Chapter 5
five
. . .
Wynter
The compound rises out of the desert like some kind of dystopian fortress.
Chain-link fence topped with razor wire surrounds a cluster of buildings—a large central structure flanked by smaller ones, all looking industrial and unwelcoming.
Motorcycles line the gravel lot, chrome glinting in the harsh sun like weapons on display.
My throat tightens as Vance's truck rumbles through the gate, which closes behind us with an ominous clang.
This isn't just another world from my quiet small-town life—it's another planet entirely. And apparently, it's my new home.
"We're here," Vance announces unnecessarily, cutting the engine. He looks over at me, expression softening slightly. "Don't be scared, baby doll. No one here will touch you. They know better."
That's not exactly reassuring.
Men emerge from the main building as we pull up—big men with hard eyes and harder expressions, most sporting beards and tattoos. They're all cut from the same cloth as Vance, though none quite match his imposing size. They regard the truck with curious eyes, clearly wondering who I am.
"Stay close to me," Vance says, climbing out. He comes around to my side and practically lifts me from the seat, keeping one massive arm around my waist as he guides me toward the group.
"Boss! You're back early," calls one of the men, a stocky guy with a salt-and-pepper beard. His eyes shift to me with undisguised curiosity. "And not alone."
"Boys," Vance's voice carries an undercurrent of authority that makes everyone stand a little straighter. "Meet Wynter. My wife."
The word lands like a grenade, silent shock rippling through the assembled men.
"Your..." The bearded man recovers first, eyebrows shooting up. "Well, shit. Congratulations?"
"Thanks, Diesel." Vance's arm tightens around me possessively. "Where's everyone else?"
"Supply run. Back tomorrow." Diesel's eyes are still fixed on me, assessing. "No offense, but you don't look like his usual type."
"She's not," Vance answers before I can speak. "She's better. Get the bags from the truck."
Diesel nods, gesturing to a couple of younger guys who immediately move to obey. I stand awkwardly, acutely aware of how out of place I must look—a small-town librarian in jeans and a t-shirt, surrounded by leather-clad bikers who look like they eat girls like me for breakfast.
"This is Diesel, my second," Vance explains to me. "And that's Knuckles, Ripper, and Snake." He points to each man in turn, but their names blur together in my mind—they all sound like villains from a bad action movie.
"Nice to meet you," I say automatically, my small-town manners kicking in despite everything.
Several of them chuckle, exchanging glances that make me flush with embarrassment. I've clearly said something amusing, though I don't know what.
"Polite little thing," mutters one—Ripper or Snake, I can't remember which.
"Damn right she is," Vance's voice carries a warning edge. "And you'll all be just as polite back. Clear?"
Nods all around. The message is received—I may be an oddity, but I'm their leader's oddity, and to be treated with respect.
Vance guides me toward the main building, a concrete structure that looks like it might have been a warehouse in a previous life.
Inside, it's been converted into a clubhouse of sorts—open central area with mismatched furniture, a large bar along one wall, pool tables, and various motorcycle paraphernalia adorning the walls.
The air smells of cigarettes, leather, and motor oil.
"Club space," Vance explains briefly, leading me through it. Men nod deferentially as we pass. "Living quarters are separate."
We exit through a back door into a courtyard, then to a smaller building off to the side.
Inside, the space is surprisingly nice—still masculine and minimalist, but clean and well-appointed.
A large living area with leather couches, a decent kitchen, and down a short hallway, a bedroom with the biggest bed I've ever seen.
"Your things will be brought in," Vance says, closing the door behind us. "Hungry?"
I shake my head, too overwhelmed to think about food. This is real. I'm really here, in the middle of nowhere, with a man I barely know who seems to think he owns me.
"I need to use the bathroom," I say, spotting a door off the bedroom.
Vance nods. "Make yourself comfortable. This is your home now."
The bathroom is unexpectedly luxurious—a huge walk-in shower, double sinks, even a jacuzzi tub. I close the door and lean against it, finally alone with my thoughts for the first time since this morning.
This is insane. I need help. I need to get out of here.
My phone. I still have my phone.
I dig it out of my pocket with trembling hands. There's signal, thank God. I pull up my contacts, thumb hovering over my best friend Melanie's number. She'll help. She'll tell me what to do.
The door opens before I can hit call. I didn't even hear footsteps.
Vance stands in the doorway, his massive frame blocking any escape. His eyes drop to the phone in my hand, and something dangerous flashes in their depths.
"Who are you calling?" His voice is deceptively soft.
"I—" I clutch the phone tighter. "My friend. To let her know I'm okay."
"Let me see." He holds out his hand, an order not a request.
"It's my phone," I protest.
In two strides he's across the bathroom. He doesn't grab it from me, but his presence is so overwhelming I find myself surrendering it without further struggle.
He glances at the screen, then pockets my phone. "No outside calls. Not yet."
"You can't just take my phone!" Indignation cuts through my fear. "I have rights!"
"You have safety," he corrects, crowding me against the sink. "You think those are just ordinary bikers out there? We've got enemies, baby doll. Rival clubs that would love to know I've got a wife now. A weakness they could exploit."
"I wasn't going to announce it on social media," I snap. "I was calling my best friend!"
"And what would you tell her? That you need rescuing?" His eyes narrow. "That you want to leave your husband after less than a day?"
"You're not—" I stop, because technically he is. My husband. The thought makes me dizzy. "This isn't real. None of this is real."
His hand comes up to cup my face, surprisingly gentle for such a large man.
"It's the most real thing I've ever felt," he says, voice dropping to that deep rumble that vibrates through me.
