Page 93 of Possessive Sinner
He huffs a laugh. "Everything worth a damn does."
We're here for a quick delivery. A quick handoff. Without any complications. Only, nothing with Razor is ever simple. We are out past the edge of nowhere, testing weapons before the cartel signs off on the shipment. A Mexican cartel.
The guns are laid out like candy across the hood of the truck. Rifles. Handguns. The Desert Eagle is one of them. Things I should have no idea how to use. But I've been with Razer for over two years now, and I've learned many things a seventeen-year-old girl shouldn't.
"Again," Razor orders, tossing me another mag.
I catch it without looking. Slide it in. Raise the gun. Fire. The recoil snaps through my arms, sharp and addictive.
"Shit," one of the cartel guys mutters behind us. "She's sexy with that thing. How much you want for her?"
The words slide down my back like ice. For the first time since I met Razor, I realize, really realize, what a fucked up world I stepped into. My gaze moves from my target to Razor. Trying to read his expression. I look at the Mexican, too. He's not joking. I'll never forget his face. It doesn't look quite Mexican. His skin tone is more olive than brown. A dark red patch runs over the right side. A birthmark. He's staring at me with the same hunger I've seen on Razor's men. That hunger has always been like a sick kind of compliment to me, because I know Razor will keep them away. At least I did at first. But after spending two years with him… yeah, I've learned a thing or two about him and the bikers. One is that Razor is as unpredictable as I try to be. Only he's more dangerous and ruthless. His unpredictability can mean a death sentence for someone.
Razor is still smirking. Like this is nothing. Like this is just another conversation. His eyes flick to me for a second—quick, sharp, measuring—and I can tell he sees it. The shift. The uncertainty. Not quite fear yet. But the question. How far does this go? How far does he go?
"How much you gonna offer?" Razor asks, like we're talking about engines. Or guns. Or anything that isn't me.
The Mexican grins, slow and lazy, like he's already imagining me being his. My stomach drops. Because this is real. This is not a game.
"Couple crates," he offers. "Your pick."
My grip tightens on the gun. They're negotiating. Cold sweat runs down between my breasts as I listen. It's like I'm not standing right here. Like I don't get a say. And I realize I don't. I never did. Razor tilts his head slightly, considering it. Actually considering it.
A year ago, I would've laughed. Would've rolled my eyes. Would've thought he was playing. He always plays. But now, after what happened a couple of days ago? Now I know better.
"She's sweet," the Mexican adds, like that helps his case.
Sweet. The word scrapes. I raise the gun. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just enough. Just instinct. Just… control. The gesture makes everything shift. Click. Metal moves. Suddenly, I'm not the only one holding a weapon. Three. Four. Five guns lift. Not rushed. Not panicked. Calm. Experienced. Pointed at me.
My breath doesn't change. But my chest feels tight. Heavy. Oh. Oh. There it is. The truth. I have no power here. None. Not with the gun in my hand. Not with Razor standing five feet away. Not with men like these. This isn't control. This is permission. A permission that can be taken away in a second. In the blink of an eye. Razor doesn't move. Doesn't reach for his gun. Doesn't tell them to stand down. He just watches me. Still amused. Still curious. Wondering how far I will take this. Like he wants to see what I'll do. What I think I can do.
I could shoot him. The thought comes sharp. Clear. I know exactly where. Center mass. He wouldn't expect it. Or maybe he would. I could turn. Take the Mexican instead. Take two. Maybe three. Before they react. Before… before I die. Because I will. I know I will.
There's no version of this where I walk away. Not from this. Not from them. Not from him. That's the moment when it really sinks in. Not the danger. Not the guns. Not even the deal.
The newly realized truth.
I chose this. I walked into this world. Chased it. Wanted it. Thought it made me something, gave me power. Thought it made me free. But I'm not free. I'm owned. Not by name. Not by contract. But Razor most definitely owns me. He's never made it clearer than this. My finger tightens on the trigger. Justslightly. Enough to feel it. Enough to know I could. And that it wouldn't matter.
"Relax," Razor finally announces, like he's bored now.
He's not even looking at the men. He's looking at me. "I'm still amused by her." A pause. A decision. Then he glances at the Mexican. "Let's talk about it again in a year."
A year? Like I'll still be here. Like I'll still be… this.
The guns lower. Just like that. Permission returned. My lungs expand again, but I don't let it show. I don't lower my weapon right away. I don't give that back so easily. Razor watches me. Still smirking. Still interested.
"Go on," he says. "Show them again."
As if nothing just happened. As if I didn't just almost die. As if I didn't just understand something that I can't unlearn. I turn back to the target. Because what else is there to do? My arms feel heavier now. Not from the gun. From the weight of it. All of it. I raise the Desert Eagle again.
Line it up.
Breathe.
And for a second—just one—I don't see the target. I see Razor.
I see the Mexican.
