He moved his hand, a sharp twist, and my body betrayed me with a tiny gasp. He grinned against my skin.
“I asked you a question, Harper.”
I forced the words out, voice flat as I could manage. “Like any other ordinary rich guy.”
“That’s right,” he growled. “Nobody compares to your master, right?”
He pulled my body flush against his, pinning me. He lifted my thigh and thrust inside, fast and brutal, like he was punishing me for something. Maybe he was. Maybe he always had been.
His free hand found my breast and squeezed, hard, thumb digging into the softest part. I held still, breathing through the pain, eyes fixed on the dark window. His rhythm was ugly, all dominance and no tenderness, and each movement jarred my bad knee until it sparked with fresh pain.
But the worst part was my body. He’d used his alpha power on me so many times, it didn’t even feel like magic anymore. The commands were buried in my skin, my nerves, my blood. That and the spelled cocktails the witches had given me so many times had tricked my body into thinking it wanted this. My body flushed, responded, tried to draw him deeper even as my mind screamed for it to stop. He’d trained me well.
He licked the sweat from my neck and grunted, “Such a good little slut. Bet you came for him, didn’t you?”
I didn’t answer.
He pumped faster, hand on my hip, and I felt my muscles tighten against my will. When he hit the spot that always made me see stars, my body gave in, clenching around him as I shuddered. I bit down on the pillow, hard enough to taste blood.
“Fuck yes,” he said, voice triumphant. “Nobody ever fucks you like your Alpha.”
He pulled out, then stroked himself, coming across my lower back in hot, sticky stripes. He waited until the last shudder died in my body before he rubbed it into my skin with his palm, a final humiliation, the club’s logo branded invisible on my flesh.
He got up, slipped on his pants, and yanked the covers off me. “Don’t wash it off,” he commanded. “You wear my scent until morning. Let every dog in this building know you’re owned.”
I lay there shivering, covered in sweat and semen, staring at the bright squares of city light on the ceiling.
Waylon paused in the doorway. “Always such a good fuck, my little slave.” He didn’t even look at me.
“Thank you, Alpha,” I said. The words burned on my tongue after three years of repetition.
The door closed behind him, and I heard his heavy footsteps echo down the hall. I waited until the elevator whined him away before I let myself move.
I curled up, knees to chest, and pressed my face into the cold pillow. I didn’t cry. I’d stopped crying a long time ago. But I let myself imagine Jess, just for a second, standing in the doorway, promising me that none of this was forever.
Hope was a razor. Its cut stung while you waited for the miracle you needed.
But I held onto it anyway.
I listened to the city until morning, counting down the hours until I could get out of bed, scrub myself raw again, and start over.
Survival. That’s all I had left.
Until the day Jess kept his promise.
Chapter 6
Arsenal
The walk from the parking lot to Bronc’s office was thirty-six yards, and I felt every inch. The clubhouse was quiet—too early for the regulars, too late for anyone coming down off a bender. Just the hum of the fridge in the kitchen, the soft tick of the hallway clock, and Wrecker’s boots hitting the tile behind me in sync. I opened Bronc’s door and let it swing wide, standing at the threshold until he looked up. I’d learned never to enter a man’s office until invited, especially when his face looked like a heatmap about to go white hot.
He had both fists on the desk, knuckles flat and white as chalk. The veins in his arms looked ready to blow.
“Sit,” he said.
We sat.
Wrecker took the left-hand seat, slouched low and casual. I stayed upright, elbows on knees, hands steepled. Parade rest, the way I’d been taught.
