Chapter 9 #2
A man materializes beside Legion like he's been summoned from smoke.
Older than the others, with a face weathered into permanent vigilance.
His leather cut is different—heavier with patches, worn like a second skin rather than a uniform.
The patch at the top reads "President" in faded stitching. Below it, "Brick."
The man who holds Legion's loyalty.
He's speaking to Legion, but his eyes are fixed on me. Not examining my body like the others. Not assessing my worth or my use. He's looking at me, like he's trying to read what's written under my skin.
"What do we call her?" Brick asks Legion, his voice cutting through the murmur of conversation.
The room goes silent.
Everyone is watching us. Waiting. I realize with sudden clarity that this is some kind of test or ritual. My name—my real name—doesn't matter here. What matters is what Legion claims me as.
Legion doesn't hesitate. Doesn't even blink.
"Mine," he says, pointing to his chest. Simple. Direct. Like it's the only answer that could ever exist. "You will all call her Mine."
The word drops between us, heavy with meaning. Not a question. Not a request. A statement of fact.
Brick's weathered face remains impassive for a heartbeat. Two. Then something like approval flickers across his features. He lifts his pint glass, the amber liquid catching light as he raises it high.
"Everyone say hello to 'Not Mine'!" he announces to the room, his voice carrying authority without volume.
A chorus of rough voices echoes back: "Hello, Not Mine!"
I feel my face crack into another smile—looser than before, whiskey-warm and genuine. This is absurd. This whole night is absurd. I should be terrified or outraged. Instead, I'm floating somewhere between fear and fascination, watching myself become something new.
Legion's hand slides down my back, settling possessively on my ass. He squeezes once, firm enough to claim but gentle over the bruises I know are forming there. He leans in close, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin below my ear.
"Mine," he whispers, just for me.
The word shivers through me like a current. I take a deep breath, feeling my chest expand against his borrowed shirt, and nod.
Yes. His. At least for tonight, I am only this: the thing Legion wants bad enough to fight for.
"Hey, Demon." A man slides up beside me, bumping my shoulder.
I blink at him, trying to focus. His cut says Chains. He's holding a black Sharpie between tattooed fingers, tapping it against Legion's head like a schoolyard taunt.
"Want me to mark her for you?" he asks, waggling the marker.
I open my mouth to say something—what, I don't know—but I'm distracted by his eye.
One is normal, dark brown. The other is a vivid, unnatural red, like something from a horror film.
It catches the light weirdly, too glossy.
I stare at it, forgetting everything my mama taught me about polite society.
That eye can't be real. It's glass, or plastic, or something else entirely. But it moves with the other one, tracking back and forth. I can't look away from it.
I'm so fixated on the man's freakish eye that I don't register what's happening until Legion's fingers curl under the hem of my borrowed t-shirt. He lifts the fabric, exposing my tits.
"Just go with it," Legion murmurs in my ear, his breath warm against my skin.
A laugh bubbles up from my chest—not my camera laugh, not my charity function laugh—but something genuine and slightly hysterical. I'm standing in an outlaw biker clubhouse with my tits exposed while a one-eyed man uncaps a Sharpie with his teeth.
The marker is cold against my skin. Inciting chills that quickly pull my breasts up, making my nipples tighten. Chains works with surprising delicacy, the tip of the Sharpie tracing over the curves of my body with skill.
The chemical smell rises, sharp and familiar. I don't resist. I stand still, feeling the slight tickle as Chains moves the marker with unexpected precision. He's looking at me with both eyes now—the normal one and the red one—and there's something like respect in his gaze.
"There," he says, stepping back to admire his handiwork.
I look down. Across my tits, in thick black letters that curve with my body, he's written: PROPERTY OF DEMON.
And the letters are nice too. Tattoo letters, I realize. Not handwriting. This man, covered in ink, must be the one who does all the drawing.
I am not a tattoo girl, but I like this claim.
I want everyone to see it so I turn and face the club. All eyes on me, again. And I yell it. Loud and clear.
"Property of Demon!"
When I find Legions face again, his eyes are smilin’. And it might be the most real smile I've ever seen on him. They move from the words on my skin to my face, and I see what he’s not saying.
I did it. I made them like me.
No, that's not quite right. I made them accept me as his.
As Legion's.
As belonging to the man they call Demon.
The room shifts around us, the energy changing. Men nod at Legion as they pass, lifting their drinks in silent acknowledgment. A few slap his shoulder or bump fists with him. Someone whistles, and another voice calls out something crude that makes Legion's jaw tighten briefly before relaxing again.
I lean against him, drunk, and drugged, and happy. Feeling the solid wall of his chest behind me. His arms wrap around my waist, holding me steady. His fingers trace the edge of the letters on my skin, following Chains' work.
Then he pulls the shirt back down, hiding his claim. Because everyone knows who I am now.
His.
"How's it feel?" Legion whispers, his lips against my ear.
I don't know how to answer. How does it feel to be branded as someone's property? How does it feel to have thrown away everything I was raised to be, everything my mother built, for this man and this moment?
It feels like freedom.
It feels like falling.
It feels like the first honest thing I've done in years.