Chapter 4
Nyxa
Waking up is a pain.
My throat burns, my head throbs like someone cracked it open and stitched it wrong, and my chest feels like it’s caving in. Every single muscle screams at me. Too tight and stiff. Like I ran from demons in my sleep.
But worse than the pain is the clarity. I’m not in the bungalow. Not even on that thin, stained mattress with Myka's weight holding me down. I’m in a bed with soft sheets, pillows and I’m not alone.
I sit up fast, heart launching into my throat, only to see him.
North is stretched out beside me, over the covers. His arms crossed, boots still on. His chest rising slow and deep like nothing in the world could shake him.
That’s when it comes rushing back.
Last night, Myka’s grip and the way North stepped in, cool, composed, terrifying.
Then the hotel, the chair, and the drink.
The vomiting. Him holding my hair back like I wasn’t filth.
Him watching me eat like it mattered. Like I mattered.
No one’s ever done that. Not without wanting something in return. But this… This feels different.
Still, I can’t let myself believe it. Can’t believe he cared. He probably just didn’t want the hassle. Didn’t want me causing a scene on the ride back to his place. I’m sure that’s all it was.
Still…
The way he looked at me. The way his voice softened just enough to land, not bruise. Something stirs in my chest. Hope, maybe. Stupid. Dangerous. I shake my head like I can toss it out and glance at him again.
His chest is broad. Solid. His arms rest by his sides, ink snaking up thick muscle and disappearing into the sleeves of his tee. There’s a scar by his collarbone: old, faded, but still brutal.
I stare longer than I should. Wonder what that scar cost him. What part of his soul it took. I shouldn't care, but I do. And that might be the most dangerous thing of all. I lean forward, slow and careful, and gently drape the blanket over him.
Click.
The cold sound of metal and death.
I stumble back, heart in my throat.
North jerks up, one hand gripping the gun he must’ve had tucked near his ribs. His eyes blaze as they lock on me, wild and hard. “Don’t get sneaky around a biker, sweetheart,” he growls, voice like gravel and warning. “We don’t think twice before we shoot. You should know that.”
I nod too fast, backing into the dresser. My hands are shaking, knees weak. “I—I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to—I was just…”
He curses again, runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to calm himself but the damage is already done.
My breath gets shallow, heart pounding too fast. I should be used to this.
Having a weapon pointed at me isn’t new.
Myka used to do it all the time. He used to press the barrel to my temple, push me up against the wall, and fuck me like I was nothing.
Sometimes I hoped he’d just pull the trigger.
End it. Let me go. Other times he’d use it to fuck me, just another toy to control me.
I can’t breathe; my lungs won’t open. My chest tightens and the room blurs. My legs give out. The rustling in the room grows louder but distant, like it’s underwater. Then I feel arms, strong, steady, scoop me up before I hit the floor.
North’s voice cuts through the noise sharp and stern. “Breathe. Come on.”
I try. I really do. But everything inside me is crashing.
“Open your eyes. That’s it.”
Something in me listens. I blink, slow and heavy. His face comes into focus. Faint sunlight slices through the curtains behind him, cutting across his jaw.
This closeness doesn’t bother me. Doesn’t scare me. So I let go. Just for a second.
He mutters another curse and moves. Still holding me, he walks and then splashes cold water on my face.
The shock of it stuns me. I inhale hard and the oxygen burns.
“There she is,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now. “Back with me.”
I nod, but it’s weak. Shame clings to my skin like sweat.
“What happened?” he asks.
I shake my head.
He doesn’t push. Just sighs like he knows I’m lying.
North helps me stand again, steadies me, and this time I hold on. Only for a second.
When we go back into the room, I notice the tray on the side table. There’s coffee, juice, more food than I can name. He’s already munching on the sandwich I left untouched last night.
The guilt curls in my stomach like poison.
He shouldn’t be taking care of me. Not like this, but he is.
I glance down. I’m still in his shirt. I should feel dirty.
Like I owe him something, but he hasn’t asked for anything.
Not a touch or a smile. That scares me more than anything.
Because men like North aren’t supposed to care. Not about girls like me.
Once we check out, the weight returns. It presses down on my shoulders the second I step into the morning sun.
He’s already at the bike.
Leather, chrome, black steel. It looks as unforgiving as the man straddling it. North turns, spots me, and jerks his chin. I walk to him, my legs slower than I want them to be. They don’t listen to me anymore. Not fully. He reaches for my hand and pulls me closer.
“I need to know you’re conscious and with me,” he says, rough but steady. “Keep your hands on me. Always.”
I nod, swallowing. “Okay.”
He watches my eyes for a moment longer, then swings a leg over the seat and waits.
I climb on behind him. Hesitate. Then wrap my arms around his waist. His body is solid. Heat radiates through my palms where they rest on his stomach.
The engine roars to life, and the vibration rolls through me. I tense for a second, instinct flaring, but North doesn’t move. Doesn’t press. So I breathe.
We ride and the wind whips against my cheeks, my hair pulling free from its braid. I watch the road blur beneath us, mile after mile, like we’re leaving pieces of hell behind with every turn of the tires.
“Can we stop?” About an hour later, I ask, my voice barely above the wind.
He hears it and pulls into a gas station parking lot without a word.
“Can I…”
He lowers his sunglasses daring me to continue.
I get the message, and rush to the bathroom.
My bladder thanks me. After washing my hands I head out.
Rook is standing by the door and I almost shout.
He grins and shakes his head while I walk back to North’s bike.
He’s not there. I peer around and see him coming back with another bottle of Gatorade.
“Here. Drink.”
I stare at the bottle like it’s punishment. I hate the taste. Hate the way it clings to my tongue, but I drink. Because he asked. Because I don’t want to be a problem. Because something in me needs to prove I’m not broken beyond repair.
When we ride again, something shifts. I settle closer.
My arms tighten around him and this time, I rest my cheek against his back.
Just under his shoulder blades. He smells like leather, smoke, and salt.
I breathe it in and let the rhythm of the road lull me into a strange kind of peace.
It’s not safety, but it’s the closest I’ve ever felt.