THE LASHES KEEP COMING with increasing intensity. Biting the thick fabric in my teeth, I pray that my body forgives the perilous catch of violence it is enduring. His swing is ruthless and heavy. It’s clear he doesn’t give a shit about me. I have no idea how bad the lacerations are, but my shirt sticks to my skin like I have bled.

Tears water down my cheeks, but they aren't emotional. They aren't the kind to reek of giving up, giving in, and breaking. The fire burns my skin hot like a flame. The leather becomes a torch, singing welts and bringing the silent cry of my ache.

My eyes glance up at the ropes holding my wrists high in the air. They connect to an enormous chain that runs up to the ceiling, I would guess twenty or more feet above the ground. I count the metal ceiling joists hoping this torture will be over soon. The man approaches and squeezes my nipple tight. The pinch rips through my soul, and I know the worst is yet to come.

His cronies laugh at my flinch as I try to squirm away. He smiles, showing his chipped, stained teeth. The other four move in closer, arcing around my bruised and battered body. We’ve been at this for days. As far as I can remember, this is day four.

I won't show fear; I will fight––the words loop on repeat through my soul.

“Why don’t you just give us what we are after?” one man mumbles, hiding in the shadows.

“Fuck you,” I say low and calm.

“Dammit, Amber… Don’t make us do this,” the snarl tooth says as his hand whips across my cheek. “You have less than 72 hours before your worst nightmare becomes reality. I suggest you think about that and give us what we want.

His hand stings my cheek and the tears continue, but I don’t whimper. I don’t give in. More than anything they want me to give up and play their game, but they don’t understand this is my game and my rules.

The five leave out a side door which seems to connect to another building. I am only guessing because I cannot see day light or even the brightness of the moon. Even if I could get down from the chains, I would also have to get out. While I have learned a few things from eavesdropping and assessing the boys, I don’t have the faith that I can make it to freedom. And the thought of them finding and punishing me sends a shiver through my core.

I haven’t been hanging continuously. The bandwagon of thugs comes and pokes and prods several times a day. Another man—a very good looking man—is my caregiver, if you can call him that. He releases my arms, brings food and water, and takes me over to the bathroom. I keep the heavy three-inch thick steel collar on at all times and when Looker comes, I am leashed to his hand via a braided leather rope.

Blinking over my surroundings, I take mental snapshots so I won’t forget. The warehouse is dank and dark with a stench of must and mildew. I have no idea of my exact location. I made the mistake in my dealings with the Rampage club, dropping into their pit of snakes without my own personal duo of bodyguards, Dale and Sal.

The metal of the chain clanks, rubbing and making an irritating squealing noise every time I pivot. I spin full circle and stare at the concrete block wall. The industrial overhead lights are dim enough for me to take note of a stain—likely blood. I close my eyes and wonder how in the hell I ever got myself into this mess.

I should be at home in Sugargrove, safe in my bed and in the arms of the man who loves me. I am reckless and wild, still believing I can change the Rampage MC Club and thinking the boys will listen to me because I am female. I brought nothing but anxiety within our halls. They didn’t know me; they didn’t trust me. It would be like asking me to trust a new Dom… just because someone said to.

I was the foolish bitch.

The door cracks open, and I feel the hairs rise up on my arms. I am thirsty, and I need to pee. The sound of boot heels hit the cement floor and makes an ominous and foreboding noise. I know he is coming—the looker to take me down. I wish I couldn’t smell him. His manly scent sends a wanton desire through me that I try and ignore. His masculinity causes me to miss D even more, and that is an emotion I do not need right now. As he approaches I am overcome with a wave of longing and desperation. I push it down—no more tears, no more tears.

“How are you doing, Amber?”

His warm voice wraps my broken body in a comforting blanket. “I am alright.”

Reaching above my arms, he flashes a smirk, almost impressed by my resolve. He is close, too close. “Still didn’t give up, heh?”

I blink up and catch his deep blue eyes. They are the color of the ocean under the moon at midnight, and briefly I think about drowning in his assurance. “I can’t,” I whisper, biting my lip in thought, “I don’t know what they want.”

“It’s really simple,” he informs, unscrewing the clips, keeping my ropes in place. “Answer the question.”

