Watched By Blade (Damned Saints MC #7)

Chapter 1

Violet

The bass hits my ribs like a second heartbeat.

It was a mistake the second we stepped through the doors. I knew it then. I know it now. The air is too warm, too thick, and every light is designed to make you feel like you are either wanted or invisible.

Right now, I am both.

The VIP area sits on a raised platform, a velvet rope guarded by men in black who stand like statues. Bottles glow on a glass table. People laugh too loudly. A girl in a red dress is perched on a man’s lap like that is the most natural thing in the world.

My best friend, Lyla, is on the opposite leather couch, leaned in close to a guy with shiny shoes and a smile that looks practiced.

She is having the time of her life.

I am counting the minutes until I can go home.

I clutch my drink with both hands, even though it’s gone warm from my grip. I don’t remember ordering it. I take a sip anyway. Something sweet. Something stupid. It tastes like syrup and regret.

Lyla throws her head back laughing, and the guy beside her reaches to tuck her hair behind her ear like he owns the right to touch her. She lets him. She looks at me like, See? Fun. You should try it too.

I try to give her a smile that does not look like a plea.

I do not belong here.

I belong behind the register at the supermarket, scanning groceries, asking people if they want a bag, keeping my head down, saving my money.

I belong in my tiny apartment where the radiator clicks all night because it’s really cold outside and the building is old.

I belong in quiet.

Instead, I’m here, in a club in Silverbrook Valley that opened two weeks ago, surrounded by men with expensive watches and eyes that travel too slowly.

The guy on my left shifts closer.

He already told me his name five minutes ago like it mattered. Like it was a gift.

I forgot it on purpose.

He leans in now, elbow on the back of the couch behind me, body angled like a trap. He smells like expensive cologne and liquor. His smile is sharp, like he practices it in mirrors.

“You’re quiet,” he says. “I like that.”

My throat tightens. I take a sip of my drink. It does not help.

“Just tired,” I say.

“Tired,” he repeats, like it’s funny. “You don’t look tired. You look like you’re waiting for someone to rescue you from your boring life.”

My stomach drops.

I force a laugh. The survival kind. The kind that says, I’m small. I’m harmless. You don’t need to get mean.

“I’m fine. I’m not waiting for anybody,” I say.

He reaches out and taps my knee with two fingers. Casual. Testing.

Every muscle in my body goes rigid.

I scoot subtly away. It’s barely an inch. He notices anyway.

His smile changes. It stays on his mouth, but it leaves his eyes.

“Don’t do that,” he says softly.

It’s the softness that scares me more than yelling would.

I glance toward my best friend. She’s still wrapped up in her guy, her cheeks flushed, her mouth close to his ear. She’s gone, even though she’s right there.

This is what I get for letting her talk me into it.

“Come on, Vi,” she’d said earlier, eyes bright, phone in her hand. “We never go out. Just once. It’s a new place. We’ll be together the whole time.”

Together, except when we got pulled into VIP and she forgot I existed.

The guy beside me takes my glass from my hand like it’s nothing. Like I won’t protest. He sets it on the table. Then he puts his hand on my thigh again, higher this time.

My breath catches.

I grab his wrist. Not hard. Just enough for him to feel the refusal.

“Please don’t,” I say.

His gaze flicks to my hand on him, then back to my face. He looks amused. Like I just said something cute.

“Why?” he asks. “You think you’re special?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

Because I don’t know you. Because you’re too close. Because my skin is crawling. Because I can feel my mother’s life in my bones, the bad choices, the nights she brought men home and told me to stay in my room, and the mornings after when the house smelled like stale beer and shame.

Because I learned early that men like this don’t ask. They take.

Because my brother, Derek, taught me how to keep my keys between my fingers and how to watch my drink and how to never accept a ride from someone I wouldn’t trust with my address.

Because I’m twenty-three and I’ve never been touched the way men in clubs assume they can touch you.

Because I’m still a virgin, and I always thought the first time would be something other than fear.

I swallow hard and force the words out anyway. “Because I said no.”

His hand tightens under mine. He doesn’t yank away. He just holds still, like he’s letting me exhaust myself.

Then he leans closer, mouth near my ear.

“You don’t get to say no to me,” he says. “Not if I’ve already chosen you.”

My blood turns to ice.

For a second, everything goes quiet in my head even though the music keeps pounding.

I let go of his wrist. My fingers go numb.

He smiles as if we’re sharing a secret.

I look down at my phone in my lap. My hands shake. I press my thighs together like that will keep me safe.

I should get up. I should walk away. I should grab my friend’s arm and drag her out.

