INDIE

I jolt awake from another nightmare, my arms smacking against the floorboards. My head swims, my body aches all over, and with the way the moonlight streams in through the window, for a split second I think I’m back inside the warehouse. Crickets chirp outside, and a lonely owl calls into the night, and I know I’m not at that warehouse, because nothing had life there but my screams. I press my ear to the wall and listen for a beat. Biker’s not there, or if he is, he’s not dreaming.

I stand, stretching out my protesting muscles. Everything hurts, but for once it’s a welcome pain because it means I’ve accomplished something. It means I’m stronger than I was yesterday. I wrap one of the silk robes Mia left inside the box around me. It’s black and really the only thing comfortable enough to wear downstairs—not everyone can pull off designer fuchsia playsuits. I’ve been sleeping in nothing because in that entire box of clothing there was one damn T-shirt, and I’ve already worn it every day this week without washing. I’m also out of clean underwear; I’ll have to locate the laundry room tomorrow because God knows biker’s clothes could do with a wash too.

I open the door and creep downstairs to the kitchen. I pull a glass from the cupboard and fill it with water. I have only a small sip when a noise from the west wing of the house draws my attention. I set the glass down on the bench and softly pad up the hall. The gymnasium light is on, and the sound of flesh hitting the bag over and over again filters out through the partially open door. I push it wider.

Kick is facing away from me, tattoos on display, back slick with sweat. It drips from his hair onto the rubber mat flooring. His arms piston with his frenetic punching. One after the other, his bare fists slam the bag. He’s merciless, an animal in his rage. I move forward, my feet making no sound against the mats. I can’t see his face, but I feel the fury coming off of him.

What has happened to this man that he can be so full of violence and hate? Was it the same as me? Is that why he saved me? Did someone hurt him too? I’ve seen his scars, the perfect circular cigarette burns up his arms, the angry, jagged marks over his hard abdomen. They’re covered mostly by his tattoos, and maybe an ordinary person wouldn’t notice them—maybe the old me wouldn’t have noticed them either—but there’s a silent exchange between victims. I feel it every time we’re together. I felt it the first time I met Grim. I stared at his scars and wept, because though our situations were probably vastly different, I’d been where he had, at the mercy of a monster, and neither one of us had come out unscathed.

It’s different with Kick. I can’t put my finger on it, but I can still feel his hurt from a mile away.

 His grunts of exertion pull me away from my thoughts. His hands are damaged, the skin busted, stretched raw and bloody over his knuckles.

“Stop!” I reach up and grab his shoulder. He whirls around. One fist guards his face, and the other is ready to strike.

I suck in a sharp breath, staring at his loaded fist, waiting for the blow to connect.

“What the fuck are you doin’?”

The air leaves my lungs in a rush. “I don’t know.”

We’re both breathing heavily, him from exertion, and me from fear. He lowers his fist, but then he uses his other arm to pull me into his body. Sweat soaks the silk robe I’m wearing. My nipples harden against his warm chest. He smells incredible, of pheromones and rage. He works his free hand around my back, tugging me closer before threading his fingers in my hair and grasping the nape of my neck.

I inhale. He exhales.

His dark blue eyes bore into mine. They’re so full of violence that it should frighten me, but the longer I stare into them, the more I want every punishing touch he has to offer. He lowers his head, pushing the side of my robe apart to reveal my breasts. They’re small, and under his scrutinising gaze, for the first time in my life I find myself wishing I had more. Wishing I had the kind of figure he’s used to seeing around the clubhouse, the kind worthy of draping over a motorcycle. It’s not the first time he’s seen me naked, but it’s the first time that matters.

He lowers his head and nips at my clavicle, kissing and biting his way down to my breast, taking my nipple in his mouth and sucking hard. My body goes electric, humming from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes. I arch into his touch, into his mouth with its cool metal piercings. He releases me with a loud sucking sound. I moan, threading my hands through his sandy-coloured hair. My flesh is on fire, and he is the balm. He licks a path to my other breast, consuming me as he would his favourite meal. There’s violence and worship in his touch, and I’m drowning in both. Swallowed. Consumed. I savour it. Revel in being handled, being venerated, being something worthy of the kind of hunger reflected in his gaze.  

Biker kisses my neck, across my jaw, but he doesn’t kiss my lips. He pauses instead, pressing his forehead to mine.

He breathes. I breathe.

I slide my hands from his hair, down his powerful shoulders, and across his chest. I toy with the barbell through his nipple, and he makes a low growling sound in the back of his throat, as if he’s barely keeping himself contained. I wish he’d let go. I want his violence, his pleasure—I want whatever horror he is hiding inside of him. I want it unleashed, if only to be able to understand him better.

He grinds his erection against my thigh. I run my hand down his hard stomach, luxuriating in the feel of each rigid indentation, and then I seem to lose control of myself entirely and run my hand over his denim-covered cock.

I’m not the only one losing control. Biker’s lips smash down on mine, his tongue pushing inside, tangling with my own and drawing a desperate, needy cry from me.

Next thing I’m weightless. My knees go out from under me, and I’m slammed against the rubber mat in much the same way I was earlier today, only now he’s not holding back. Now we’re not fighting so much as ripping and tearing at one another, seeking refuge in our bodies. His hand slides between us and yanks hard on the sash holding my robe together. The black silk falls away, and I’m completely exposed to him, my pale flesh, my bruises and my scars, all of it laid before him.

He leans up on his elbows and pushes himself up from the floor. At first, I think he’s just standing to remove his jeans, but the dark glint in his gaze forces my heart into my throat. Tears prick my eyes as I come to see his actions for what they are: rejection.

I can’t breathe.

“I don’t know how to be gentle with you,” he whispers, but it sounds more like a hiss than an admission, and then he’s gone.

And I’m left alone again.

It isn’t long before sobs wrack my body, and I’m pulling my robe closed and curling into myself in the empty gym.