“I really don’t know the answer though…” I plead, dropping my hands in front of me with a thud. My shoulders sting at first like a bass drum in the distance getting closer and closer until finally the pounding is all I can think about. “I don’t know.”

His hands drop to my shoulders and rub. His fingers soothe the pain, searing through my skin. I feel like the lashes I took to my back have worked their way up. The burn hurts. While I really don’t want him touching me, I can’t tell him no. Something tells me I don’t want to tell Looker no. “You are telling me you have no idea where your biological mother is….”

“I don’t,” I argue in no mood to be pushed. “Do you know where Pock is?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you,” he snarls, attaching the leash to my collar and his cuff. “You don’t know what your mother did, do you?”

My perturbed expression says it all, but I let my words fire off rapidly. “If I knew anything, I would tell you because I certainly don’t want to be trapped in a warehouse with a bunch of goons and one good looking schmuck.”

He laughs loud, knowingly.

And his arrogance pisses me off.

He is that kind of Dom. That kind of man.

“I am glad to hear you think I am good looking, Amber, but compliments will not be your salvation. I need to know where your mother is….”

I follow his tight ass packed in jeans. I imagine under his clothes he’s beautiful and muscular. That ass is probably hard. It might not be the only thing. Stepping into the small makeshift closet serving as a bathroom, I glance at him, undoing my pants and pulling them down. As I squat over the camping toilet, I ask, “Is Pock dead?”

“No,” he states matter-of-fact, polite enough to look away. He has manners. “We don’t have him. I know you won’t believe me, but we don’t have any more idea of his whereabouts now than you. We do not have your daddy.”

It feels amazing to relieve myself as I close my eyes and mumble, “Why do you think I know where my mother is?”

“Because I figured as soon as you found out she traded you for a son with your drugged-up whore of a fake mother, that you would go on an all out search,” he says, cocking his head towards me, “Especially considering who you sleep with.”

“Then you don’t know me,” I say, finishing up, “I really don’t care.”

“You can lie to yourself if you would like, sweetheart, but you clearly do care somewhat,” he says, approaching me with a wad of toilet paper. He is kind enough to blot me—a gesture I won’t soon forget—having another man’s hand between my legs feels weird and disorienting. “You came home to Arkansas to run Rampage.”

“Doesn’t mean I care about my mom or even my dad…” I argue as he yanks my pants up.

“Why bother coming here at all?” he asks, taking a damp washcloth and patting my face, neck, and thoroughly roped up hands. “Do you really need the power trip?”

“No, I came with the intention of assigning the lead duties to a member who proved worthy, but thanks to you and your goons I never got around to that.”

He laughs again, this time darker and more menacing than the last. “There is something you must understand about being involved with a MC club. It gets mud on your boots, stains on your skin, and infiltrates its way to your veins—those boys become you and you become them.”

I am not sure why Looker is choosing now to give me the finer points of leading Rampage. “Like a family, I got that…”

“More so,” he contends as we exit the space and walk towards a small table holding a white plastic bag. He pulls out my chair. Again, this man’s manners stump me. If he is so proper and charming, why the fuck is he keeping me hostage? “What all would you do for Mr. Archer…”

“Don’t you dare mess with him,” I fire off quick as he unwraps the burger and dumps the fries.

“Ketchup?” he asks, and I nod, pissed off. “This is my point exactly. You are clearly capable of leaving him, but I guarantee once these boys’ stories get into your heart and soul, you won’t be able to walk away from them as easily as you can Dale Archer.”

Understanding I cannot win the conversation with Looker, I steer us back to our original point. Maybe now he will answer me and give me what I want. “What did my mother do?”

“She stole 5.3 million dollars,” he says, feeding me a couple fries. The taste of everything he brings is amazing, and I know mentally he is breaking me down.

“If I knew where she was, you would kill her?”

“No,” he says, picking up the burger and giving me a deviant grin. “I would keep her locked up, deep in a cell where she would never, ever see the light of day. I would give her vermin to eat and dirty water to drink and at night, I would let my flock have at her. After one night, she would wish she were dead.”

He shoves the burger to my face, but I tilt my head away and stare solemnly at his eyes. They are a steel gray now, mesmerizing and difficult to look away from. “Is that what you are going to do with me?”

“Nah…” he says as his eyes flicker with an excitement. “I am going to feed you good and keep you clean because… I want you to last.”

