Chapter 4 Destiny
Destiny
I sleep like a brick. Not even the thrum of distant music can pierce the fog, not until the sun itself glares through the thin curtains, a silent partner in the crime of waking me.
My eyes crack open, gritty with last night’s exhaustion.
I expect to see the broad, unforgiving line of his back.
Instead, the space beside me is empty, the sheets cool.
A flicker of what should be relief is snuffed out before it can catch; the heavy feeling of being watched is a physical weight on my skin.
He’s there, propped against the wall. He’s frowning, his eyes shadowed and fixed on me. A couple of plastic bags sit at his boots, rustling softly in the draft from the window. He looks wrecked.
“Watching me sleep?” I push myself up, the movement sending a dull ache through my shoulders.
I try to curl my fingers and… nothing. A dead, numb weight.
My frown deepens, and I hate, I truly hate, the wave of pathetic relief that washes through me when he pushes off the wall and pulls a key from his pocket.
He doesn’t even bother denying it. The cold metal falls away from my wrist, and the click as he reattaches the cuff to his belt is the loudest sound in the room.
“I got you things to wear.” The words are bitten off, angry. He jerks his chin toward the bags. “Find something that fits.”
My eyebrows lift before I can school my features. Why? Why go to the trouble? Keeping him in my peripheral vision, I slide off the bed, my bare feet cold on the grimy floor. I approach the bags as if they might bite.
Inside, a jumble of shirts and jeans in different sizes, all basic, washed-out colors.
My fingers brush against a plastic-wrapped pack of cotton underwear, and a small smile touches my lips.
I can just picture him, a mountain of a man, flushed with humiliation in some supermarket aisle.
But as I dig deeper, my smile falters. No bra.
Of course not. The thought probably never even crossed his mind.
His expertise in women clearly doesn’t extend past restraint.
I stare at the small pile of fabric, my brows pulling together. This… this must have cost him. A not-insignificant chunk of the cash he probably stuffs in his pocket.
“Let me guess, not good enough?” An impatient, gruff sound rumbles from him. When I look up, his frown has deepened, etched into his face like stone.
I decide on honesty, the plastic crinkling nervously in my grip. “I don’t understand.” I meet his gaze, holding it. “Why would you do this?”
He tears his eyes away, a defensive wall slamming down as his arms cross over his chest. “If you have no place to go, then this is going to have to be your home until… you leave. You’re going to need clothes.
Penelope wrote up a list for me. You’ll find razors and toothbrushes in one of those bags.
Make sure to thank her when we get breakfast.”
The longer I stare at him, trying to figure out his angle, the more he shifts in discomfort.
A memory, hot and unwelcome, flashes behind my eyes.
Last night. His calloused hands, not restraining but…
freeing. The shock of a pleasure so addicting, it numbed the pain.
A flush creeps up my neck, and I have to look away, focusing on a crack in the floorboards.
Clearing his throat, he drifts toward the door. “Get dressed.”
Before he can leave, words leave my lips that I never expected to be aimed at someone wearing leather.
“Thank you. For this, I mean.” For this. Not for the rest of it. Not for the cuffs or the confusion or the memory of his hands that I can’t seem to scrub from my mind.
He grunts, a low sound that vibrates in the small space. “I’ll be on the other side. Don’t take all day.”
When the door shuts, I’m left alone with my clouded thoughts and the new clothes.
As I’m ripping off tags, my chest aches with a torrent of conflicting feelings.
The practical part of me catalogs his kindness, the frightened part remembers his violence, and a treacherous, newly awakened part is still humming from his touch.
I can’t let any more tears spill. What’s done is done. For now, I’ll play this carefully and figure out what I need to do while I’m here.
Getting dressed, I find him where he said he’d be. With a pinched expression, he’s staring down the long hall of doors, a sentinel in leather and denim.
“Where are we?” Clearing my throat, I shift under his eyes when he turns his gaze my way. The intensity of it makes my skin prickle up with goosebumps. “Meadow Falls?”
“Willowbrook Ridge.” He purses his lips and starts shrugging off his vest—the one that marks him as theirs—before I stop him.
“I’ll be fine.” The lie is for both of us. Moving before he can notice the fresh flush on my skin, I lead while he follows, hyper-aware of his presence at my back. “So, what is this? Some kind of hideout?”
“Steelwood MC’s clubhouse.” He grunts his displeasure as he eliminates the space between us with his longer strides. “It’s our hangout spot.”
Entering a room with a couch and a table, he points to the door that separates us from the music playing on the other side. Pushing through, I take in the back of the bar. When I stop, I feel his heat seeping into my back. He’s so sturdy, it’s laughable.
