Chapter 2
two
Clark
I slam the compound door behind us, my hand still wrapped around the librarian's delicate wrist. She's trembling, this fragile thing I've dragged into my world, but she hasn't cried or begged since that first moment in the alley. Something about that makes my blood run hotter. The boys are watching me, waiting to see how I'll handle this complication. They think I've lost my mind, bringing a witness back to our headquarters. Maybe I have. My thumb traces the pulse point at her wrist—rapid, like a trapped bird. I shouldn't notice how soft her skin is. I shouldn't be thinking about how those wide hazel eyes would look clouded with pleasure instead of fear.
"Boss," Mick approaches, keeping his voice low. "The fuck are we doing with her?"
I fix him with a stare that has made grown men wet themselves. "We're keeping her where she can't run to the cops."
"And then what?"
Good question. The job went sideways the moment this woman stumbled across our path. Three million in diamonds, the perfect score, and now a complication wearing a cardigan two sizes too big for her slim frame.
"Let me worry about that," I say, voice clipped.
The librarian—Emilia—hasn't said a word since we arrived. She stands perfectly still beside me, eyes darting around the main room of our clubhouse. Taking in the worn leather couches, the pool table, the bar along the back wall. The MC insignia painted across the concrete. The weapons placed strategically throughout. I watch her catalog it all, those intelligent eyes missing nothing.
Dangerous, that mind of hers.
I jerk my chin toward the hallway. "Dex, take her to the room at the end. Lock her in."
Dex moves to grab her arm, but I tighten my grip instinctively. He stops, eyebrows raising slightly.
"I'll do it," I say, annoyed at my own reaction.
Mick exchanges a glance with Dex. I ignore them both, pulling Emilia down the dimly lit hallway. She stumbles once, and I catch her against me, her body momentarily pressed to mine. The contact sends an electric current down my spine.
"Please," she whispers, the first word she's spoken since the van. "I won't tell anyone what I saw."
Her voice is soft, educated. Nothing like the rough voices of the women who typically pass through here.
"You're not in a position to make promises," I tell her, unlocking the door to our most secure room.
It's bare-bones—a bed, a small bathroom attached, a single window too small to climb through and reinforced with steel bars. We've held rivals here before negotiations. Never a woman. Never someone like her.
I push her gently inside, surprised at my own restraint. "You'll stay here until I decide what to do with you."
She turns to face me, chin lifted slightly despite her fear. "And how long will that be?"
I study her for a moment. She's younger than I initially thought, maybe nineteen or twenty. Not a child, but not hardened by the world either. Her chestnut hair falls in waves past her shoulders, slightly mussed from the night's events. Her skin is pale, perfect, unmarked by the harsh realities that have shaped my own life.
"That depends," I say, letting my gaze trail over her deliberately. "On a lot of things."
Her cheeks flush, and there it is—a reaction that drives a spike of satisfaction through me. I want to see more of that blush, want to discover how far down her neck it travels, whether it spreads across her chest.
"What things?" she asks, her voice steadier than I expected.
I take a step closer, invading her space, watching as she forces herself not to back away.
"Whether I can trust you," I say, though that's only part of the truth. The other part is darker, hungrier. Whether I can have you. Whether one taste will be enough.
Her eyes widen slightly, sensing the unspoken.
"I need to call my family," she says. "My mother is sick, she'll worry?—"
"No calls," I cut her off. "No contact."
"But—"
"This isn't a negotiation, little librarian."
Her lips press together, frustration briefly overtaking fear. "My name is Emilia."
I find myself smiling, genuinely amused by her attempt at asserting control. "I know your name."
"Then use it," she says, surprising me. "If I'm going to be your prisoner, at least give me that much dignity."
I lean in, close enough to smell her—vanilla and paper and something uniquely female. Not perfume. Just her. "Emilia," I say, dragging out each syllable, watching goosebumps rise on her skin in response.
Satisfaction blooms hot in my chest. I affect her, this innocent creature. She's afraid, yes, but there's something else in those hazel eyes. Curiosity. Maybe even desire.
My cock goes rock hard in my jeans, and I hiss in a breath at the sudden urgency of it.
I step back abruptly, unsettled by my own reaction. "There's a bathroom through that door. Try to sleep. I'll bring you food in the morning."
Before she can respond, I leave, locking the door behind me. I stand in the hallway for a moment, breathing deeply, trying to regain my equilibrium. What the fuck is wrong with me? She's a witness, a liability, potentially the downfall of everything I've built. I should be concerned with damage control, not with how soft her skin feels or how her eyes darken when I say her name.
Mick is waiting when I return to the main room. "We need to talk about this, Clark."