* * *

The warehouse is slightly cold and damp as I lay on the cot near the table. Maybe I am the bait to get my birth mother to surface. Although I have known the truth for the past month, I didn’t really care to find the woman. She gave me up in a twisted, fucked up game before. What is to say she wouldn’t do it again?

Dale assured me several times that he had Rachel, Dana, and Aimee working on the whereabouts of Pock and trying to find the birth bitch. I felt jilted, betrayed, and part of a grand scheme. I could never imagine letting that happen to one of my children.

“Are you chilled?” he whispers, sitting in a chair beside the head of the bed. “I can get you a blanket.”

I don’t want to give in to his decency. I want to believe I am tough enough to endure whatever my captors throw, but if I catch a cold or worse yet, pneumonia—I am sunk—whether I like it or not. “Please.”

He undoes the leash from his cuff and attaches it to the cot frame. Disappearing from view, he goes through the mysterious exit and returns shortly with a blanket and pillow. I am seriously starting to hate this man because of his grand courtesies.

Sliding his large hand underneath my head, Looker places the pillow down and smiles. He covers my body, pulling the heavy blanket up over my shoulders. In a strange move, he kisses my forehead as if to tuck me in.

A few minutes later, I whisper, “Are you married?”

“Nah, I don’t have time. My job is too risky to chance that,” he says as his words seem to accept his fate. He’s not elusive about who he is or what he does. It is clear he is the muscle behind this MC club.

My mind wanders off to a place where I am marrying Dale and having the life I always dreamed of… at least, I think I did.

With lightning speed, my memories rush back to childhood. I see my older sister, Evie, and I playing on the floor. She’s always been there for me. At least, until she went to jail. She’s out now, but the relationship is tainted, awkward, and strange.

I have few good memories with the woman who claimed to be my mother. I believed Evie was my full sister, but as it turns out, she isn’t my blood at all. I am the product of a hunted thief and a missing man—how lovely. Meanwhile, a boy named Jimmy Rosen endured the swap just as much as me. He had been Jimmy Allen until four years ago. He discovered the truth and changed his last name. His father served as nothing more than a sperm donor, yet he carried his name. His mother proved to be unscrupulous and horribly, horribly misguided. Even in terms of her own children. Who would just give up their blood because someone asked them to?

The woman who raised me, that’s who. Her lying and conniving ways didn’t stop at her addictions, but took hold in ways most people would deem unimaginable. I had to wonder why she agreed to it. She didn’t care, that much was clear, but there had to be something in it for her. There had to be a reward. My pseudo, psychotic mother did nothing for free. This much I learned in eighteen years.

On the flip side, my biological mother let me go. Who was she? What did she get out of it? Was she an addict like the woman I grew up with? Did she need to give her husband a son so much that she would relinquish her rights over her daughter? Or did he keep something over her head?

Supposedly, Jimmy wanted nothing to do with any of it. He should have been the heir to the club. Pock’s club—Rampage—had chapters all over the South. Now, all the work to insure the club was inherited by a son flew out the window. I am very much present and aware if Pock is dead, the club rightfully belongs to me. The boys might not see it that way, but that didn’t make it any less real. I never planned on leading a MC club. This isn’t the kind of thing you prepare for, but now that Pock is missing and I am being held hostage, I do not know what will happen.

Why this club seemed to have it in for me, I have no idea. Something to do with my biological mom, assuming I can believe Looker. I have no reason not to trust him, but considering they kidnapped me against my wishes, it makes it harder to trust anyone. I snicker quietly under the blanket; I can hear handsome, breathing rhythmically and heavy, sitting propped against the wall.

I cannot sleep. Too many problems exist. Too many answers go unknown. One leads to a question and another in an endless trail of perplexing dilemmas. In my search for the truth, I understand that I may not like what I find. And I can’t put the answers back once I know.

Aimee and Rachel were always very forthright concerning these matters. Are you sure you want to know? You might not like it when you do. I understand the truth will set you free, but it can also bind and tether. When they asked if I wanted to find my birthmother, I said no because whatever her reasons for giving me up couldn’t erase thirty-three years of absence.

I feel like I should cry and be upset, after all—I am being held captive. No timeline exists for my release. No guarantees I will live through the end of this. No promises of forever await.

