Chapter Thirty-Six
Kyllian
“Foreplay?” a brother asked.
“Oh yeah,” another chuckled as the music started up again and brothers went about what they were previously doing as if nothing monumental had just happened. Then someone pulled out a chair and sat at the table I was currently lying on.
“You know, I love a good porn show like everyone else, and call me crazy, but seeing the first old lady of this club get her ass literally handed to her just felt wrong. Made me feel kind of dirty.”
Groaning, I slowly lifted my head and glared at the fucker. “Says the man who has no problem shoving his dick down Lollie’s throat.”
Morpheus threw his head back and laughed. “Oh please, Kitten. We all saw the way you responded to your man. You loved it as much as he did. Say what you want about the Brotherhood, but, baby, you fit right in with us.”
Standing, I gathered the remnants of my shirt and sighed. “Fuck it.” Looking at the mountain of a man, I ordered, “Give me your shirt.”
Leaning back in his chair, he smiled. “And why would I do that? I have a beautiful naked woman standing before me.”
Seeing Firestride’s knife on the ground, I grabbed it and pointed it at the motherfucker, who rolled his eyes at me and groaned before pulling his shirt over his head and handing it to me. “Put the blade away, woman. Your claws are sharp enough.”
Yanking the shirt out of his hands, I quickly pulled it over my head, happy that it fell past my knees. Reaching for a chair, I plopped my ass down and groaned. “He fucked me in front of God and everybody.”
Morpheus smirked. “Yes, ma’am, he did. Thoroughly.” Crossing his arms over his massive, tattooed chest, he looked me dead in the eyes and said, “Though you don’t seem to be upset by that fact. What are you going to do now?”
Leaning forward, I cupped my head in my hands and sighed. “I don’t know. No one’s ever wanted me before besides my mom and sister.”
“What do you mean?”
I shrugged, looking at the man. “My father sold me, along with my mother and sister because my mom couldn’t give him what he wanted.
My stepfather never cared about us and let his friends do what they wanted with my mom and sister.
When my mom died, my stepfather handed me over to Jessup and the Death Dogs. ”
Looking at me, he asked, “What was your mother’s name?”
“Kayla Russell.”
“How did she die?”
“She’d been sick for a while, but my stepfather didn’t give a shit. Neither did his friends when they ran a train on her. One of the men fucking her strangled her to death and didn’t realize it until it was too late.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he whispered and then asked, “And your sister?”
I shrugged again. “More than likely dead too. I haven’t seen her since I was sixteen and was sold to the Death Dogs.” Looking around the room, I sighed. “Look, I’m tired and I need a shower. I’m going to bed.”
Getting up, I pushed the chair I was sitting on back under the table when Morpheus reached for my hand. I looked at the man as he said, “This is your home now, Kyllian. You belong here. With us. You are a Bastard now and have an entire club at your back, if you ever need us.”
I stared at Morpheus, my throat tight and my eyes stinging.
The idea of belonging somewhere felt foreign and terrifying, yet at the same time, strangely comforting.
For a moment, I let myself believe his words could be true.
Maybe, just maybe, I could finally stop running from the ghosts of my past.
Nodding, I slipped quietly from the room and headed upstairs—the vision of my mother dying right before my eyes weighed heavily on me. I refused to end up like her, like my sister. I wanted to believe Morpheus. Believe that I finally found a place to call home. But the word was foreign to me.
I walked quietly down the hallway, the weight of Morpheus’ words echoing in my mind.
Every step felt heavy, burdened with memories I wished I could erase as well as the fragile hope he had offered.
The silence pressed in around me, offering a strange sort of solace as I tried to anchor myself in the present instead of drowning in the past. The air felt different now—less threatening, almost safe.
I wondered if, with time, I could learn to trust it, to trust them.
Trust Firestride.
Just thinking about him now made my body come alive.
I hated it, but I could no longer deny it.
I was his. There would never be another for me.
Not only had he found something in me, something I didn’t even know existed; he’d also broken down every wall I had to get to the heart of me.