But there are guards at the rope. There are men around us. My best friend is distracted. The guy beside me is blocking my path with his knee angled in.

My lungs feel too small.

Panic rises fast, hot in my throat.

My mother died five years ago, yellowed eyes and a hospital room that smelled like antiseptic and old regret. Liver disease, the doctor said. Like it was a weather report. Like it wasn’t the inevitable end of every bottle she chose over us.

“Two different fathers,” she used to slur when she wanted to hurt me. “Two different men who never took responsibility. You really think anyone stays, Violet?”

Derek stayed.

Derek is twelve years older than me. When I was six and he was eighteen, he started working two jobs and coming home with groceries and bruised knuckles.

He didn’t have to raise me, but he did. He became my parent while he was still barely an adult.

He learned how to sign my school papers.

He learned how to cook pasta. He learned how to look at men like this and make them back off.

Then he joined the army when I turned eighteen. He said he needed a paycheck that could keep a roof over my head without him breaking his body at a construction site. He said it like it was no big deal.

It was everything.

The last time Derek came home on leave, he gave me a number.

“If you ever need help,” he said, “you text this. You don’t wait. You don’t second-guess yourself. You text.”

I stare at my phone now, fingers trembling.

I’ve never used it.

I never met the man Derek told me about. Derek only said he was someone he trusted. Someone who would come.

The guy beside me leans back, too relaxed. Too sure.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get out of here. My place is close.”

“No,” I say, too quickly.

He lets his eyes sweep over my hips, my thighs. “You shouldn’t act like you’ve got options,” he says softly. “Not with that body. Be realistic.”

His hand moves again, fingers pressing into my thigh like he’s testing how much pressure it takes before I break.

I cannot breathe.

I tilt my phone so he can’t see the screen and open messages. My thumb hovers.

This is stupid. This is dramatic. He’s just talking.

That’s what my brain tries to tell me, because my brain is trained to keep the peace. To smooth things over. To survive.

Then his hand shifts higher and he murmurs, “You’re coming with me.”

My thumb moves on its own.

Unknown Number

“I need help. Please.”

I hit send.

The message shows delivered.

I stare at it like it might bite me.

Ten seconds pass.

Twenty.

My chest hurts.

Then the phone buzzes in my hand.

Unknown Number: “Where are you?”

Relief hits me so hard I almost cry.

I type with shaking fingers.

Violet: “Silverbrook Valley. New club. VIP area. I’m with my friend. A man won’t leave me alone.”

A pause. Two seconds.

Unknown Number: “Keep your phone on you. Stall. Act natural. I’ll be there in 30 minutes tops.”

Something fragile lifts in my chest.

Thirty minutes.

Thirty minutes feels like forever and also like a miracle.

I glance at the guy beside me. He’s watching me now, eyes narrowed slightly.

“Who are you texting?” he asks.

My heartbeat stutters.

My brain scrambles for something normal, something harmless.

“My friend,” I say, lifting my chin toward the couch like I’ve been texting her the whole time. “She’s… distracted.”

He smirks. “Yeah. She’s busy.”

He reaches for my phone like he thinks he can take it.

I pull it back fast. Too fast.

His smile drops.

“You’re making this weird,” he says.

I force a laugh again. It sounds wrong. Thin.

“I’m just checking in,” I say. “I should probably use the bathroom.”

He leans in, blocking my line of sight toward the exit. “You can go later.”

My skin goes tight, like it’s warning me before my brain catches up.

“I’m going now,” I say, pushing to my feet before he can decide I’m not allowed.

He starts to rise. I slip past him, weaving toward the hallway marked RESTROOMS, shoulder brushing strangers, breath coming shallow.

The women’s bathroom is narrow and loud, two stalls and a spotless mirror, the floor already sticky under my boots.

I lock myself into the far stall and press my forehead to the metal door.

Thirty minutes.

I stare at my phone until the screen dims, then wake it again, counting seconds like they’re coins.

When I finally breathe, it hurts. I hate that my body wants to apologize for taking up space.

A knock hits the stall door. “Hey,” a woman calls over the music. “He wants you back out there.”

My mouth goes dry. “Tell him I’m sick,” I say. “I’ll be out.”

Her heels click away. I stay where I am until my hands stop shaking.

By the time I splash cold water on my wrists and fix my face in the mirror, twenty minutes are gone.

Ten minutes left.

I step out of the bathroom with every intention of walking straight to the exit.

Just act casual, Violet!

I barely make it two steps before one of the VIP guards shifts into my path.

He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t smile.

