Chapter 7
seven
Emilia
The gun weighs heavy in my hand long after Clark leaves. I place it carefully on the nightstand, then pace the confines of his bedroom, trapped energy buzzing through my limbs. Hours pass. The compound grows quieter as night falls, most of the crew positioned outside, watching for threats. I should be terrified, huddled under the bed with the gun Clark gave me. Instead, I'm standing at the window, peering through a crack in the shutters, seeing armed men moving like shadows across the yard. And all I can think is: this is my chance. The one opportunity I might have to escape while everyone's attention is focused outward. I'm not a prisoner, Clark said himself. I can move freely within the compound. And right now, the compound is barely guarded from the inside.
I shouldn't even be considering this. Clark told me to stay put, warned me of the danger. But the longer I remain here, the more entangled I become—in his world, in his bed, in feelings that make no sense but grow stronger by the hour.
I need to go home. Mom needs her medication managed properly. My sister can't handle it alone. The library will have questions about my extended absence. My small, ordinary life is slipping away with each moment I spend in this dangerous, intoxicating alternative reality.
And if I'm honest with myself, I need distance from Clark. From the way he makes me feel—desired, possessed, alive. From the way my body responds to his merest touch, the way my mind drifts to memories of him inside me, claiming me in ways I never imagined possible. I'm losing myself here. Becoming someone I don't recognize—someone who craves danger, who finds excitement in fear, who's drawn to a man capable of violence and control.
I gather my few possessions—the clothes I arrived in, now clean and folded, the book I was reading earlier. I leave Clark's gun on the nightstand. I won't need it. I don't want it.
The hallway outside his room is empty, dimly lit. I move silently, years of library work teaching me how to walk without making a sound. The main room is deserted—the crew all outside, watching for the rival gang. I can see them through the windows, positioned strategically around the perimeter.
My heart pounds so loudly I'm certain someone will hear it. But no one stops me as I make my way to a side door I discovered during my earlier exploration—an exit the guards likely aren't watching since their focus is on defending against external threats.
I pause with my hand on the door handle, unexpected doubts flooding me. What if Clark is right? What if the danger is real and I'm walking straight into it? What if my attempt at freedom puts me in worse jeopardy?
But I've been capable of taking care of myself for years. Before Clark, before this insanity, I navigated life just fine. I can do it again. I need to do it again, before whatever's happening between us becomes something I can't walk away from.
Decision made, I slip through the door into the cool night air. The compound is situated in what appears to be an industrial area, surrounded by similar warehouse-like buildings, most dark and apparently abandoned. The fence that surrounds the property is tall, topped with barbed wire, but I noticed earlier that the northeast corner has a gate for deliveries. If I can reach it undetected, I might be able to slip through.
I stick to the shadows, heart threatening to burst from my chest every time I hear a sound. The MC members are positioned facing outward, looking for approaching threats. Not for an escaping librarian creeping along the inside perimeter.
I reach the gate and find it padlocked. For a moment, despair threatens to overwhelm me—then I spot a gap beneath the fence where something has eroded the ground away. It's small, but so am I. If I lie flat, I might just squeeze through.
I drop to my stomach, pushing my bag ahead of me, and begin to wriggle beneath the fence. The rough ground scrapes my arms, my cardigan catching on the metal. For a terrifying moment, I think I'm stuck—but with one final push, I'm through, lying on the other side of the barrier that's kept me contained.
Free. I'm free.
The realization brings a rush of emotion—relief, triumph, and something else. Something that feels uncomfortably like loss. I glance back at the compound, at the room where I know Clark will eventually return, expecting to find me waiting. Will he be angry? Worried? Will he come looking for me?
The thought sends a complicated mix of fear and hope through me. Part of me wants him to find me, to sweep me back into his arms, to make me forget why I tried to leave in the first place. But the rational part knows this is my only chance—that if I don't go now, I might never leave.
I force myself to my feet and start walking, staying in the shadows, moving away from the compound as quickly and quietly as I can. The industrial area gradually gives way to a more commercial district—closed shops and empty parking lots. I have no idea where I am, but I keep moving, figuring any direction away from Clark is the right one.
I'll find a phone, call a taxi, make my way home. Back to normalcy. Back to safety.
But as I walk through the unfamiliar streets, the darkness feels oppressive rather than concealing. Every shadow might hide a threat, every sound makes me jump. I've traded the known danger of Clark's world for the unknown dangers of the night.
I quicken my pace, wishing I'd thought to check which way led to the main road, to civilization. The streets become narrower, the buildings more rundown. I'm heading in the wrong direction, moving deeper into what appears to be an abandoned industrial zone.
A sound behind me—footsteps, multiple sets. My heart lurches painfully as I glance back. Three men are following, their pace matching mine, closing the distance with deliberate intent.
I walk faster, clutching my bag to my chest like a shield. The footsteps speed up too. No coincidence, then. They're following me.
"Hey, sweetheart," one calls. "You lost?"
I don't answer, don't look back, just walk faster still, approaching a jog.
"Rude to ignore us," another voice says, closer now. "We just wanna help."
The laughter that follows has nothing to do with help and everything to do with threat. I break into a run, fear lending speed to my legs. But I hear them running too, gaining on me easily.