I think on some elemental level I knew when I first saw him that day standing on my doorstep that he would be the one to break down all my walls.
Maybe that was why I’d been so resistant toward him.
Not because he scared me, but because he saw the real me.
As I entered his room, I saw him sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes shadowed by concern.
He didn’t say anything at first, just watched me, as if gauging my mood as I walked about his room.
The quiet between us didn’t feel awkward, but charged with something unspoken.
Slowly, he extended his hand, offering comfort without words, and for the first time in years, I didn’t want to turn away.
Maybe after everything that had happened, I was finally giving in, accepting what I refused to believe—that I was finally home.
Taking his hand, he pulled me close, his arms wrapping around me.
“I can’t let you go.”
“I know,” I whispered, my words stolen by the intensity of his gaze.
It was a confession, a surrender that felt both terrifying and strangely right.
The anger, the defiance, the desperate fight for freedom—it all felt like a distant memory, a shadow that had finally receded.
I was here, tangled in his embrace, in his world, and for the first time, the thought didn’t send a jolt of pure terror through me.
Instead, it was a heavy, almost comforting certainty.
He pulled me closer, his arms a vise around my waist, his head resting against my chest. The scent of him, once a symbol of my captivity, now felt like home, a familiar anchor in the storm.
“You’re mine now, Kitten,” he growled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through my very bones. It was a declaration, a claim, and this time, it didn’t feel like a threat.
It felt like... belonging.
I leaned into him, the exhaustion of the past weeks finally catching up to me.
The fight was over, not because I had lost, but because I had found something more potent than freedom.
I had found a connection, a bond forged in fire and blood, a love that had bloomed in the most unlikely of places.
And in his arms, surrounded by the deafening roar of the Brotherhood, I knew that I was finally home.
A quiet calm fell over the clubhouse. It was strange, especially knowing how rough and rowdy the brothers could be.
It almost felt like the lull before a storm.
I could see it in their eyes, all of them watching, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
The chaos and violence, the secrets and betrayals—all faded into the background.
I let myself breathe, for once not guarded or wary, and realized that maybe with this clubhouse, these brothers, with Firestride was the life I had been yearning for all along.
It was a strange feeling, one I was still unsure of, but I knew I was tired of fighting the inevitable.
A few days later I woke to find Firestride wrapped around me, sleeping peacefully, his arms holding me close, his legs pinning me to the bed. It had been like this every night since my arrival.
I closed my eyes, letting the stillness settle over me like a blanket. The air was thick with old memories and new promises, and I could almost hear the distant hum of engines outside, a reminder that life here was never truly quiet. But for now, wrapped in his arms, the world felt far away.
“It’s too early. Go back to sleep.”
“For you maybe, but I’m awake.”
He groaned, deep and low, the sound vibrating through the mattress as he turned onto his back.
The sliver of sunlight that glittered around the room cast long, vibrant rays of warmth, and I could feel his gaze on me, heavy and unreadable.
The silence between us, usually thick with unspoken tension, now felt charged with something new, something akin to acceptance.
I had stopped fighting. The relentless urge to escape, to run, had finally softened, replaced by a weary resignation, and perhaps, a nascent curiosity.
He reached out, his fingers brushing against my cheek, a touch that was both startling and strangely gentle. The rough skin of his hand was a stark contrast to the tenderness in his gesture, a dichotomy that had become the hallmark of our tangled existence.
I leaned into his touch, welcoming, seeking the peace of this moment.
The fight had drained me, leaving behind a hollow ache and the cautious acceptance that my future, and his, were now irrevocably intertwined.
My prison had become a sanctuary, not of freedom, but of a strange, perilous belonging.
His scent of sandalwood and mint, once a symbol of his dominance, now felt like a faint whisper of an unfamiliar comfort.
He released me, the absence of his weight a strange emptiness, but the memory of his embrace lingered, a phantom warmth against my skin.
Here, in the quiet of his opulent prison, a fragile peace had settled, a temporary truce in the war that had raged within me.