“VIP’s this way,” he says, gesturing back toward the lounge.

Like I forgot.

Like leaving was never really an option.

My throat tightens. I nod, because arguing would draw attention. Because attention feels dangerous.

So I turn.

I walk back toward VIP, trying to look steady, praying I’ve already been replaced. That I wasn’t worth the trouble.

He’s still there.

His eyes find mine, and he rises from the couch. He closes the distance in three steps.

I look at my best friend again, desperate. She’s still laughing, head tipped back, the guy’s hand around her waist, like I didn’t disappear for almost half an hour.

Right now, I hate her. A sharp, ugly resentment flickers, and guilt follows right after.

“Come on,” he says, impatience rolling off him. “Let’s go.”

I swallow hard.

Stall. Act natural.

I take a breath and force my face into something calmer. I’ve had years of practice pretending everything is fine. Years of walking through bad moments like they’re nothing because making a scene only makes people angrier.

“Okay,” I say, soft. “Can I say goodbye to my friend first?”

His eyes narrow. He’s deciding if he should allow it.

He does, but only because he thinks he already won.

“Make it quick,” he says.

I scoot toward Lyla, forcing my legs to move even though they feel like they belong to someone else. I lean close to her ear.

“Hey,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I want to go.”

She pulls back, blinking like she forgot I was there. “What? Why?”

My eyes flick toward the guy behind me. “I just do.”

She frowns, annoyed, and I feel something crack inside me. Because she doesn’t see it. She doesn’t feel it. She’s in her bubble, and I’m outside it alone.

“You’re being dramatic,” she says, and laughs like it’s cute. “Relax, Vi. Have another drink.”

I can’t.

My hands shake. I lace my fingers together until my knuckles ache.

He steps in behind me, close enough that his breath brushes my hair.

“Time,” he says.

I look at my friend. I want to scream. I want to grab her and drag her out anyway. I want to beg.

But my mouth won’t form the words. Because what do I say? I’m scared. A man is threatening me. He thinks he owns me.

She’ll roll her eyes. She’ll say I’m paranoid. She’ll say it’s flirting.

So I do the only thing I can do.

I lie.

“Okay,” I say, forcing a smile. “I’ll just get some air. I’ll be right back.”

She waves me off like I’m a kid.

My stomach twists.

The guy’s hand clamps around my wrist. Light, controlled, and inescapable.

“We’re going,” he says.

“Okay,” I say, voice too light. “I just need some air. It’s hot in here.”

He studies me.

I can feel the seconds crawling.

Almost thirty minutes.

I look down at my phone again, thumb hovering over the screen like it’s a lifeline.

My heart pounds so hard I can hear it over the music.

The guy tugs my wrist. I stumble, forced to stand. The room tilts a little.

He steps toward the rope. The guard doesn’t even look surprised. Just nods and clears the way.

Like this is routine. Like I’m already property being escorted out.

My chest tightens until it hurts.

He bends closer, voice low and certain.

“You do what I want,” he says. “And I’ll be generous.”

My vision blurs.

I focus on one thing.

The exit.

Then the club doors slam open hard enough to rattle the glass.

A gust of freezing air rolls in, sharp and real, cutting through sweat and perfume and smoke.

Conversation stutters. Heads turn.

My skin erupts in goosebumps.

A man steps inside, and the room shifts around him like everyone senses he isn’t here to play.

He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t search the room. He moves straight toward me, cutting through bodies with calm purpose.

I forget how to breathe.

Please let that be him.

Derek never showed me a picture. I wouldn’t know his face.

Please don’t let this get worse.

My lungs unlock anyway, heat slipping through me like relief I don’t trust yet.

Like the air right before lightning splits the sky.

His gaze locks on mine from across the crowd, and the panic in my chest stalls, replaced by something heavier. Something sure.

My pulse spikes so fast it makes me dizzy.

The guy beside me shifts, confused, then irritated. “What the hell is this?”

The man coming toward us doesn’t look at him yet.

He keeps his eyes on me like I’m the only thing in the room that matters.

I can’t move.

I can’t blink.

Something inside me, something that has been braced for impact my whole life, goes suddenly, violently still.

Like it recognizes safety before my mind does.

The man stops in front of us, close enough that I can feel the cold clinging to him. Close enough that the air changes.

Then he finally turns his head toward the guy gripping my wrist.

His voice is low. Rough. Final.

“Get your hands off my woman.”

A beat passes.

“She’s mine.”

My brain should reject that.

Should panic at mine.

Instead, it feels right.

Heat rushes through me so fast my knees nearly give out.