And that is when I realize I have never been so alone. The tears come like a flood, past the pains and aches to a place where I no longer wish to be. Being held isn’t breaking me down, but the feeling of loneliness may destroy me.

* * *

I wake up shivering, my blanket gone. Opening one eye, I find Looker sitting right in front of my face. His eye candy is decadent but not this early, not at this close range. I feel like he’s studying me, peering into my soul, and almost serving as cheerleader for my side. It’s a strange feeling. He isn’t like the others here.

He hands his half-full coffee cup to me. It smells strong as I peer into the caramel swirled goodness. I realize it could be a trick; I didn’t see him drink the first half. His eyes flare to mine, and he easily recognizes my scrutiny as he pulls back and takes a giant swig with a cocky smirk.

Fuck. He is gorgeous.

Not in a Raniero or Cyclone Blonde way, but no less drool worthy.

I’ve given up any hope of not looking at the pretty boys. The brute holds a specific draw for me, I will never deny that. Nonetheless, I don’t know that I would consider him in the same league—at least looks wise—as either of these beautiful disasters. Both Raniero and Looker scream an aching hot mess that dares to be viewed, tasted, heard…an all-over consumption to drive women into madness.

Neither one is relationship material, but considering I am not looking for that, it plays little into the equation. I heavily question pulling out my seductive Mae East charms and using them on my lead captor.

He snarls and curls his lip as I drink his entire cup of coffee. He’s humored by me I can tell. He’d probably love to fuck me. If nothing else, it could get me intel. I decide to push his buttons before the rough-me-up cronies emerge for their day of tortures.

“Can I have a shower?” I purr softly with a weakened tone, sweet pussy just waiting to dig her talons in. Take the bait, you bastard. Fall prey to the helpless girl card.

“The only way I can let you shower is if I oversee you,” he says, adding with a low rumble, “I’d have to watch.”

No shit, dumbass, I understand what oversee means.

His pretty face does not include a dangerous mind. I couldn’t play this game with the Italian, and I know it. Handing the coffee cup back to him, I say, “Thank you… Sir.”

Of course, I don’t truly mean the deference, but he doesn’t know that. If the choice is fucking the hunk to try and get him on my side or letting those scary toothless goons gang rape me…well, the hand is already played. I don’t think I can escape their fortress, so I have to make the best of it until the Rampage boys decide to let me go.

He unhooks my leash from the bed frame and escorts me to the small bathroom. It isn’t much bigger than a coat closet. I move into the shower stall to allow his muscular physique into the space with me. He squats low in front of the sink and pulls out shampoo and body wash. Both bottles are cheap stuff, but I am going on day five of no water touching my body so anything will do at this point.

He stands back up, and I realize how tall he actually is—not quite as tall as D. Though in truth, I think D has more muscle, he’s bigger, bulkier. Looker isn’t bad though as I let my bedroom eyes surface and coax him to a calmer place while I strip down. He sets the bottles on the shelf. He is too close to my space. Too close to my naked body. I bite my lip. He spins to me as his hand turns on the water. His lip turns up as his eyes flick up and down my body.

I stop crossing my arms over my breasts and expose myself to his full view. His eyes are mesmerized and stalking over my body. I relax my expression and stand under the hot water. I let it run over my hair and face and body and as I step forward slightly, I press my hands over my eyes only to find him propped against the wall and jerking off.

I am startled by the sight of his massive cock. It is thick and rippled and hard as his large hand strokes it slow. His lips part, breathing heavily and his eye lids drop as he stares at me with his head cocked back. Part of me wants to play the sex card, part of me says hold out, but this big, gorgeous ape may be my only saving grace with the backwoods brethren.

I lean against the back wall of the shower and let my fingers find my slit. I am aroused and wanton as my hand runs wicked seductive trails over my skin. The benefits outweigh any other possible outcome. These guys aren’t just going to let me go.

“Here, Amber, you freshen up before we let you leave. Here are the keys for your bike, and make sure you take a couple of water bottles. And we left a mint on your seat. Safe travels and a hand shake.”

The only hand I am going to be shaking is my own, around his dick in about five-seconds. I don’t question my actions; I don’t think about them as I take the two steps to lowering myself to my knees in front of him. My body drips with water and puddles around his feet as I wrap a fist around his shaft and swallow him down. His salty taste overcomes everything else, and all I can think about is his jiz shooting down my throat.