“Are you hungry?” Looking down at me, his brows furrow. “You’ll have to talk to Pen.”
I turn my gaze to the woman who’s all smiles as she pours drinks. Just thinking about going over there, surrounding myself with those in leather, has my heart racing. Without thinking, I try to take a step back, but end up stepping on his boot.
Before panic can settle in, I feel a firm warmth against my shoulder. Hammer’s fingers curl against my body, and he squeezes hard enough to ground me. The pressure is not a punishment, but a way that drowns out the urge to flee.
“Wait here.” Planting the order, he leaves my side to approach the bar.
I notice the way that some of the bikers immediately get out of his way. Moving over to an empty booth, I take a seat and stare at the table. A glass of orange juice appears next to my hand before Hammer slinks into the seat across from me.
Sniffing the glass, it doesn’t have the stench of alcohol. Taking a sip confirms it’s safe to drink.
“She’ll have something in a minute.” He watches me drink, his eyes staring hard as he goes silent for a few passing peaceful seconds. “How’d you end up with Crimson Road?”
My next swallow catches in the back of my throat, and I almost choke. When my brows pinch together, he doesn’t push. Instead, he just stares. All he’s done is stare at me. It’s unsettling, but now I recognize the calculation in it, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
“I didn’t. My father did.” My stomach clenches. “He had a gambling addiction. Spent money he didn’t have in their casino.”
“He trade you off?” Resting his cheek against his propped-up hand, he cocks a brow. “To pay the debt?”
Sounding like he’s seen it before, he’s so casual about it. He doesn’t flinch when I scowl.
“Asking from experience?” Pain fills my limbs just thinking about it. “Do you offer such a thing, or are you like them, pulling the trigger first?”
Hammer scowls, his face matching mine. “We don’t do that here.”
“Right.” I scoff, looking away from him. “Because you guys are the good guys?”
He taps his fingers against the table, and I can feel his irritation. Seems like I’m testing his patience more and more. “I’ve only helped you since I found you. In that shipping container. I got you food and water when we arrived. Hell, even last night—”
“Stop.” Shaking my head, I sigh into my hands, my cheeks burning. “Don’t talk about last night.”
He grunts, leaving it at that, but the unspoken thing hangs between us, thick and heavy.
We frown at each other for what feels like an eternity. I’m the first one to break eye contact.
“…They somehow knew about me. I don’t know how, but my father wouldn’t have offered me up like that.” Curling against the table, I blink a few times. “They wouldn’t have killed him if it were a trade. My mother tried to stop them, but they killed her for it. Left them both there to bleed out.”
By the time I finish speaking, I realize my cheeks are wet. Angrily, I swipe at the streaks.
Hammer doesn’t mock me for it. Instead, his gaze softens almost imperceptibly, and he pulls out his phone. “We can get their bodies.”
“What?” Choking on the word, I shake my head.
“If they’re still there.” He continues with a grim look. “We have a guy. He can lay them to rest. Will that put you at ease? Make this transition easier?”
This man, who cufffed me to a bed, is now offering me the only peace and closure I can ever hope to have. The contradiction is staggering.
“Who…?”
He offers me his phone, a message already half-typed.
At the top, Hammer’s got the contact saved as Grim.
“We call him the Grim Reaper. He collects bodies and disposes of them however we need.” He turns when Penelope calls for him.
“Put the location, and tell him what you want done. Simple as that.”
I’m caught off guard when he leaves me with his phone, with this profound trust.
Emotions clash around in my body, and it feels like my heart is at war. It wants to beat in sorrow, but it also wants to flutter because of the kindness Hammer offers without prompting.
Following him with my eyes for a few seconds, I swallow thickly.
Just thinking about my parents being alone makes my body throb.
Exhausted from being in pain, I type out our address.
Trying to figure out what he means by ‘what I want done’, my heart aches.
Dad mentioned wanting to be cremated a few times.
I don’t think my mother ever cared enough to voice her opinion.
So, I request their bodies to be cremated.
Can I request their urns? Unsure, I type it out and send the message.
He returns with a plate of scrambled eggs and toast made from a hamburger bun. Taking back his phone, he slides it into his pocket without even checking it. He trusted me completely.
“Thanks.” Sinking my teeth into the toast, I clear my throat, my voice smaller than I intend. “For this, and for that. I… I appreciate it.” The words are inadequate, but they’re all I have.
His eyes soften to the point where the pain eases again. I don’t know how he does it, but I don’t mind having him here with me to keep my mind distracted.
The only thing he demands in return is that I eat every bite, leaving nothing behind. Sounds easy enough.