I reach for the bottle of whiskey behind the bar, pouring a generous glass. "She stays here until I decide otherwise."
"She saw everything. Our faces, the job?—"
"You think I don't know that?" I snap, slamming the glass down hard enough that whiskey sloshes over the rim. "I'm handling it."
Mick runs a hand over his beard, his usual stoic demeanor cracking with concern. "This isn't like you, man. You don't make these kinds of calls. Witnesses get silenced."
"She's not getting 'silenced,'" I growl, the very thought making my stomach turn.
"Then what? We keep her locked up forever?"
I take a long swallow of whiskey, letting it burn down my throat. "Go count the take. I'll deal with this."
Mick hesitates but knows better than to push further. He retreats to the back office with the others, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
The image of Emilia standing in that alley flashes through my mind. The moment I turned and saw her—wide-eyed, clutching her bag of books, looking so fucking out of place in our world of violence and stolen goods. Any other witness would have been handled immediately, permanently. But something stopped me. Something in those frightened eyes that reached inside me and grabbed hold of something I thought was long dead.
I drain my glass and pour another. Then, almost against my will, I find myself walking back down the hallway to her room.
There's a small viewing panel in the door. I slide it open silently and look in.
She's sitting on the edge of the bed, back straight, hands clasped in her lap like a schoolgirl at prayer. Her face is turned slightly away, toward the barred window where a slice of moonlight falls across the floor. A tear tracks silently down her cheek, but she wipes it away quickly, almost angrily.
Something twists in my chest.
She stands suddenly, moving to explore her prison. The moonlight catches her figure as she passes through it, illuminating the curves hidden beneath that oversized cardigan. She's small but perfectly proportioned—subtle breasts, narrow waist, the gentle flare of hips. My hands itch to trace those curves, to peel away the layers hiding her from me.
She starts removing books from her bag, lining them up on the small table beside the bed. Even in captivity, she creates order. I watch as she gently touches each spine, as if drawing comfort from their familiar presence.
Has anyone ever touched her with that kind of reverence?
The thought hits me like a physical blow, followed by a wave of possessiveness so strong it nearly staggers me. I want to be the first. The only . I want to see those careful librarian's hands on my skin, want to watch her face as she discovers pleasure for the first time.
Because she is untouched—I'd bet my life on it. Everything about her screams innocence, from the modest clothes to the careful way she holds herself, like someone who's never been roughly handled, never been claimed.
I want to claim her.
The realization should disturb me. Instead, it settles into my bones with the weight of certainty. She was meant to witness our heist tonight. Meant to be brought here. Meant to be mine .
She removes her cardigan, draping it carefully over the back of the chair. The t-shirt beneath is simple, worn thin with washing, clinging to the curves I'm already obsessed with. She reaches up to gather her hair, tying it in a loose knot at the nape of her neck, exposing the delicate line of her throat.
I'm hard instantly, painfully, my cock straining against my jeans at the mere sight of that vulnerable expanse of skin. I imagine pressing my lips there, feeling her pulse against my tongue. Marking her.
My hand tightens on the door handle, nearly jerking it open before I catch myself. No. Not yet. I need to think this through, need to plan. A woman like Emilia isn't taken. She's seduced, convinced, won over. She needs to come to me willingly.
The idea of her submitting—not out of fear but out of desire—makes my blood run hot. I'd have her eager, wet, begging. Those intelligent eyes glazed with want, that proper mouth forming my name as she comes apart beneath me.
One night. That's all I need to get her out of my system. One night to possess her completely, and then I can figure out what to do with her after. Let her go, maybe, once I'm sure she won't run to the cops. Once I've satisfied this unexpected hunger.
She sits back on the bed, drawing her knees up to her chest, making herself small. Vulnerable. The sight triggers every predatory instinct I possess.
And it makes my chest ache unfamiliarly.
No. One night won't be enough. Not with her.
I close the viewing panel quietly, resting my forehead against the door for a moment. I've built my reputation, my entire empire, on control. On making calculated decisions. On never letting emotion interfere with business.
Yet here I am, risking everything for a librarian with frightened eyes and a spine of steel. A woman who should mean nothing to me beyond the threat she poses.
I push away from the door, stalking back to the main room. I need distance. Need to think clearly.
But as I pour another whiskey, all I can see is Emilia's face. All I can think about is how she'll look when I finally claim her. How she'll feel beneath me, around me. How she'll sound when she breaks.
I knock back the drink, embracing the burn. Tomorrow, I'll deal with the gang, with the diamonds, with all the practical implications of what we've done tonight.
But Emilia...Emilia is mine now. And I'm keeping her.