Jett's dick pressed against Sydney's ass. She squeezed her eyes shut and fought the desire to arch her back and stretch. It'd been hours of torment laying in Jett's arms.

She couldn't breathe.

She couldn't move.

She couldn't think.

When he'd taken her to bed, she'd been sickened by the proof of his sicko mind to the point of feeling threatened.

Then, in his sleep, he'd cupped her breast and tweaked her nipple. Not hard or painful but comforting in a way nobody had ever touched her before. She waited and waited for him to touch her again, scared that she wouldn't be able to get away because he held her down.

Just when she believed he'd fallen asleep again, his fingers would work her nipple into a hard bead again before his heavy breathing filled the room and she realized that this — this snuggling, touching, arousal — was the way Jett slept.

She'd never slept with a boy, man, girl, woman before. Foster care had strict rules about children sleeping in their own bed, in a private room. Once her and Kylie had to stay in a group home for six months, and even then she had her own bunk.

Sleeping, or trying to sleep with Jett, left her feeling sick because she liked the contact because he was the only one here that was taking care of her but at the same time, he scared her.

Numerous times, she tried to wiggle her way out from in front of him. Each time, he tightened his arms. The bag of corn on her wrist had thawed hours ago.

Somehow, between the myriad of emotions that'd passed, flipped, and spiraled in her, she'd also slept for short moments.

And, during her awake periods, she decided that there was nothing she could do about her situation. If she tried to run away, there was a motorcycle club waiting to hurt her. If she stayed, she'd lose contact with Kylie.

Basically, she was royally screwed.

There was no story she could tell, no act that she could perform, to get herself out of here.

Jett straightened his leg and stretched. She used that moment to roll away, and he let her go. Scrambling off the bed, she turned to face him and stepped back.

He looked at her with warm sleepy eyes that screamed his current mood. She fisted her hand, testing the pain. Discomfort remained, but the frozen vegetables had helped the swelling. She would not allow him to abuse her.

He'd have to kill her first.

Jett rolled to a sitting position on the edge of the bed and removed his phone out of his back pocket. Rubbing his hand over his beard, he said, "Bathroom's down the hall to your left."

At the mention of a bathroom, she had to pee. Bad.

She walked to the door, glancing over her shoulder to see if he was going to let her go alone or attack her if she tried to leave—like he gave her a test and if she chose the wrong thing, she'd pay. She turned the handle and slipped out into the deserted hallway. Hurrying to her left, she slipped into the bathroom.

After using the toilet, she washed her hands and glanced in the mirror, groaning. Her face was a mess. Finding a towel in the cabinet, she wet the edge, soaped her face, and scrubbed yesterday's makeup off her face. There was no use wearing any if she was being forced to stay in the clubhouse.

Glancing at the shower, she wished she could stand under the warm water, close her eyes, and pretend her life hadn't kicked her ass again. She opened the door, peeked out, and found Jett in the hallway talking to another biker.

Not wanting to be around him or go back in the bedroom, she leaned against the wall. For how many members belonged to the motorcycle club, it was quiet inside the clubhouse. Maybe there was no one downstairs.

She looked past Jett. The stairs were at the other end of the hallway. The moment she tried to walk by him, he'd stop her.

He caught her gaze. She looked away. Even without seeing Jett, she could sense him walking toward her.

He had that presence about him. Dominating and strict. Authoritative and yet uncontrolled.

Scars marked his body. Ones that everyone could see. Like the white line on his cheek and other marks she'd caught glimpses of on his body before he'd dressed. She ogled at him while he talked with someone else. He had old eyes full of wisdom and anguish and age.

Being with him stole her self-confidence. He flustered her so much, she couldn't pretend to be anyone else, but herself around him. An experience she'd never had to deal with before. She always had a plan.

Strangers had come and gone in her life as she was shuttled from one foster family to the next. She'd learned not to trust anyone because everyone was temporary. Being with Jett, who upset her routine and her emotions left her vulnerable.

Jett stopped in front of her. "Give me a sec to take a piss, and I'll take you downstairs, and we can grab something to eat."

He never waited for a reply but walked into the bathroom. She hurried down the hallway, glancing over her shoulder the whole way. Not pausing to listen to the dangers she could face on the main floor of the clubhouse, she ran down the stairs knowing she might not have another chance to escape.

Skipping the last three steps, she jumped.

And, plowed into a large man.

She tilted her head back, and all she could see was a beard.

"Lost?" asked the man.

She stepped back, shaking her head. "Jett...he said we're—"

"Going to eat." Jett's hands landed on her shoulders. "Sydney, this is Chief...my father."

Chief crossed his arms and tilted his head. "What's your last name?"

"H-Hawk—" She cleared her throat, catching herself. "Hawkinson."

Chief raised his gaze above her head, and she realized he looked at Jett behind her. "How old did you say she was?"

"Twenty," said Jett.

"Bullshit." Chief shook his head. "She's not legal."

"I am, too." Sydney shook off Jett's hands. "I had a birthday six months ago. I'm pretty sure I would know my own age."

Warmth flooded her face under Chief's inspection. She struggled to keep his gaze, proving her legitimacy and decided she already blew it by arguing with him.