My focus is unrelenting. I tighten my lips and suck his shaft like Nero taught me. Nice slow strokes, each rotation increasing in intensity. When he least expects, I speed up and soar his body to a new height of sensation, but what I don’t expect is the fistful of hair he grabs—hard. Too hard. Shit. I realize he’s not as dumb as I predicted. My miscalculation won’t be good, but I have no idea how bad it will be until he swiftly picks me up under the arms and tosses me over his shoulder. Fuck.

He barrels open the door without any concern. The thud of it hitting the wall jars my ears as he stomps back through the dark room and down the narrow hallway that connects. The one I have been curious about. Trying to look around, I see nothing but car posters and calendars with half-naked girls on them.

Pushing a metal door open, he walks into a warehouse that is twice the size of the warehouse I have been kept in. He tosses my wet, sticky body onto a rickety and well-used, metal workshop table. I assume he is going to have his way with me. As he backs away, I see the shadows of the goons, and I know he is only feeding them with my body. I am the snack he captured, and they will feast on me like a bunch of hungry undead.

I gasp and glance at Looker with a true fear in my eyes. The tears well up as I shake my head, feeling the panic set in. Motherfucker.

“You shouldn’t play games with those you cannot win against,” he advises, moving his chair to the prime viewing spot about ten feet from the table. He is going to be nothing more than a spectator in my demise. I want to kill him as I mentally beat myself to a pulp. I knew better. I got cocky. And now I am the meal that feeds his army.

I am so stupid.

Stupid, stupid, stupid girl.

* * *

The hungry bunch are too well-behaved, too beaten into their own submission. I know they will eat me alive like a hungry wolf pack the second he says go. I try to mentally prepare for what is about to happen, but I am not sure there is anything I can do to weaken the blow.

I’ve done a lot in my time. Back in the day, my nights rendered at the bar would elicit all kinds of inappropriate and lewd behavior. I used to be a slut. I used to know the feel of one guy pounding me from behind while swallowing another. I used to draw up white lines on happy trails only to soar like a spring dove with his rod buried deep in my womb. It was a daily kink—a new high, another ride—a rocket past the reality.

But I abandoned those days.

Exhausted and worn out, the party girl faded away into the shadows of the past. I am thinking about this now of all times as I drift off into my mind and try and escape the real possibility that something very horrific is about to occur. I briefly wish I could call upon the girl who could sleep with five strangers in one night without batting an eye. There is one very distinct difference—I consented to every bit of my slutdom. Hell, I even encouraged it.

I didn’t consent to this; I didn’t ask for this.

My mind wanders to my childhood with Evie as I lay and wait to be decimated. As bad as it sounds, I really just want it to be over with. I want them to get on with it. Fucking rape me already or let me down, but stop gawking like I am a slab of meat. It’s intimidating and frankly, rude. If these men were any kind of real perps, they wouldn’t be divvying me up. One would already be doing his thing, but instead, these buffoons are deciding if fucking me is worth the risk. There is a line even for a thug. They might get away with the kidnapping, but they won’t live through a grunt. Closing my eyes, I can hear Evie’s laughter as we chase each other through the house.

Mom had gone off with her flavor dealer of the week, leaving us to fend for ourselves. It wasn’t unusual. I’d eaten more meals prepared by my older sister than anyone else. This evening’s fare was scrambled eggs courtesy of Ms. Withers. We had been out playing, running, and racing up and down the gravel driveway of the trailer park when she offered us a half dozen eggs from her backyard chickens and a stick of butter—real butter.

I had never tasted fresh eggs or real butter, but I recognized it from when we went to the store with Momma. The only time we ever got to go shopping like that was if she was home and the backdoor was swinging—coming and going—at all hours. Still, despite all her whoring it up and cash poking out of her wallet, I remember her snapping, “Amber Leigh, that box is for the rich people like Mrs. Hensley, not for girls like you or your sister. You’ll never know that world. Now, come on!”

See, Momma planned early on for Evie and I to be just like her—drug addicted prostitutes—and she was grooming us for that moment. When my sister went to jail for murder, Momma had arguably seen it as a crowning moment of glory. She expected us to fail. Anything more than a failure was too much work or placed us in line to be targeted—toilet paper wrapped trailer, eggs tossed on the beat-up car, shit on the steps. For any accomplishments we may have had, she blamed the pranks on us. The truth was—she was a whore and wives sometimes got pissed off when their golden ticket took a ride with Momma.

