Page 2 of Raw & Reckless

“I gave up the best years of my life to raise you,” my brother, Jeremy’s voice echoes viciously in my mind. His words are on an endless, looping track in the back of my mind. “No wife, no other kids, just you. Cleaning and cooking is the least you can do. Plus, it’s safer this way. I’m doing this to keep you safe, Layla.”

Those words are the bars of the cage I live in. When I was seven and our parents died in a twisted wreck of metal and glass on a rainy highway, my brother came home at twenty-five, abandoning what he calls his glory days to take me in.

“I’m keeping you safe,” he said flatly the day he pulled me out of the local elementary school and hired a prim, proper, unsmiling tutor who could teach me behind locked doors.

“I’m keeping you safe,” he repeated with a cold, unyielding finality when I begged for a cell phone at fourteen, wanting nothing more than to text someone about a homework assignment or a passing thought. “Who do you have to call, anyway? Everyone you know is right here at home.”

A harsh car horn blares nearby, ripping me violently out of the dark spiral of my thoughts. I blink rapidly, holding back the tears and reminding myself of what I’m supposed to feel: gratitude. I am supposed to be endlessly grateful that my brother allows me to walk to the bakery and the library twice a week. If not for these tiny, scheduled windows of daylight, I would never have a single human interaction outside the four walls of our sterile house.

I push open the heavy glass door of the library, the familiar scent of old paper, dust, and polished wood washing over me. Pandora, my favorite librarian, looks up from the front desk with a warm, welcoming smile. She’s around my age, and she’s the only bright spot in my tiny, sequestered universe. She always dresses in high-collared conservative blouses and long, sweeping skirts, making me quietly wonder if she grew up in the same kind of suffocating, strict household I did.

"Hey, Layla," she greets softly, leaning against the counter.

"Hi, Pandora," I murmur, offering a small, shy smile as we trade the usual quiet pleasantries, checking in on each other like two birds trapped in neighboring cages.

As she reaches across the desk to stamp a stack of returned books, her shirt sleeve slips up her arm, exposing a cluster of dark, purple, fingerprint-sized bruises mottling her wrist and forearm.

My breath catches in my throat. "Pandora—oh my god, what happened?"

Panic flashes across her face. She yanks her sleeve down with violent speed, clasping her hands tightly behind her back as if trying to hide an entire armory of secrets. She clears her throat, her voice tight and unconvincing. "It must have been from when a heavy book fell off the top shelf and hit my wrist yesterday."

I don’t buy it for a single second. The sickness in my stomach deepens, but a wave of helpless frustration follows right behind it. What do I even have to offer her? My brother is a federal agent; he deals with cartels, syndicates, and high-stakes federal crimes, not everyday pain like this. I have no money of my own, no car, not even a cell phone number to scribble down and hand to her so she can call me in the middle of the night. I am totally and utterly powerless.

Stepping closer, I drop my voice to a gentle, steady hum. "I’m here for you, Pandora. We can talk about anything."

I start to turn away, retreating back into my silence, when Pandora suddenly reaches out across the wood and clasps my hand in a tight, desperate grip.

"Same," she whispers.

We stand there for a long moment, staring deep into each other’s eyes as a heavy, profound wave of mutual understanding passes between us. We don’t need to say anything else. We’re both trapped.

Pandora abruptly turns her back, blinking hard, and starts aggressively loading up a cart with new returns. I give her the space she needs, walking quietly toward my usual corner table and sitting down with the book I had on hold. It’s a fantasy romance—or romantasy, for those in the know.

Books have always been my only true escape, windows into worlds where heroines are brave, fierce, and fight tooth and nail for what they believe in. My absolute favorites are the ones where characters can fly, whether on broomsticks, wings, or mythical beasts. To me, flying feels like the ultimate, untouchable definition of freedom. I get lost in the descriptive passages about the rushing wind, the weightlessness, the crisp, biting kiss of fresh air against the skin, and looking down to see the messy, complicated world shrunk to nothingness far below.

I gently turn a page, lost in the ink, when a sudden, prickling sensation crawls up the back of my neck.

My heart stutters against my ribs, and my breathing instantly grows shallow. I slowly lift my head, scanning the quiet aisles of the library, but I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. I try to force my eyes back to the text, but every nerve ending in my body is hyper-aware, humming with a sudden, electric tension.

Unable to fight the invisible pull, I look up and glance out the massive street-facing window.

My breath stalls in my chest.

Parked right across the street, straddling a rumbling, matte-black motorcycle, is a massive, heavily tattooed stranger. I jump slightly in my chair, taken aback by the sheer, unblinking intensity of his gaze. Yet, despite every cautious instinct I was raised with, I find myself unable to tear my eyes away from him.

He’s built like a wall of dark, intimidating muscle, towering and broad-shouldered, clad in a heavy leather jacket that stretches taut across a chest so wide it looks carved from granite. Thick brown hair frames a face carved in hard, unyielding lines, anchored by striking green eyes that lock onto mine with a fierce, possessive hunger.

And yet, despite how terrifying he should look, a foreign, insane thought flashes through my mind: If this man wrapped me up in his arms, all of my problems would be absorbed by his steady strength.

Common sense screams that I should be terrified of a giant, rough-looking biker staring at me with such raw intensity. Instead, a strange, breathless thrill detonates in my chest.

The confusing mental chaos is chased by a molten sensation. I shudder as a warm, delicious tingling races straight down my spine and settles heavily between my thighs. A rush of unfamiliar courage, raw adrenaline, and reckless curiosity floods my veins. Before I can second-guess myself, I stand up from my chair, my book forgotten on the table, and walk briskly toward the front doors of the library.

I push the heavy glass open and spill out onto the sidewalk, my eyes darting across the asphalt.

He’s gone.

All that remains in the chilly afternoon air is the low, fading rumble of a motorcycle engine echoing down the street. A sharp, aching pang of disappointment hits my chest, a profound sadness at the thought of never seeing him again. It’s irrational. I shouldn't want anything to do with a man like that. In fact, my brother would probably lose his mind if he knew; he’s been obsessively tracking down an outlaw motorcycle club for weeks, hunting for ghosts in the dark.