"We're going to eat." Jett squeezed her shoulders. "You look into things, Chief."

"I'm on it. We'll shoot the breeze later." Chief placed his hand on his son's bicep. "Good that you got some sleep, son. You're going to be busy."

Jett walked her past his dad. In the kitchen, she hung back as he moved to the fridge. What would he do if he found out her real name?

She turned and squeezed her eyes closed, trying to control her stupidity. Chief had startled her. He was huge like Jett. She forgot everything that came second nature to her.

Her momentary lapse could've blown everything and put Kylie at risk of losing her.

"Sydney?"

She sniffed the tears away and turned around. "Yes?"

Jett held up a plate of pizza. "Cold or hot?"

"Cold," she mumbled, sitting down in the chair.

He slid the plate over to her. She chewed to keep from crying. Yesterday, when she'd visited with Kylie, she hadn't mentioned a word about Victor Clark being murdered in front of her or Jett chasing her and forcing her to stay with him. Kylie tended to worry, which set off her sensitive stomach. Anytime she feared social services would move her in with another foster family, or hinted that she might have to split her and her sister up into different households, Kylie started throwing up.

The pizza tasted like greasy cardboard on her tongue. She swallowed. Fighting against time, Jett, and now his father, the president of Brikken, paled against what she'd already fought through and survived in her past.

The only difference between obstacles in her past and the ones staring her in the face was because she always had something to use against everyone else. Jett had nothing she could use against him.

He hadn't done anything to her.

He'd killed Victor Clark for her.

In some kind of righteous, chivalrous act to protect her— assuming she was in danger—a danger she continually handled—he'd taken a man's life, cleaned any evidence of her connection with Victor, and brought her back to the clubhouse.

She stared down at the grease on her fingertips. Why would he want to protect her?

He must be forty years old.

She had experience with creepy men.

The way Jett held her, took care of her, lacked the lecherous leanings she'd lived through in the past.

Jett had been tender, even when his words and voice were harsh and bossy. It was the act of caring or seeming to care, that confused her. He owed her nothing.

Last night while they'd shared a bed, he'd leaned toward fathering her when he made her hold the frozen bag on her wrist. But, he held her as a man when he touched her boob. Her throat closed and she coughed, setting down the crust of the pizza. He believed she was twenty years old.

A twenty-year-old woman was mature, experienced, and responsible.

"We're going to hang out in the clubhouse today." He rubbed the back of his hand against his lips. "It's already one o'clock."

She looked over her shoulder at the window. Unaware of the time until now, she thought it was early morning. "I have a few things I need to do..."

The less he knew about her, the better. Away from the Brikken clubhouse, she could find her next gig, become who she needed to be.

"Not now. You're staying here." He planted his elbows on the table.

Voices came into the kitchen. She looked over at the door and spotted a woman hugging a biker, cupping his ass, and laughing. Looking away, she whispered, "I won't be one of the women here."

No one needed to tell her there were women at the clubhouse who hung around only to hook up with the men. On the two visits to take the bikers money for the bets, she'd heard the talk. They were all hurrying back inside to get drunk, get high, and have sex.

"Nobody is going to touch you, but me." Jett picked up the plates and tossed them in the garbage.

She shot out of her chair. "I don't want you touching me either."

"You don't have any say in that." He turned and came back to her.

"I do." She squared her shoulders. You...you might be trying to help me because of what you did to Victor, and I have no place to live now, but I don't need your help. I don't even want to be here." She lifted her chin the closer he came and kept glaring at him. "You can't keep me here."

"I did, and I am." He put his hand on the base of her neck, trailing his fingers up her neck, and cupped her chin. "I will."

She shivered and jerked away. "Why?"

His gaze narrowed. She held her breath.

Finally, he said, "I don't know."

He didn't know? Her chest pounded.

She couldn’t deal with him. If he couldn't even tell her why she was here, how was she supposed to figure out a way to escape?

She blinked hard. "Can I go outside? I'd like to walk around and be by myself."

"Go ahead." He inhaled deeply. "I have a few things to check on here."

She walked away from him, checking over her shoulder to make sure he wasn't going to change his mind. Her adrenaline grew more and more until she entered the main room and had to force herself not break out in a sprint to the door.

All eyes in the room followed her exit. She pushed through the door and almost laughed in her hysteria of breaking free. Distance from Jett, who put her off her game, would be her salvation.

She hurried toward the gate, gazing around the area. There were twenty or so men occupied outside. None of them paid her any attention.

With each step, she gained her inspiration. She focused on every step. Her goal the outside of the fence, and then to make contact with Kylie.

A biker sitting on his motorcycle by the gate stood at her approach. She waved enthusiastically and gave a skip, smiling. "Hey."

He lifted his chin. She rocked from heel to toe, comfortable and young.

"My ride is coming to pick me up." She tossed her hair over her shoulder and played with the end of the strands, giggling. "When you see Becka, can you tell her to get her butt in gear. My dad isn't going to wait forever."

She walked to the gate, sure that any member of Brikken would cater to a silly teenager who only needed to catch a ride with her dad. When the biker never moved to open the partition in the fence, she looked at him and smiled. "Hey, dude. Can you open the gate, please?"

