Chapter 7
seven
. . .
Wynter
Three days at the compound, and I'm starting to learn the rhythms of this strange new world.
When to stay in our quarters, when it's safe to wander.
Which club members are friendly (Diesel, surprisingly) and which to avoid (Hammer, for obvious reasons).
Vance is in some kind of meeting—club business, he said, kissing me with surprising tenderness before leaving.
I'm not a prisoner exactly, but I'm not free either.
I exist in some nebulous in-between state: the president's wife, to be protected and avoided in equal measure.
I shouldn't be out walking alone, but curiosity drives me beyond the boundaries of our living space.
The compound is quieter in the afternoon heat, most members seeking shade or working in the air-conditioned garage.
I've been given back my phone, but with restrictions—no location services, no social media, no calling anyone Vance hasn't approved.
It's like being a teenager again, but with stakes infinitely higher.
I've told my friend Melanie I'm "taking some time away with a new guy"—not a lie, exactly, but so far from the complete truth it makes me queasy to think about.
I'm passing by one of the smaller outbuildings when voices drift through an open window. Men's voices, lowered but not quite whispering. Something about their tone makes me pause, flattening myself against the wall beside the window.
"...crazy even by club standards," someone is saying—sounds like Ripper, one of the younger members. "Remember that Bloodhounds raid last year? Five of them, armed to the teeth, and Vance walks in with just a knife."
"Walked out covered in their blood," another voice adds—Snake, I think. "Didn't even blink. Like it was nothing to him."
"Heard he did six months in state pen before joining the club. Beat a man half to death for looking at his sister wrong."
My stomach tightens. I know Vance is dangerous—everything about him screams it—but hearing specific examples makes it horrifyingly real.
"Presidents of three different clubs have standing orders not to engage if Vance is present," Ripper continues, something like awe in his voice. "They'd rather lose territory than face him."
"That's why Rogue's threat yesterday is such bullshit," Snake spits. "Like the Devils would ever hand over our president."
"You think they'll really come for him?"
"They can try. We all saw what happened to the last crew who thought they could take Vance down."
The conversation shifts to bikes and women, but I've heard enough. I push away from the wall, heart pounding, and walk quickly back toward our quarters. My mind spins with the implications of what I've just learned.
Vance isn't just some tough guy in a motorcycle club. He's a feared president with a reputation for extreme violence. A killer, most likely. And I'm married to him. Sharing his bed. Responding to his touch in ways that make me question everything I thought I knew about myself.
Why doesn't that terrify me more than it does?
I'm standing at the kitchen window, staring unseeing at the desert beyond, when the door opens. I don't need to turn to know it's Vance—his presence fills a room, changes the very air pressure.
"You okay, baby doll?" His voice is gentle, a stark contrast to the violence I now know lives in his hands.
I turn slowly to face him. He's imposing as ever—six-foot-six of solid muscle and dangerous intent. But his eyes, when they meet mine, hold something soft. Something that makes my heart stutter despite everything I've just learned.
"I heard some things," I say directly, deciding honesty is my only option. "About you. About what you've done."
His expression doesn't change, but something shutters behind his eyes. "What things?"
"The Bloodhounds raid. A man you beat half to death before joining the club. How rival presidents avoid you." I wrap my arms around myself. "Are they true?"
He studies me for a long moment, then nods once. "Yes."
Just that. No explanations, no justifications. Just raw honesty.
"Have you killed people?" The question falls from my lips before I can stop it.
"Yes." Again, that simple acknowledgment. "Men who would have killed me or my brothers if I hadn't acted first."
I should be running. I should be terrified. Instead, I'm standing my ground, trying to understand this man who's turned my world upside down.
"Is that what you do as president? Kill people?"
He moves toward me slowly, like I'm a skittish animal that might bolt. When he reaches me, he cups my face in hands that have done unspeakable things, yet touch me with unbearable gentleness.
"I protect what's mine," he says, voice low and intense. "The club. Our territory. And now, above all else, you."
"But violence—"
"Is sometimes necessary in my world." His thumb strokes my cheek. "I don't expect you to understand or approve. But I won't lie to you either."
The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. There's no remorse there, but no pleasure in the violence either. Just acceptance of what he sees as necessity.
"Aren't you afraid I'll run now that I know?" I ask, genuinely curious.
A small smile curves his lips. "Brave baby doll," he murmurs, something like pride in his voice. "Most women would be too scared to even ask these questions. But not you."