All the children—but us, cause what did we really have to lose—were terrified of Ms. “Witchy” Withers. They thought she killed people. Because when I was age six, she was kinda spooky. I have come to realize in my adult life that all of her fake flowers and Christmas lights were all part of her eccentric charms. She invited us inside that day, a feat few ever experienced.

Her house was beautiful. It didn’t smell like smoke or anything nasty, but the faint scent of vanilla candles tickled my nose. She made us sandwiches with peanut butter and homemade cherry jelly. After lunch, we gathered the eggs from her small coop in her white picket-fenced space.

Ms. Withers had a triple wide space for her small single wide. Her former husband—who I think abused his wife and was trying to kill her—set the house on fire one night with a cigarette in hand. He had this stained, dirty, blue velour fabric chair he used to sleep in when he came home from trucking. We always knew when he was home cause he had to park the rig in the back of the lot or out front on the road. Anyway, the chair was burnt to a crisp before the firetrucks arrived, and old man Withers died later that night at the hospital. They said he died from smoke inhalation. His wife, Frances, lived and kept her spot in the lot. She never went to the hospital but did manage to pull herself together enough to go buy a brand new trailer the very next day.

They just pulled one away and brought the new one in. Evie and I watched it all from the steps of our dilapidated double wide. Took them less than a day to remove the burned-up shack. In less than a week, Ms. Withers placed pots of flowers out around the new place and decorated it up with fake vines and twinkling, colored lights.

Shortly thereafter, she planted a garden and hired a handsome man with an accent to build her a dog house and a chicken coop. My sister started going over there during that time. I would stand on our bed and peer out the window. Ms. Withers would be outside, and Evie and the man would disappear. One day I noticed her getting out of his truck, but I was too afraid to ask what happened.

My grandma came for us the following weekend. They lived about an hour away in the big city. We would go shopping on Friday evening and spend the next two days playing in grandma’s pool. Evie asked if we could go look at the toys and grandma agreed. We ran across the parking lot and ate fast food, burgers and fries and soda. It was so good. I never asked where the money came from. I knew.

The man with the accent kept coming around Ms. Withers house, doing maintenance. She painted every room no less than six times before deciding upon the right color. I guess you could say she was a little off.

One summer day, Evie went to her friend’s house at my encouragement. Maybe I really thought she should have some time away from momma’s string of violent boyfriends. Maybe I was curious. I walked to get the mail and saw the man propped against his truck, smoking a cigarette. He stared at me, nodded, and smiled. I waved and said, “Hi!”

“Hey, cutie,” he said, showing all his teeth. They were pretty and white, not like momma’s or the men she brought home.

Me, being all of seven—I had a birthday in June—declared, “Why are your teeth so sparkly?”

“I brush every day and go to the dentist,” he said, picking me up and setting me on the hood of his truck. “You ever been to the dentist?”

I shook my head no.

“You want some candy or a soda?”

I nodded as he went back to the truck bed and opened a cooler. He handed the chocolate bar to me as he opened the soda. His hands were rugged and strong. I ate the candy and he held the bottle of soda, rubbing the chilled plastic against my leg. The sensation was painful and yet, good. And thus, the lessons with Mr. Hartley began.

The rest of the summer—except when he was in the truck with Evie—I was his shadow. He adored me. And I never thought anything of it until the week before school was to start. I went with him to buy more paint for Ms. Withers while Evie stayed with her and made us lunch.

As we sat in the back of the parking lot, I didn’t understand it at the time. He liked me, and I liked him. And that made what he did alright. No one told me otherwise. He touched my body and made me feel things. Somehow it was different from Evie. He paid her, but he actually liked me I would tell myself.

I went to school the next year and rarely saw Mr. Hartley. But at night, after Evie was asleep in our bed, I would think about him and touch myself. No one told me it was wrong. And sure enough, the next summer and the summer after that and every summer until I ran away from home, Mr. Hartley and I would carry on. He sent me to the doctor and dentist, even put braces on me. He took care of me when no one else would.

I don’t think my sister ever knew, but she kept on, too. She lost her virginity at eleven for a hundred bucks and a pack of gum to Mr. Hartley. She pocketed money for food and clothes and even a few toys and coloring books for me.