He shook his head, walked back to his bike, and sat down.

She muffled her groan. Asshole.

Walking back toward the clubhouse, she veered off between the building and some type of barn or garage. If nobody would open the gate for her, she'd go in the opposite direction until she could get off Brikken property or climb a fence out of view from the others.

Several hundred feet from the buildings, she came to a creek. Spotting a bridge, she walked to the other side of the water. A large house blocked her way.

Deciding to follow the water, she started jogging. The long grass, sticks, rocks, and uneven terrain made it difficult to get away fast.

Her foot landed in a hole, and her body careened forward. She caught herself and cried out as pain attacked her already tender wrist. Crouched on her knees, she cradled her arm. Frustrated at every dead end of her escape angered her.

This was all Jett's fault.

While she felt no loss over Victor Clark's murder, she would've been safe in the trailer, sleeping during the day until she had to work tonight. She would've used her time wisely to earn money for herself while waiting for Sunday. Looking forward to seeing Kylie once a week was all the motivation she needed to keep up the charade and survive by herself for the next three years when Kylie would be old enough to leave her foster home and be out of the State of Washington's care.

Her chest ached, holding in tears. Now her wrist hurt. She couldn't even find a way to escape Brikken. Jett made her feel like she had a right to throw the biggest tantrum and he'd comfort her—which was all kinds of messed up.

He'd used his authority, his power, his killer-status, to force her into coming to the clubhouse with him.

She didn't want him comforting her, or touching her, or making her sleep with him.

She rubbed her eyes, stopped, and then continued, remembering she'd scrubbed all her makeup off and there was nothing on her face to ruin. No wonder the biker at the gate wouldn't allow her to leave. Even having boobs, she looked like a thirteen-year-old girl without makeup in baggy clothes.

"Hello?" said a female voice.

Sydney lifted her gaze and hurried to stand up, embarrassed at being caught feeling sorry for herself.

A woman with long, blonde hair wearing shorts with a Rolling Stone T-shirt stood twenty feet away. She held a baby in her arms. There was a little girl with two braids over each shoulder standing beside her. "Are you okay?"

"I'm just walking." She looked down at the ground before gazing at the woman again. "I tripped."

"Are you hurt?"

She shook her head and then changed her mind. The lady was a mother. She'd be sympathetic. "A little, but I'm okay now."

"I'm Johanna." She glanced down at the child. "And, this is my daughter, Jackie."

"Sydney," she mumbled. "Is there another gate at the back of the property?"

She needed to get out of here before more people became aware of her trying to leave and alerted Jett.

Johanna shook her head. "Only in front of the clubhouse. We can walk with you if you'd like. We're heading that way."

"I'm getting new shoes," piped Jackie.

"In Tacoma?" Hope filled Sydney. "You'd save me a walk if I could go with you. I'm supposed to meet my dad soon. I told him I'd meet him at my friend Charlotte's house, but I stayed here longer than I should've, and he'll be mad if I'm late." She lowered her voice. "He doesn't know I came here, and if I don't make it back in time, he'll ground me...forever."

Johanna's gaze narrowed, studying her. "Who are you here with?"

Her mind went blank. There were hundreds of members, all she had to do was pick a man's name, and she'd probably get lucky and make a match. Instead, she blurted, "Jett. He's my cousin, but dad doesn't like me hanging out with him because he's older and rides a motorcycle. He's sorta old fashioned."

"Oh..." Johanna looked down at her daughter and shushed her for yanking on her shirt. "Okay, we can give you a ride."

Together, they walked toward the bridge. Out of her peripheral vision she caught Johanna using her cell phone with one hand.

"I'm just going to text Jackie's daddy and let him know I'm leaving." Johanna smiled. "We're running late, like always."

Sydney walked between the two buildings, rubbing her wrist. By the time Jett found out she'd left, she'd be long gone. Maybe she'd even make it to South Tacoma, find a shelter, and be able to wait the days out until Sunday rolled around and she could come back to see Kylie.

"Can I run, momma?" said Jackie.

"Go ahead. Watch for the motorcycles." Johanna watched her daughter skip away.

Sydney smiled. Jackie was a cute kid.

"How old is your baby?" Sydney stretched her neck, catching a glimpse of an infant with dark hair.

"Four months." Johanna tilted to the side, showing the baby. "Her name's Stassi."

"She's cute," said Sydney.

Halfway across the field in front of the clubhouse, a man shouted, "Johanna."

Jackie turned and ran toward the clubhouse. "Chief!"

Connecting the dots between the man Johanna called on the phone, Jackie's excitement, and Jett calling his father Chief, Sydney got a glimpse inside a family reunion. She pivoted and groaned, hating to be right that the woman who'd found her snitched and told Jett's father she was giving a girl a ride to town.

Beside Chief, Jett leaned against the side of the clubhouse and crooked his finger at her. Feeling like a scolded child, she walked to him.

She'd blown her chance to escape. The only option left for her was to wait until a party started, flirt with one of the other bikers, and hope she could convince someone else to take her away.