But no.
The image of Nellie, submissive and weak beside my father, makes my stomach churn.
“The club can burn in hell for all that I give a shit. So can you, if you think you’re going to control me like that.”
I shouldn’t have said that.
Cat pops me in the mouth and then grabs a handful of my hair, yanking me toward him as I gasp, tasting that awful copper on my tongue all over again. That’s when I learn a very powerful lesson: to survive, you can pretend, you can lie, and you can swallow back the blood until you find an opportunity for attack.
So that’s what I do.
I swipe the blood off my lips with my tongue.
“Fall into line, Gidget. Or you’ll be damn sorry you didn’t.” He releases me, and I shove up to my feet, scrambling back inside and slamming the door closed behind me. It takes me a minute to collect myself, swiping my arm across my lips and staring down at the crimson smear on my pale skin.
When I move into the living room, I run right into Grainger.
His eyes widen slightly when he sees me, and he reaches out, snatching my chin in his hands. His fingers are as rough as my father’s, but they feel different somehow. Not that it matters. It doesn’t matter that I like the way he’s touching me, that I’m not normal.
I cannot control my thoughts, but I sure as hell can control my actions.
“Did he hit you?” Grainge asks, and it somehow soothes me to see that he’s surprised by something that’s so damn normal to me. “Fucking Christ, Gidge.” This part he growls out, like it’s my fault, like his precious president isn’t the one backhanding his teenage daughter.
I jerk away from Grainger only to realize that Crown and Sin are standing there, too. The former is tight-lipped but impossible to read, and the latter looks at me with a pleading expression.
“Just let him get what he wants for now, Gidge. You can always—”
“It’s Gidget,” I scream at Sin, shaking and hating and hurting.
You should have my back, I think at them, even though I know it’s an impossibility. That isn’t how the club works. Cat is their president, and I’m … I’m nothing at all.
Without another word, I storm past them and up the stairs, throwing myself into my room and locking the door behind me.
And so it begins. Two years of dealing with Cat, of avoiding his men, of hating my life and myself and everyone in it.
Then I wake up and realize that I’m not just reliving a memory; I’m having a nightmare inside a nightmare. No matter where I retreat to—inside my head, my heart, or out into the world—the result is the same.
I’m in big fucking trouble.
The next time I come to, I’m in the bed, but I’m not alone.
Fear ratchets through me as I consider my options here. Let’s just say, none of them are good. Not a fucking one. Either I’m leaving here in a body bag or I’m never leaving here at all. And look at me, I grew up in a goddamn one-percenter biker gang. I know what happens to girls when they’re kidnapped: men rape them.
Lo and behold, there’s a man sitting in the chair closest to me. He has a fucking eyepatch on, I kid you not.
“Classic movie villain,” I croak out, my voice hoarse and grainy with disuse. How long have I spent passed out? My aware moments seem to be few and far between, but at least I’m not in pain anymore. Whatever drugs are in that IV are high-class. I let myself relax back into the pillows and close my eyes. There’s a bit of sunshine leaking in the window to my left, but not enough to dispel the shadows and darkness inside my heart.
I betrayed the club; I betrayed my father. Most of all, I betrayed Crown.
Sucking in a huge breath, I banish those feelings as far from myself as I can get them.
When I freed Grey, I chose my humanity. No matter what happens, I will always have that. If I die here, I go to the grave knowing that I put my money where my mouth is, that I have morality that can’t be stripped from me in a crisis. More often than not, doing the right thing is the hardest choice of all.
“Movie villain?” the man asks, his voice cultured and accented. “Oh, I think not.”
I open my eyes at the sound of his chair creaking. He approaches me slowly, observing me with a single eye, his face almost disturbingly reminiscent of Grey. So, this must be Alvise Wolfe, huh? The Don of the Grey Wolfe Mafia. If he’s paying me a personal visit, then I must be special. As Cat’s only surviving daughter, he probably assumes he can use me as leverage against the club.
