CHAPTER SEVEN

“She wanted to believe it was no big deal that a bad biker man was holding her hand.” – Zara

 

 

 

      Appearing in the kitchen doorway more than an hour later, seduced by the scents of frying foods, Zara’s belly growled loud enough to have heads turning her way.

      But it was only one she saw. Rider’s head reared up sensing her presence.

      His unrelenting blue eyes came across the floor, started at her feet and moved up her long legs, trailed the body he'd once known intimately, he had been the first to touch, to show her what pleasure could be in its rawest form, before his gaze rose onwards to her face, holding her own eyes dangerously tight.

      Zara was dead inside yet still felt the touch of his stare. It branded as hot as a fire-poker would, touching her in the same way he had three years ago, without hesitation.

      Look away if you dare, his eyes provoked.

      Rider was not smoke and mirror, his intentions were right there in his unwavering stare.

      He intended to claim her.

      He had the look of a possessive alpha animal while he sipped on what smelled like coffee.

      Oh god. What was happening? Hot shivers slid down her back. Dreaded emotions.                

      Maybe she was wrong.  She reached up to fidget with her hair, brushing the strands into place, though after her boiled shower, no hair dryer in sight, though she’d searched the cabinets under the sink, there was no taming the humidity locks. She pulled the whole sweep of blond over one shoulder, unsure how to proceed next.

      Men continued to eat, to talk, to make their usual breakfast time noises. She heard “fuck you” laughed more than three times in the space of a minute. More curses exchange, only she was stuck on looking at Rider who didn't say a word to anyone.

       If there was one thing she could recognize in his otherwise unrecognizable features, was that she knew when a guy wanted to claim her.

      Rider wanted her. Clear as day there it was in his gaze.

      And what he'd do with his wants was anyone's guess, she felt powerless to do anything even as her belly warmed at the thought of that want. Had one gilded cage been exchanged for another?

      “You can come in, cariño. The toast is pretty safe and I vouch for the café ‘cause yours truly brewed it.” One accented appealing voice among the small crowd reached out to her. “I’m Capone. This ugly shit here is…” the cropped dark haired man with the thin accent and goatee went around the table introducing men to her.

      Most nodded and said hey.

      Only one looked blankly at her, his lips thinning, before returning to his eggs. Jesus hair was still here. 

      And he was looking shabbier than the first sight she’d had of him at that party. Long muddy blond hair, a beard in desperate need of a trim with a weed whacker.

      Still scary.

      She stopped breathing for a second then tried desperately to rein in the overwhelming panic to turn around and leave them to their breakfast, it was an unnecessary emotion wasted on her, what would happen would go ahead no matter what she was feeling, hadn’t she learned that lesson the hard way.

      Rider maintained his eye contact waiting for her to come to him.

      The draw to him was there like he was willing her to go to him without a word, just the power of those deep-set eyes shadowed in even darker lashes.

      With a mental head shake, feeling every pair of eyes boring into her back, Zara pushed back her shoulders not feeling a lick of the confidence she was trying to convey, wearing a too long Renegade Souls black sweatshirt, she'd tucked it into the pair of track pants at first but there was so much material she'd looked twenty months pregnant. Now it flapped around her thighs.

      It wasn't as though she wanted to appeal to any of these guys so what did it matter what she looked like.

      She was a walking bruise taking the steps over to Rider, every bone hurt, her skin sore from beatings and the second harsh scrubbing she'd given herself in the shower.

      Showers had been a luxury Hades hadn't let her indulge in too often, more mornings that she could count she'd just had a stand-up wash either in the small bathroom sink with frigid water and the scrap of soap she'd tried to use sparingly, or using some of the face wipes she'd stolen from one of the club whores.

     Either way, Zara had never felt fully clean, even now her body itched to turn back around and submerge again in the hot steam and four shower heads.

      She was unclean inside and out. No amount of soap could scrub her kind of dirt.

      You're trash and you'll always be trash, sweet love. He might not be around, but Hades' presence wasn't far from Zara's self-flagellation.

      He'd taunted her so much that maybe what he said wasn't altogether false. She'd done a lot of trashy shit to survive, you couldn't put a halo on a demon and expect him to be an angel. It just didn't wash that way.

      She passed by the table of bikers, all wearing their club leather cuts, expecting jeers, she braced for it, her hearing almost tuning out the din of noise as she'd done countless times, usually those jeers came with large rough hands slapping her butt, pulling her onto their laps to paw with disgusting hands or vile tongues ramming into her mouth, if she let herself think about it, she could still taste that same vileness. Tobacco, halitosis, and evil.