In the summers, Evie worked for all she was worth to try and keep me safe. It wasn’t long before winter came, and we were hungry and cold. Evie ended up with a nice long client list by the time she hit her teenage years. She found drugs then, too. I suppose Mr. Hartley destroyed her, or maybe momma’s wishes came true. As Evie headed down a dark road, a whole lot of people—Ms. Withers, Mr. Hartley, and my sister—tried to keep me in the light.

By the time I was old enough to realize what we were doing was wrong, I didn’t really care. I liked Mr. Hartley, and he liked me. And the day after my stepfather tried to rape me, I escaped out the backdoor with a few things, running past his truck. He saw my tears and asked me what happened. Opening up the door to his truck, he took a wad of cash and a gun out. He stuck the bills in my hand and tucked the gun in his waist band.

“I want you to go to town and get on the bus. Go anywhere away from here. Go now, Amber, go!” he shouted, heading straight for the back door. I turned away and never looked back. I could hear the ruckus and yelling, but I just kept moving forward. Mr. Hartley never had sex with me. He never frightened me or hurt me. It’s fucked up and twisted, I know. But in a way, he raised me.

When you’re living in hell, even a predator can be a saint. And Mr. Hartley was mine. I had secret dreams of growing up and marrying him because I knew he would take care of me. And in the end, he did. He saved me from staying in the park, getting raped by my stepdad, and pregnant by some random stand-in boyfriend that could never amount to half the man Mr. Hartley was.

That is—until I met Cyclone Blonde.

I never saw Mr. Hartley again.

My eyes flash open, and I wonder if the same will be true for Dale.

* * *

“You gonna let us have at her?” one thug says; I cannot make out which one. I know there are no less than ten, including Looker.

“We wanna party!” another gruff voice declares. “Get in that!”

“Listen, boys, I am still waiting on the call,” Looker informs, standing and pacing in front of his chair. “If she doesn’t go up for auction tonight, we’ll talk. Until then, you can look, but don’t you dare fucking touch her. I am not starting a turf war over a pussy.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time, Nico.”

“No shit, Hughey,” Looker says, getting up in the guy’s face. “But not this one. She is worth too much fucking money.”

“Only if she starts talking, otherwise she is just a fucking head with a hole.”

The thugs all laugh.

“God dammit!” he yells, flaring with rage. “I said no, and I fucking mean it! Back down! There is beer in the fridge and the bar is stocked, but the one thing none of you bastards will be having tonight is her.”

The group grumbles away to the pool table in the bar that sits in what appears to be former office spaces. I glance at Looker, whose name is apparently Nico. His dirty blonde hair dangles in his face as he smirks with a cocky glance.

I want to say the word—auction—but I cannot even bear the thought. I know what this means. Someone is going to make a sweet chunk of change off my abduction. I’ll end up the disgruntled girlfriend that ran away, and no one will be any the wiser while I am off in some foreign country doing unimaginable things to most likely a man I would rather stab than suck.

“Why not keep me?” I blurt out randomly in an effort to convince Nico I am worth it to him. I need to stay stateside. My expression is one of desperation as I sit up on the table. If they take me overseas, I am as good as gone.

He steps closer and touches my cheek. “Darling, if I kept you, I would have to marry you. And there is no way in hell you would agree to that.”

As he pivots away, I wrap my arms around my bare chest and mumble, “Yes, I would.”

He stops dead in his tracks and faces me with a deviant smile. It’s a shame he is such a renegade. He’s damn sexy with those deep set blue eyes that cradle you into his world. With a fierce, determined gaze, he informs, “It doesn’t matter. The ball is rolling. You should be on tonight’s list.”

Hoping to garner his trust and some information, I quiz, “How many are there?”

“On Gray?” he asks, and I nod. “Every night the Gray Market opens, anywhere from ten to hundreds depending on the haul.”

My curiosity gets the best of me as I prod, “And you know I’ll be listed tonight, near the top?”

“Yeah,” he says, propping against the wall and lighting up a smoke. “Because you are the fiancé of a black ops.”

I feel my mouth drop open as the past I was running away from resurfaces. “How did you know that?”

“Because I know who Archer is,” he says between puffs.

