Royal stormed out earlier like the door offended him, and I expected him to come back almost immediately, vibrating with guilt or lust or both.But he hasn’t.The silence grows heavy.Claustrophobic.
And that’s when I hear it.
Footsteps.
Not his.
Heavier.
Slow.
Dragging.
Someone stops right outside my door.
I sit up, chain rattling softly.My heart thumps harder, anticipating his shadow… but the voice that spills into the crack beneath the door ain’t Royal’s.
It’s Oaks.
“Christ,” he mutters to himself.“What the hell is he doin’ still keepin’ her locked up in here like this… all to himself…”
There’s a shuffle.Like he’s debating whether to open the door.Or he’s drunk.
Typical Oaks.Can’t keep his damn nose outta anything.Can’t keep his secrets straight, either.Half the club already suspects something’s going on with him and that skinny little twenty-year-old who works down at the pawn shop.Marriage of convenience or not, he’s sloppy with his sins.What’s her name… Brittany.
The handle clicks.
He’s actually opening the door.
And something wicked inside me wakes up.
I slip off the cot, stand near the cracked-open door, letting the chain pull my wrist forward so the metal glints in the low light.The shirt I’m wearing hangs just enough to hint without giving away the whole show.Bare legs, bruised knees, ankles crossed like I walked out of a sinner’s daydream.
When the door cracks open, Oaks freezes in the doorway.
For a moment, all he sees is me.
Bare legs.Rumpled shirt.
Chain pulling taut.
Breath catching just slightly from the shock of someone other than Royal walking in.
His eyes widen.
“Fuck,” he whispers.“You’re.Uh.You’re awake.”
“No kidding,” I deadpan.
He glances back over his shoulder like he’s checking to see if anyone’s watching him be stupid.The hallway is empty.
That’s when his gaze drops to the chain, then to my face.
Then lower.
And lower.
He swallows, cheeks flushing with something between shame and interest.
