remember that," he says. "When I'm buried so deep inside you that you forget your own name. Remember that I'm yours just as much as you're mine."
He slams into me.
I scream—actually scream—as he fills me completely.
There's no buildup, no gentle adjustment.
Just him taking me hard and fast, one hand gripping my hip while the other stays tangled in my hair.
"Fuck," he groans. "You feel so good. So tight. So fucking perfect."
"Harder," I beg. "Please, harder—"
He obliges, setting a punishing rhythm that has the couch scraping across the floor.
Each thrust drives deeper than the last, hitting that spot inside me that makes my vision blur.
His hand in my hair keeps my head pulled back, my throat exposed, and I feel him lean down to bite another mark into my shoulder.
"Everyone's going to see these," he murmurs against my skin, his accent thicker than usual. "Every single person in this clubhouse is going to know exactly what I did to you. What I do to you every fucking night."
"Good." I push back against him, meeting his thrusts. "I want them to know."
"Want Njal to know?" The question is growled against my ear, dangerous and dark.
I feel another bite, this one on the curve of my neck, hard enough to make me cry out.
"Yes," I gasp. "Want him to know I'm yours."
"That's right. You're mine. This pussy is mine." He punctuates each word with a brutal thrust. "No one else gets to touch you. No one else gets to make you scream like this."
"Only you. Only ever you."
"Fucking right." His hand slides around to find my clit, circling it with rough, desperate strokes.
The dual sensation—his cock pounding into me, his fingers working my clit, his teeth marking my skin—is overwhelming.
I feel the orgasm building at the base of my spine, coiling tighter with every thrust.
"Tell me," he demands. "Tell me who makes you feel like this."
"You do. RJ—fuck—only you."
"Tell me who you belong to."
"You. I belong to you. Please, I'm so close—"
He bites down on the junction of my neck and shoulder, hard enough to leave a bruise that will last for weeks, and I shatter.
The orgasm tears through me like lightning, every nerve ending firing at once.
I clench around him, my whole body convulsing, and I hear him groan as he follows me over the edge.
He buries himself deep and pulses inside me, filling me with his release, and we collapse together over the back of the couch.
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
Just breathing. Just existing. His weight presses me into the leather, his heart pounding against my back.
"Holy shit," I finally manage.
He laughs weakly against my shoulder. "Aye. Holy shit."
Later, in the basement, we lie tangled together in the dark.
RJ's fingers trace lazy patterns on my bare back, and I press kisses to the scars on his chest.
The marks he left are already darkening—I counted three on my neck, two on my shoulders, one on my collarbone.
I'll be wearing high necklines for the next week.
I don't mind.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "For not telling you things. For trying to protect you from information instead of trusting you with it."
"I understand why you did it. I just need you to do better."
"I will." He presses a kiss to my forehead. "I promise."
We lie in silence, the basement cool and quiet around us.
My body is pleasantly sore, my mind finally quiet for the first time in days.
Between the deadline and the fight and the explosive makeup sex, I'm utterly exhausted.
RJ's breathing evens out, deep and steady and soon enough he's asleep.
I should sleep too.
I know I should. But my mind keeps circling back to what he said—there's a threat beyond the Krajncs. Something local.
What threat? From who? Why won't anyone tell me?
I lie there for another twenty minutes, trying to quiet my thoughts.
It doesn't work.
Coffee. I need coffee.
There's a little café about a mile down the road—I passed it when we drove in from the airport.
It'll be a quick trip.
Fifteen minutes, tops.
RJ will never even know I was gone.
I slip out of bed carefully, pulling on jeans and a hoodie.
RJ doesn't stir.
The clubhouse is quiet as I creep through it, the bar mostly empty, just a few prospects playing cards in the corner.
None of them pay me any attention as I slip out the side door.
The night air is warm and thick, cicadas singing in the trees.
I walk quickly, keeping to the shoulder of the road, my mind still spinning with everything that happened today.
Njal's confession. RJ's declaration. The fight. The sex.
I am so fucking in love with you that it terrifies me.
The café is still open when I arrive thank the Gods, warm light spilling through the windows onto the empty sidewalk.
A bell chimes as I push through the door, and the barista—a tired-looking college kid with gauges in his ears—barely glances up from his phone.
"Vanilla latte, please."
I pay and settle onto a stool at the counter, letting the familiar routine soothe my frayed nerves.
The café is mostly empty at this hour, just an older man reading a newspaper in the corner and a woman on her laptop near the window.
Normal people living normal lives.
No threats. No secrets. No dark sedans watching from the shadows.
The latte arrives, and I wrap my hands around the warm cup, breathing in the sweet vanilla steam.
This was a good idea.
I needed this—a moment of normalcy in the chaos my life has become.
I'm just finishing my coffee, debating whether to order a second, when someone bumps into me from behind.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" The woman is about my age, maybe a little older, with dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail and sharp, angular features.
Pretty, in a severe kind of way—the kind of face that would look at home on a runway or in a boardroom. "I wasn't watching where I was going."
"It's fine." I smile, sliding off my stool. "No harm done."
"Are you sure? I nearly knocked you over." She laughs, but there's something off about it. Something that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Can I buy you another coffee to make up for it?"
"That's really not necessary—"
"I insist." She signals the barista before I can protest, her movements quick and decisive. "What were you having?"
"Vanilla latte. But really, you don't have to—"
"It's the least I can do." She extends her hand, and her grip is firm when I shake it. Too firm. Like she's memorizing the feel of my palm. "I'm Sol, by the way."
Something about her makes me uneasy.
I can't put my finger on what—her smile is friendly enough, her tone perfectly pleasant.
But there's something in her eyes.
Something calculating.
Like she's studying me.
"Dalla," I say, pulling my hand back a little too quickly.
"Pretty name. Is it Scandinavian?"
"My parents have a thing for Norse mythology."
"How interesting." Her head tilts slightly, like a bird examining something curious. "I've always found Norse mythology fascinating. All those stories about fate and destiny. The idea that some things are just... meant to be."
The barista sets a fresh latte on the counter, and Sol pushes it toward me with a smile that makes my skin crawl.
"There you go. Peace offering."
"Thanks." I take the cup, suddenly eager to leave. "I should get going. It's late."
"Of course. Don't let me keep you." She steps back, but her eyes never leave my face. "It was nice meeting you, Dalla. I have a feeling we'll be seeing each other again."
There's something in the way she says it.
Not a hope. Not a prediction.
A promise.
"Maybe," I manage. "Goodnight."
I don't look back as I leave the café. But I feel her watching me the entire way out the door.
The walk back to the compound feels longer than before.
Darker.
The cicadas have gone quiet, and the only sound is my footsteps on the gravel shoulder and the distant rumble of traffic on the highway.
Every rustle in the trees makes me jump. Every shadow seems to move in my peripheral vision.
I keep thinking about the way Sol looked at me.
Like she knew me.
Like she'd been waiting for me.
By the time I slip back into the basement, my heart is pounding.
RJ is still asleep, exactly where I left him.
The moonlight filtering through the window well illuminates his face—peaceful, unguarded in a way he never is when he's awake.
I crawl into bed beside him, pressing close to his warmth, and try to shake the feeling that something is very, very wrong.
He murmurs something in his sleep and pulls me closer, his arm tightening around my waist. Even unconscious, he's protecting me.
I bury my face in his chest and try to convince myself I'm safe.
It takes me a long time to fall asleep.