      She'd woken up finally but was still trapped in the nightmare of expecting the worse.

     Nothing happened.

      They went about their eating, leaving Zara to make the fast walk over to the only safe haven she’d known in the last twenty-four hours.

     Whether Rider was going to use her for his own needs, was left in the air, but her heart beat faster finally reaching him as if her body only recognized the man who had saved her from a life of pain. Safe now. The urge to really move into his space was overwhelming, somehow, she ignored it.

     "I thought I was gonna need to send out a search and rescue dog for you. You've been out for sixteen hours, darlin'. You slept well I take it?"

      Rider spoke before she'd fully reached him. His eyes stopped their assessment yet she still felt the heat tracking over her.

      To stop her hands from shaking, she laced her fingers tightly together, concentrated on inhaling her feelings away.

     "Yes, I did. Thank you for the clothes." She lifted her arm with the sweater she’d rolled up three times at the cuffs just to make it fit her.

     "Thought you could do with something clean. I'll send one of the girls to get whatever else you need. Did you make that list?"

     “No..I. I took a shower and forgot. You don’t have to get me clothes.”

     “Unless you’re thinkin’ of running around naked, Icy, you’re gonna be needin’ clothes. Write a list of the things you want for now and then in a few days when shit dies down I’ll run you into town to buy the rest.” Zara’s face heated.

      He said it so simply.  Zara frowned confused at his generosity, unsure of his angle if he had one. She tipped her head back to meet his stare.

     “Babe. I can hear you thinkin’. It’s just clothes.” Reaching around her, Zara flinched expecting the worse.

      What she got was a cup of coffee held out in his large hand.

      A dangerous look on his face, he’d caught her reaction.

      She grasped it automatically, inhaling the steam from the top of the hot drink, avoiding his stare. “Thank you.”

      She’d still been a captive only a day ago, excuse her for thinking the fucking worst. In fact, she turned a scowl up at him to tell him just that, only he got in first by saying.                

     “Drink, babe. Tiny is gonna make you some eggs and toast, throw some bacon in a pan for her, too, Tiny.”

      “You got it, Prez.” He winked at Zara. Tiny. She turned her head to where the guy in question was stood at the stove cracking eggs into a glass dish, he added pepper and salt and whisked them using only the thickness of the biggest wrist she’d ever seen. There was nothing tiny about that man, he was practically scraping the ceiling with his dark shaggy head.

      Her eyes rounded. “He’s big…”

      Several laughed. “Fuckin’ huge, but he makes a mean breakfast.  Come on, bring your cup, while you wait for the grub I’ma show you around the club.” the gesture took her by surprise when he grabbed hold of her hand.

      Not the lacing fingers kind of hand holding, it was palm to palm, his fingers wrapped around hers gently guiding as if it was nothing for him to do.

      Meanwhile, in another dimension, Zara choked around a mouthful of sweet coffee. Ohhh… She thought through a tsunami of panic filling her head, making breathing choppy. She occupied her mouth by gulping the hot coffee.

      His palm was rough…warm, enveloping hers so gently it was the sweetest sign she'd had in a long time.  Her eyes tracked down to their locked hands.

      A handsome man was grasping her hand sweetly in his warm fingers.

      Touching her kindly.

      Rider had been the man of her dreams for such a long time. The man she’d used as a beacon of hope when she’d needed an escape, she’d find him deep in the caverns of her mind where she could hide and wait out whatever was going on at the time.

      And now he was holding her hand.

      Sweet Jiminy Cricket.

      Don’t panic. Don’t panic!

      Certainly, don’t whimper.

      The noise was right there in the back of her throat just waiting to discharge like a fucking loud cannon, confetti paper included.

      Aw hell, who was she kidding? She wanted to squeal and plaster it all over Facebook a handsome man was holding her hand.

       A badass handsome biker man.

     Hand-holding didn’t seem like a typical outlaw move and Zara reacted accordingly, letting her fingers sit within his. It would have been a show of disrespect in front of his boys had she tore her hand back and she didn't want to do that, she knew how to keep a happy medium, to skirt under the radar of pissing someone off.

      But the warmth his much bigger hand offered felt nice and right, another linked thread to her safety shown in the simplest of ways, so she slid her hand deeper into his and squeezed.

      He squeezed back.

      Blinking furiously, holding off the tears that threatened to fall from his kindness, she followed behind when he led them out of the kitchen, each set of eyes on them, she could see them silently cocking brows in wonderment, probably would ask each other soon as she as out of sight what their president was up to with her?

      She had the same thought.

      The beginning of the end.

      And it all began with a badass biker holding her hand.