"From the moment I saw you, something clicked into place.
Like finding a missing piece I didn't know was gone. "
The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. This isn't just possession or lust—at least, not only that. There's something else, something that makes my chest tighten in a way I don't want to examine too closely.
"I don't know you," I whisper. "And you don't know me."
"I know enough." His thumb traces my lower lip. "I know you're kind. I know you're smart. I know your body loves it when I’m balls deep in you, promising to get you pregnant.”
As if to prove his point, his other hand slides to my hip, drawing me against him. Despite everything, my traitorous body reacts, heat pooling low in my belly.
"I know you're scared," he continues. "And I know I'll protect you with my life. That's what being my wife means."
"It should mean trust," I counter, trying to ignore how his proximity affects me. "Which includes not stealing my phone."
A muscle in his jaw tightens. "Trust goes both ways, baby doll. You weren't planning to tell your friend where you are so she could call the cops?"
My silence is answer enough.
"That's what I thought." His grip tightens on my hip. "I'm not the bad guy here. I'm keeping you safe."
"By making me a prisoner?"
Something dark and possessive flashes in his eyes. "By keeping what's mine close."
"I'm not yours!" The words burst out, fueled by fear and frustration and this maddening attraction I can't seem to control. "I'm not a possession!"
"No?" In one fluid motion, he lifts me onto the bathroom counter, stepping between my spread thighs. "Then why does your body say otherwise? Why do you get wet when I touch you? When I call you mine?"
His hand slides up my inner thigh, finding the damning evidence of my arousal through my jeans. I can't help the small sound that escapes me.
"Your mind might be fighting it," he growls, pressing against the seam of my pants, "but your body knows the truth. It knows you belong to me."
"That's just…physical," I gasp as his fingers work against me. "It doesn't mean anything."
"Bullshit." He captures my mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing my protests. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with hunger. "It means everything."
Before I can form a coherent response, he's lifting me off the counter, carrying me back into the bedroom. My back hits the wall with a thud, his body pinning me there as he attacks my neck with hot, open-mouthed kisses.
"Stop," I whisper, but my hands are clutching his shoulders, pulling him closer.
"You don't want me to stop," he murmurs against my skin. "You want me to make you feel good. Let Daddy take care of his little girl."
That word again—Daddy—sending inappropriate heat through me. What is wrong with me that I respond to this? That I let this man who's practically kidnapped me make me feel this way?
His hands make quick work of my jeans, shoving them down along with my underwear. I hear his zipper, feel the blunt pressure of him against my entrance.
"Tell me you want it," he demands, holding back despite his obvious need. "Tell me you want Daddy to fill you up."
I should say no. I should fight. Instead, I hear myself whisper, "Yes…please."
"Please what?" He teases me with just the tip, making me whimper.
"Please…Daddy." The word comes easier now, shameful heat flooding me as I say it.
He rewards me by thrusting home in one powerful stroke, filling me completely. My head falls back against the wall as he begins to move, hard and fast, each thrust lifting me slightly off the ground.
"That's it," he praises, voice rough with exertion. "Take all of Daddy's cock. So fucking tight. So perfect."
My legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his lower back as he pounds into me. One of his hands supports my weight while the other grips my hair, angling my face for his demanding kisses.
"You belong to me," he growls against my lips. "This sweet pussy belongs to me."
"Vance," I gasp, feeling the tension building inside me already.
"Say it," he demands, slowing his pace torturously. "Say you belong to me."
"I—I can't—"
He stops entirely, holding me on the edge. "Say it."
"I belong to you," I whisper, surrender and defiance mingling in my voice.
It's enough. He roars and resumes his relentless pace, driving me higher and higher. "You belong to me now, baby doll," he groans, his rhythm becoming erratic. "Feel how wet you are for Daddy's seed?"
I can't answer, too lost in sensation. His hand snakes between us, finding my clit with unerring accuracy, circling roughly.
"Come for me," he commands. "Come on Daddy's cock like a good little girl."
The orgasm hits me like a tidal wave, my inner walls clamping down on him as pleasure radiates through my body. I cry out his name, nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks even through his shirt.
He follows with a guttural groan, hips jerking as he empties himself inside me, pinning me to the wall with the force of his release. For long moments we stay joined, his forehead resting against mine, our breathing gradually slowing.
When he finally lowers me to my feet, my legs are shaky, my mind a confused jumble of emotions. Part of me is horrified at how easily I gave in, how readily my body responds to his dominance. Another part—a part I'm increasingly afraid of—is thrilled by it.
"You can have your phone back tomorrow," he says, tucking himself away and straightening his clothes. "After I’ve fixed it.”
It's a concession, small as it is. I pull up my jeans, trying to reclaim some dignity.
"Why me?" I ask suddenly, needing to understand. "Out of all the women in Vegas, why fixate on me?"
He studies me for a long moment, his expression softening slightly. "Because you look at the world like it's still good. Like you still believe in it." His hand cups my cheek. "I lost that a long time ago. But when I look at you, I can see it again."
The simple honesty in his voice catches me off guard, making my throat tight with unexpected emotion.
"I'm still angry about the phone," I manage to say, unwilling to examine the warmth his words create.
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. "I'd be disappointed if you weren't, baby doll. That fire's part of what I love about you."
Love. The word hangs between us, too new and terrifying to acknowledge.
"I'm starving," I say instead, changing the subject.
"Then let's feed you." He takes my hand, leading me back toward the kitchen. "Welcome home, wife."
And despite everything, despite all logic and reason, a small treacherous part of me whispers that maybe, just maybe, this could be home after all.