Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59413 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59413 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Fear of rejection, of vulnerability, of opening myself up to a world of hurt. His gaze is steady, unwavering, and I wonder if he can see the turmoil swirling inside me. The longing, the desperation, the hope that maybe, just maybe, things could be different. But reality crashes in, reminding me of the barriers that stand between us, the choices that have led us here.
I feel trapped in this moment, caught between the desire to speak and the safety of silence. The ache in my chest is a constant reminder of what I want but cannot have, a bittersweet longing that refuses to fade. And so, I hold his gaze, hoping he can see the truth in my eyes, even if my lips remain sealed.
“You don’t have to act like you care,” I whisper. “We both know you don’t.”
He’s close enough that I see the flecks of brown in his nearly black eyes. “You’re our girl. No one else is gonna touch you. Ever again.”
Not his girl.
Our girl.
The club’s girl.
The club’s property.
“There is a part of you that wishes I didn’t climb out of that ditch,” I croak, staring up at him, swallowing down the pain rushing through my body.
He stares at me, silent. The gold of his ring glints against my skin where his hand sits beside my ribcage, caging me in, pinning me to the world with just a stare. My pulse hammers in my ears.
“Is that what you want to believe?” he says, low, almost amused. “That you’re better off under a pile of dirt? That you don’t belong here?” His gaze flicks to my lips.
“I belong wherever you put me,” I whisper. “Right?”
He leans closer, pressing his forehead to mine, and the world shrinks down to the scent of whiskey on his breath and the heat of his skin against my face. “You’re mine, Sabie. Now, forever.”
I want to push him away. I want to pull him closer. I can never make up my mind.
His hand moves, sliding beneath my jaw, his thumb tracing over my bottom lip. I think he’ll kiss me. I want him to, and I hate myself for it, for making the next breath huff out uneven. But he doesn’t kiss me. He presses his mouth to the hollow of my throat, and bites hard enough I gasp.
“Fuck you, Gage,” I hiss, trying to shove him, but my body is far too weak.
“Later, baby.” His teeth sink again, and the pain is exquisite, blooming up through my body, a pulse that vibrates right to my core.
“You’re an asshole,” I manage, but my fingers tremble on his wrist, and he knows I’m weak when it comes to him. He laughs, low and dangerous.
“Get some sleep.” He doesn’t move away, but his voice shifts, a softness barely there, hidden behind the gruff.
I close my eyes, just for a second, and he drags his lips across my collar bone, then, just like that, he’s gone.
Like always, leaving me empty.
THE FIRST NIGHT BACK at the club is brutal. I’m uncomfortable, sleeping is difficult and the noises from outside keep me awake even after I have taken everything the doctors left me. I’m frustrated and grumpy, slowly rolling, my body not working how I want it to, no matter how hard I try.
I feel trapped.
Gage hasn’t come back in, but I have no doubt he’s out there, partying with the rest of the club. So much for finding who did this to me. It seems more likely that he’s busy protecting his men over his old lady. He is far more focused on the injustice served to him. It hurts deep in my soul.
I try not to think of the brothers out there, of Kael. My hands shake so badly. I can’t text him, can’t let myself reach out even though every ounce of my being wants me to. I want to see how he is, I want to know more about him, even though I know that thought is dangerous.
So fucking dangerous.
I must drift off, because when the door swings open, it cracks so hard against the wall that it rips me awake. Light from the hallway shines into the dim room. Gage stands in its outline, and I already know he’s drunk—he always is on nights like these. His cut is off, and he’s shirtless, his jeans riding low on that perfect fucking body. He is a sculpted fucking god, the kind of man that will suck the breath right out of your lungs.
His face is flushed, eyes glassy, mouth twisted in a smile that means nothing but trouble. “You’re awake. Texting your biker friend?”
Of course he’s jealous.
It’s a pattern I’ve come to recognize, a cycle that repeats itself with maddening consistency. He can’t show a single hint of emotion when it comes to me, yet the idea of anyone else even looking at me sends him over the edge. It’s infuriating, this contradiction that defines our relationship. I see it in the way his jaw tightens, the flash of something dark in his eyes whenever another man so much as glances in my direction.