His praise shouldn't warm me. It does anyway.
"You're not running because deep down, you know what I've always known." His hand slides to the nape of my neck, gripping lightly. "You're mine. And I'll keep you safe, no matter what I have to do."
There's a possessive certainty in his words that should offend me but instead sends heat pooling low in my belly. What is wrong with me that his darkness calls to something in me?
"I shouldn't want you," I whisper, leaning into his touch despite myself. "Knowing what you are, what you've done."
"But you do." It's not a question.
"I do." The admission breaks something loose inside me.
I'm the one who moves first this time, rising on tiptoes to press my mouth to his. He responds immediately, gathering me against his massive frame like I'm something precious. The kiss deepens, becomes hungry, his tongue claiming my mouth the way he's claimed every other part of me.
His hands slide down to cup my ass, lifting me effortlessly. I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me to the couch, sitting down with me straddling his lap.
"That's it," he encourages as I rock against the hard ridge of his erection. "Show Daddy how much you want him."
The word still sends illicit thrills through me, especially now that I know just how forbidden this attraction truly is. I should be repelled by his violence, his possession, his control. Instead, I'm addicted to it.
He helps me strip off my top, his hands immediately covering my breasts, thumbs brushing over sensitive nipples. I gasp, arching into his touch.
"So responsive," he murmurs approvingly. "Such a good little girl for Daddy."
We shed clothes quickly, driven by a need that overwhelms all reason. When I'm naked, he lifts me slightly, positioning me over his thick length. Unlike our previous encounters, he lets me control the descent, watching with dark intensity as I lower myself onto him inch by agonizing inch.
"Fuck," I gasp when he's fully seated, stretching me almost beyond endurance.
"Language," he teases, hands guiding my hips in a slow rock. "Unless you're asking for something specific."
"I am," I manage, surprising myself with my boldness. "Fuck me…Daddy."
His eyes flash with heat and approval. "That's my girl. Taking what she wants."
I begin to move, finding a rhythm that has us both breathing hard. His hands grip my hips, helping guide me but letting me set the pace. It's different from before—I have more control, yet I'm still completely under his spell.
"Look at you," he praises, eyes devouring every inch of me. "So beautiful riding Daddy's cock. Like you were made for it."
His words should embarrass me. Instead, they embolden me. I move faster, taking him deeper, watching with satisfaction as his control begins to fray.
"That's it, baby doll," he groans, hips starting to thrust up to meet my downward movements. "Ride me. Take what you need."
One of his hands slides between us, finding my clit with unerring accuracy. The dual stimulation sends sparks shooting through me, pushing me rapidly toward the edge.
"You gonna come for me?" he asks, voice rough with desire. "Gonna come on Daddy's cock like a good little girl?"
"Yes," I gasp, the pressure building to unbearable levels. "Yes, Daddy, please—"
"Come," he commands, circling my clit faster. "Come for me now."
The orgasm crashes through me, making me cry out his name as my body convulses around him. He holds me through it, praising me, his fingers never stopping their skilled movements.
Before I can fully recover, he stands, still inside me, and turns to lay me on my back on the couch. Looming over me, he begins to thrust in earnest, chasing his own release.
"Going to fill you up," he growls, pace becoming erratic. "Going to put my baby in you. Make you mine forever."
The breeding talk—which should terrify me given our brief acquaintance—sends another wave of pleasure through me instead. I wrap my legs around him, urging him deeper.
"Yes," I whisper, caught in the moment, all reservations gone. "Make me yours."
With a roar, he buries himself to the hilt and comes, pulsing hot inside me. His face in that moment of release is beautiful in its vulnerability—the feared president completely undone.
Afterward, he gathers me against his chest, stroking my hair with surprising tenderness. We stay like that for long minutes, the sound of our breathing gradually slowing, returning to normal.
"You still scared of me?" he asks eventually, voice rumbling under my ear.
I consider the question seriously. "Not for me," I answer truthfully. "For anyone who looks at me…absolutely."
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest. "Smart girl."
We lapse back into silence, his hand making soothing circles on my back. I should be horrified at myself, at how easily I've fallen into this life, this relationship with a man who embodies everything I should fear. Instead, I feel something dangerously close to belonging.
"I don't understand what's happening to me," I confess quietly.
His arms tighten around me protectively. "You're becoming who you were always meant to be. My wife. My baby doll."
And God help me, part of me is starting to believe him.