“Then you also know when he finds out you took me, he is going to kill you.”

He shakes his head and lifts his brow with a distinct careless attitude. “Warning signs, baby. That’s all. Head games with boys and their toys. You just happen to be the plaything.”

The hurt and anger and sheer sadness bubble up in the back of my throat. “What do you mean?”

“Warning signs like a flare going off, announcing my presence. He knows I am a player on the world stage. He just probably never imagined I’d be in his backyard.”

I laugh once, shaking my head at the despicable behavior. “And you are here to cause trouble?”

“Nah, I only want to smoke one person out. If using you can get me what I want, I’ll be content,” he boasts as a couple of the cronies glance over to him, and he nods.

“So, I am your pawn?” I assess.

“Pretty much,” he says, tossing and stepping on the cigarette butt.

“And you aren’t going to hurt me?”

“Never planned on it,” he assures, cracking his knuckles.

Gazing down, I lift my legs and stare at my toes. It seems like yesterday that I was lying in bed with Dale nipping them. “How the hell did you end up with these thugs?”

“Cristos owns rival, a motorcycle club, one of his shadier investments.”

I know Delarte Cristos from back when I was dating Cyclone Blonde before he was Dal Archer. He owned the land that Delarte parked his Renfest investment on. To say it was an investment was a sham. I have no idea if it made money or not.

He enjoyed the kinky pursuits and exhibitionism, and the Renaissance Faire gave him an outlet. He even owned a couple clubs near Gina’s. At one point, he wanted to buy her out. She always said no; I never realized that Dale was the bank behind Gina’s, and the men were simply sparring with decimal points. I knew Delarte had deep pockets and even deeper reaches. “Aren’t all his investments shady?”

His expression flinches as he considers the thought. “He’s diverse, I’ll give him that.”

“How do you handle working for the man?” I question curiously. “I mean you have to know the kind of sick and twisted pervert he is.”

“I do, and all I can say is the apple never falls far from the tree. Perhaps I should expand on this; I am his son. Pleasure to meet you, Amber, I am Nicolas Cristos,” he says, holding out his hand. The whole notion seems off as less than an hour ago I had this man’s dick in my mouth. Dropping one of my arms from my chest, I timidly take his hand. His eyes glaze over my body as he releases my hand and pulls off his plaid long sleeve and hands it to me. “Put this on.”

“That explains the accent,” I say, buttoning the shirt up.

He tosses me a grin and says, “Yes, I suppose it does, doesn’t it?”

His tank top shows off his broad shoulders and buff arms covered in ink, massive tribal pieces and ornamentations—all in black. “Where exactly?”

“Dad is French and Greek, and my mom is Danish,” he replies easily without hesitation.

“Makes me feel small,” I mutter, rubbing my hands together.

With a chuckle, he says, “Why?”

“Because I am from a tin can valley in Arkansas with bad genes.”

“Pock isn’t bad genes. He’s a trash dealer, I’ll give you that,” he says, leaning against the table and lighting another smoke. “Thinks he’s bigger than he is, anyone could have taken him out.”

“Do you know where he is?” I whisper. He is close enough to me that I can smell him.

“I haven’t asked, but I could probably find him for you.”

“How much?” I mutter.

“A small stipend,” he says, eying me with a smirk. I know what he has in mind, a horizontal tango to satiate his winsome folly. He’s a spoiled brat. I am not saying he might not do plenty of grunt work to get the job done, but it is clear to me that Nico enjoys the privilege of Daddy’s money—probably way too much.

Feeling ballsy, I ask, “Are you an only child?”

“Nah, I have a half-sister. Two actually. To my knowledge, I am my father’s only child. Mom left when I was a baby, couldn’t stand the heat of my father. She remarried and moved to the states. One sister—Madeline was born in Denmark. Pris was born in Tennessee,” he says with a distant look on his face like he is lost in the memories. “Mom didn’t take me with her because at four she declared I was just like Dela and wanted nothing to do with me…whore.”

Stunned by his information, I rebuke, “The Grace sisters are your half-sisters?”

“Yeah. I know, unfortunate, right?” he says, cocking a glance in my direction. “They are both involved in the collective.”

My fingers weasel between his and steal the cigarette. I take a deep drag and exhale with the whole blasted reason I am in this godforsaken place to begin with. “I know they are. I know all too well.”