Page 9 of Owned By Knuckles
I scoop her up as gently as I can, one arm under her knees and one around her back. She weighs almost nothing despite the heavy dress. Or maybe I'm just used to carrying brothers who've taken hits in bar fights. She makes a small sound of surprise, and her arms go around my neck in response. Then she freezes, like she's just realized what she's doing.
"It's okay," I tell her. "I'm not gonna drop you."
"I'm too heavy."
The way she says it, like it's a fact she's been told so many times she believes it, makes me want to find Derek and show him exactly why they call me Knuckles.
"You're fine," I say. "Trust me, I've carried way heavier."
Chapter 3 - Savannah
He's lying.
He has to be lying because Derek told me a hundred times, a thousand times, that I was too heavy. That I needed to lose weight. That he was embarrassed to be seen with me when I looked like this. That no other man would ever want someone who couldn't even have the self-control to put down the fork.
And yet Knuckles is carrying me like I weigh nothing. Like it's easy. Like it's not a burden he's being forced to endure.
He's a liar. He has to be.
Except his breathing hasn't changed. His arms are steady. And when I tense up, because of course I tense up, because having a strange man's hands on me should be terrifying after everything, he just adjusts his grip slightly and keeps walking.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
No. I'm not okay. I'm so far from okay I can't even see it from here.
I'm being carried through a casino by a man I met twenty minutes ago. A biker with a violent road name and scars across his knuckles that tell stories I probably don't want to hear. I'm still wearing my wedding dress, the dress I was supposed to wear while promising forever to a man who made me afraid of my own shadow.
My feet are stitched up with what I'm pretty sure were illegal medical supplies. My phone is turned off because I can't handle one more message telling me to go back, to apologize, to be a good girl and fix what I broke.
And I'm letting this stranger take me somewhere private because the alternative is going back out onto the street with nowhere to go and no plan beyond that.
So, no. I'm not okay.
"Yeah," I whisper instead.
We pass a massive man at the casino entrance. Easily above six-foot, covered in tattoos, wearing the same cut as Knuckles. He looks at me with an expression I can't read, then at Knuckles.
"Be smart about this," the big man says quietly.
"Always am."
The big man snorts but doesn't argue. Just steps aside and lets us pass.
I should ask who that was. Should ask a lot of questions, actually. Like where exactly Knuckles is taking me. Whether the "room upstairs" is actually a room or a convenient lie to get me somewhere isolated. Whether I'm trading one dangerous situation for another.
But I'm so tired. Bone-deep, soul-crushing tired in a way that has nothing to do with the two hours I spent running and everything to do with the two years I spent trying to survive Derek.
And Knuckles said he'd help me. He stitched my feet. He carried me when I couldn't walk.
Derek never carried me. Said his back couldn't handle it. Said I should lose some weight if I wanted to be carried like other women.
But this stranger, this biker with scarred knuckles and sharp blue eyes, scooped me up like it was nothing. Like I was allowedto need help. Like needing help didn't make me weak or pathetic or any of the other things I've been called for the last two years.
We reach an elevator at the back of the casino. Knuckles shifts me slightly so he can press the call button. The movement brings me closer to his chest, and I can feel the steady thump of his heartbeat through his shirt.
Calm. Controlled. Like carrying a runaway bride through a casino is just another Friday night for him. Maybe it is. What do I know about bikers?
The elevator arrives and he steps inside, still holding me. The doors close and we're alone in the small space. My breathing picks up despite my best efforts to stay calm.
