Because Becki betrayed the club.She can never be anything but my prisoner now.That’s until Legend decides we’re done with her.I grab my knife and slam it onto the desk.But the moment I let go of the handle, I feel more untethered.So I grab it again.The blade gleams under the dim light, catching the tremor of my hand.
I imagine her looking at it.The way her breath hitched.The way her pulse jumped.I imagine that expression again.But on her knees.Or on top of me.Or with the chain wrapped around her neck while she whispers my name.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Stop,” I growl at myself.
But the image doesn’t stop.It gets worse.Better.I pace.My boots thud against the concrete.My breath comes hard.
I’m losing the war inside my own skin.
So I do the only thing I can think of not to drag her out of that room right now.I take the knife, flip it in my hand, let the cold steel kiss my palm.And press the flat of it hard against my own throat.Just to feel something sharp enough to cut through her.
Not the blade.Not the edge.Just the chill.I don’t cut this time.Just the reminder that I’m still in control.
For now.I breathe in.Slow.Deep.Shaking.
And I realize something that terrifies me more than the Reverend, more than the missing girls, more than the demons I’ve carried since childhood.If Becki Crowley ever asks me to cut her with this knife.I won’t say no.
I won’t even hesitate.But I’m not waiting for her permission.
I laugh once.
A broken, ragged sound.
“Fuck.”
I sheath the knife and force myself not to go back to her door.
But I know it’s only a matter of time.
The adrenaline from the knife is still buzzing in my veins when I shove the door closed behind me, leaving the basement.My hand shakes once, just once, and I curl it into a fist before it can betray anything real.
Becki’s just a prisoner.Just leverage.Just trouble chained to a bed.I repeat it until the words scrape raw.I don’t make it three steps down the hall before someone clears their throat.
“Royal?You good?”
Joey leans near the wall outside my room, long legs crossed at the ankle, wearing one of those too-short tank tops she buys from the biker boutique in the next county over.Black lace.Glitter.Skin.The way she looks at me is familiar, hungry, bright, uncomplicated.Everything Becki isn’t.
“Yeah,” I say, tugging my cut straight.“What do you need?”
Joey Donut's her nick name, and my brothers have lots of reasons why.Besides the obvious, they say she's into cops.She ticked off a cop's wife, and now she's laying low with us rebels.
She pushes off the wall and walks toward me, hips swaying like she knows damn well I’m watching.I’m not.Or maybe I am.Doesn’t matter.
“Brothers are talking,” she purrs, dragging a finger along my chest patch.“They said Legend stuck you on guard duty for the preacher’s girl.”
“Orders,” I grunt.
“Mm.”She presses closer, glossy lips grazing my jaw.“You ever get bored in there?Locked up with her?All that attitude and venom… that’s a lot for one man.”
I catch her waist and set her back a step.Not roughly.Just enough.
“She’s a prisoner,” I say.“Nothing more.”
Joey arches a brow, amused.“Didn’t say she was more.”
But she’s looking at me too carefully, too knowingly.I hate that.
