Page 12 of I am Dressed in Sin (Death by Daybreak MC 2)
I am bored shitless.
The thing is … as pretty as Grey is, I can’t find that spark inside of me that encouraged me to gangbang a group of outlaws. The hatred I feel for Grainger, the disdain for Crown, the desperation for Sin, the frustration with Beast. As much as I can’t stand the lot of them, I can’t bring myself to fuck Grey Wolfe.
Guess I was born ruined, but now I’m dressed in sin. It’s an outfit I wear like a designer dress, as proud of it as a red-carpet gown, something to show off. It’s in my blood, that awful, awful blood that I share with Cat.
“There’s nowhere. I’m sorry, Gidget.” Grey looks up at one of the cameras in the corner. They’re all over the place—even in the bathroom. When I sit down to take a piss, I make sure to flip them off with both hands.
With a sigh, I fall back into the pillows and stare up at the canopy above my head, dressed in rich red velvet curtains interspersed with this flimsy cream silk that feels like the fine filaments of a spider’s web. That’s what this place is, a web, one that Grey and I have been cocooned inside of, just waiting for the final bite.
For the first few weeks, I was virtually useless. I could barely sit up on my own, and I limited my bathroom trips to once a day, crying and sweating as I dragged my broken body to the toilet. The doctor—this horrible man named Tommaso Setola—offered something to me that looked essentially like a puppy pad. As if Gidget, daughter of the Death by Daybreak Motorcycle Club, and outlaw even among outlaws would actually deign to soil herself.
I’d rather bleed and suffer for dignity’s sake.
Anyway, as soon as I started to feel better, I began canvassing the place for escape. Once, I asked about the stained-glass windows high above our heads, the decorative mosaic slits that beam a kaleidoscope of colors into the room during late evening. Specifically, I asked Grey what was on the other side of them, like if we found some way to scale the stone walls and get out while somehow not being seen on camera, where would we be going?
His reply? A cemetery.
Euphemistic or not, I got the point: we’re not getting out that way.
I roll over to my side and revert back to my favorite activity of late: a nap.
Because the more I sleep, the faster I’ll heal. The stronger I am, the more hale, the easier it’ll be to make my move when the time comes.
Another week passes with little change in activity level.
“I thought I hated my life before …” I start, as Grey and I lie on our backs in bed, staring at the ceiling together. I’m not sure I’ve ever allowed myself to get to know another human being the way I now know Grey Wolfe. He has no middle name, by the way. Like, in most cases, I might find his name hilarious. But here, in this place, with the Don for a father? It actually terrifies me. There’s a level of confidence in naming one’s son ‘Grey Wolfe’ that shows that the Don isn’t afraid of anyone or anything. “But this is worse.”
Grey turns his head slowly to look at me, studying my healing features with interest. He likes me, I think. Or else he’s just grateful to me for risking my whole world to rescue him, I’m not sure.
“You should’ve left me behind,” he says, and not for the first time. But what good would that have done? I ran right into the arms of the enemy. Grey, at least, has provided me some sort of protection here. Without him, I’d be in a rape dungeon or I’d be dead already. No doubts about that. I know how the underworld works, and it isn’t cackling villains and second chances. The mafia doesn’t leave you in a room with one inept guard, and wait for a great escape.
They shoot first and ask questions later.
“Yeah, well,” I start, grabbing a biscotti off the tray beside me and munching on the chocolate covered tip. The food here is bomb, I’ll at least admit to that. We eat like kings. Like kings, because of course, we’re nothing but prisoners here. Even Grey, the last remaining heir to the Grey Wolfe Mafia throne is worth little more than a cozy jail cell. His dad is as likely to feed him to the Irish wolfhounds he keeps as he is to train his youngest son in the business. “Let’s talk about something else. Can’t rewind time.”
And I’m sick and tired of being trapped in memories. Being stuck here has given me more time to think than I ever dared dream of—than I ever had nightmares about. I think about my sisters constantly, and when I’m not thinking about them, I’m thinking of the four horse-fucks of the apocalypse.