A hand grabs my arm, yanking me backward with enough force that I nearly fall. I'm spun around, facing three men in leather jackets—similar to Clark's crew but with different insignia. A snake emblem. The Vipers. The rival gang Clark warned me about.
"Well, what do we have here?" The man holding my arm is older, with a beard and cold eyes. "A little mouse scurrying away from the Wolf's den."
They know. They know where I came from, who I'm connected to. Terror floods me, sharp and metallic in my mouth.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I try, voice shaking. "I'm just walking home. Please let me go."
The bearded man laughs, joined by his companions. "Sure you are, sweetheart. Just happened to be crawling under the Outlaw MC's fence at two in the morning."
They saw me escape. Were they watching the compound all this time?
"Look at her," says another, younger with a shaved head. "Pretty little thing. No wonder The Wolf's keeping her."
The third man circles behind me, and I feel trapped, cornered. "Bishop's got good taste, I'll give him that."
Bishop . Clark's last name. They know him personally, this rivalry isn't abstract—it's specific and focused.
"Please," I try again. "I'm nothing to them. I was being held against my will. I was escaping."
The bearded man's grip tightens painfully on my arm. "Even better. Bishop's plaything, running straight to us. Must be our lucky night."
"Should we take her back to base?" the bald one asks. "Jonas will want to question her about the diamonds."
"After we have some fun," the third suggests, his hand coming up to touch my hair. I jerk away, but there's nowhere to go, trapped between them.
"Clark will kill you," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "If you touch me, he'll hunt you down and tear you apart."
Something flickers in the bearded man's eyes—concern, maybe even fear. But it's quickly replaced with calculated cruelty. "Bishop's got a soft spot for you, huh? All the more reason to keep you around." His grip shifts to my throat, not squeezing but threatening. "Maybe we'll send him pieces of you, one at a time, until he gives us what we want."
My vision tunnels, terror overwhelming everything else. This is how I die—at the hands of monsters even worse than the one I was running from. Except Clark isn't a monster, not really. Not to me. He's dangerous, yes, possessive and controlling, but he never made me feel unsafe. Never threatened to hurt me.
The bearded man starts dragging me down the street, toward a van parked at the curb. I struggle, kicking, scratching, fighting with everything I have. But I'm no match for his strength, for the three of them together.
"Clark!" I scream, abandoning all pretense that I don't belong to the man I was fleeing. "CLARK!"
"Scream all you want, sweetheart," the bald one laughs. "Your wolf can't hear you."
But he's wrong. Because suddenly the night is split by the roar of an engine, impossibly loud, impossibly close. Headlights blind us as a motorcycle tears around the corner, bearing down on us with terrifying speed.
The bearded man shoves me aside, reaching for something in his jacket—a gun. But he's too slow. The motorcycle slides to a stop and the rider is off in one fluid motion, a blur of violence that slams into the bearded man with inhuman force.
It's Clark. Of course it's Clark. Even in the dim streetlight, I'd know him anywhere—the broad shoulders, the lethal grace, the controlled fury of his movements.
He takes down the bearded man with brutal efficiency, a sickening crack echoing as fist meets jaw. The bald one rushes him from behind, but Clark is ready, spinning and landing an elbow to the man's temple that drops him instantly.
The third attempts to run, but Clark is on him in seconds, dragging him back, throwing him against the wall of the nearest building with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs.
"You touched what's mine," Clark snarls, voice so cold, so different from any tone I've heard from him before. He punctuates his words with a punch that makes the man's head snap back against the brick. "You put your hands on her."
Another punch. Blood sprays from the man's nose.
"Clark," I call, voice shaking. "Clark, stop. Please."
He freezes at the sound of my voice, head turning slightly in my direction though his grip on the man doesn't loosen. "Emilia." My name sounds like it's being dragged over broken glass. "Are you hurt?"
"No," I whisper. "I'm okay."
He nods once, then turns back to his victim. "Tell Jonas that if he comes near what's mine again, there won't be enough left of him to bury." He slams the man's head against the wall one more time, then lets him crumple to the ground, unconscious or worse.
Then Clark is moving toward me, eyes wild, face spattered with blood that isn't his own. I should be terrified. Should be running from him as fast and far as I can. But all I feel is relief so profound it makes my knees buckle.
He catches me before I can fall, strong arms lifting me against his chest as if I weigh nothing. "I've got you," he murmurs, voice gentler now, though still edged with rage. "I've got you, sweetheart."
I cling to him, trembling, face pressed against his neck where I can feel his pulse racing. "How did you find me?"
"I will always find you," he says simply, carrying me to his motorcycle. "Always."
He sets me on the seat, then climbs on in front of me. "Hold onto me," he instructs. "Tight."
I wrap my arms around his waist, pressing myself against his back, drinking in his warmth, his solidity, his safety. The motorcycle roars to life beneath us, and then we're moving, speeding through the dark streets back toward the compound. Back toward captivity.
But it doesn't feel like captivity anymore. It feels like sanctuary. Like protection. Like where I belong.
Clark's body is rigid with tension beneath my hands, his anger still palpable in the set of his shoulders, the tight grip of his hands on the handlebars. He's furious with me, I know. For running. For putting myself in danger. For almost getting taken by his enemies.
But he came for me. Found me. Saved me.
And as the compound comes into view, as we pass through the gate I so recently escaped under, I realize a terrible, wonderful truth: I'm not running from Clark anymore.
I'm running to him.