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Holy fuck.
There’s a doe-eyed girl on my bed. She’s bound and gagged; her clothes look like they’ve been torn apart by wolves. A smudge of dark oil lines her left cheek. Her long blonde hair has bits of leaves and dirt throughout.
It’s a strange juxtaposition, seeing this dirty waif on my white comforter, against the backdrop of a rich, dark wood headboard. This is my sanctuary, and this unexpected surprise stresses me out in a place that usually relaxes.
This girl is not what I was expecting when I walked in here. I thought I’d find Spree, my second, and Vice President of the Barking Angels Motorcycle Club.
Not that I’d ever tolerate finding Spree in my bedroom, but still, someone said they’d seen him heading back this way and I was ready to rip him to pieces for about sixteen different bullshit moves he’s made that he thinks I don’t know about.
At least now I know why he was back here. Let’s add kidnapping to the list, then. What the ever-loving fuck does this asshole think he’s doing?
My jaw clenches so hard, I feel like my teeth might crack. I can feel the curl of my upper lip, the flare of my nostrils. My hands can’t do a goddamn thing other than ball into fists—fists I’ll probably smash into Spree’s jaw as soon as I find that fucker.
In the meantime, there’s this fucking girl.
She might be past twenty, but not by much. She’s got long-ass legs in tiny jean shorts, and her off-the shoulder shirt is ripped, exposing her white lace bra and flat stomach. Her bare feet and ankles are torn up and bloody. She definitely tried to run and definitely got pulled down, maybe dragged. Whatever happened has left her skittering like a wild animal.
She scurries back on the bed as I approach, probably thinking I’ll rape her, but that’s not my bag. ’Course, she doesn’t know that.
I pull a knife from my boot and her eyes go wide and wet. She shakes her head furiously, big brown eyes like saucers in her grimy face. I stalk toward her, and her noises become desperate, pleading. When I slash the rope at her wrists and feet, she stops breathing for a second. Torture isn’t my gig either, but in that moment, I feel the animal inside of me stretch a little. There is something satisfying about having that kind of control over someone else.
Her fear only lasts a second, though. It turns into desperation or anger or something of both as she lashes at me, making a noise like a predatory cat, clawing at my face and knocking me backward. I’m too big to be toppled by a tiny little waif like this, though, so while she uses all of her energy to cling and scratch and kick, it just takes me a few moves to gather her skinny wrists above her head and push her back down on the bed with the weight of my body.
Hmmm, I do like this position, my knee between her legs, my chest against hers. I’m right in her face and she turns her head, closing her eyes. She’s still struggling and I feel her pert little breasts rub against me through my shirt. Her wriggling and snarling is actually kind of cute. It’s futile and annoying, but still cute. It’s funny she thinks she’s any kind of match for me.
“Calm the fuck down, princess,” I say in her ear, my breath hot on her skin. She smells of sweat and something fruity. Strange combo.
She spits in my face.
I dig my knee into her groin and shove her hands further back into the bed. “I said. Calm. The fuck. Down. I’m not gonna hurt you unless you hurt me. Deal?”
She snarls at me through bared teeth. Feisty little kitty cat, she is. High color dots her cheeks and a patch of red blooms on the pale skin of her neck. She snarls and wriggles for a moment longer before calming somewhat, breathing heavily through her nose before she finally nods. It’s a quick, reluctant thing, but I’ll take the affirmation.
“Good,” I say, not giving her an inch. “Now, who the fuck are you, and how did you get here?”
*
