He shut the door behind us and twisted the lock. For a heartbeat I thought maybe he’d talk first, like last time, but hejust sank into the leather couch and fixed me with that dead shark stare.
“You were off tonight, my little slave,” he said. “You embarrass me in front of my guests?”
“No, sir,” I said, careful not to let my chin rise.
He stretched out his legs, leather shoes crossed at the ankle, and folded his hands like a judge. “You’re going to make it up to me now. I want you on that pole. Naked. Then you’re going to crawl to me, take my cock out, and swallow it. All of it. You do it right and I’ll forgive your little mood.”
I swallowed, but my mouth was dry as sand.
“Yes, Alpha,” I whispered.
My wolf thrashed inside, howling rage, but she was caged. I moved to the pole and peeled off my top, letting it fall to the carpet. My bottoms followed. I was cold, trembling, but Waylon’s gaze never left my skin. I spun, slow, the way he liked, arching my back and letting my hair fall loose. He’d trained me for this—how to move, how to make it look like surrender when all you felt was terror.
After two turns, he snapped his fingers.
“Crawl.”
I dropped to my hands and knees, the rug biting into my skin, and crawled the length of the room. I could see his cock straining against his pants, but he didn’t touch himself, just waited for me to do it. When I reached his feet, I looked up. His face was flushed with a mean kind of pleasure.
He undid his zipper, slow, and let his large cock free. He was always rough at the start—one hand in my hair, pushing me down till my lips mashed against the base. I gagged, but held on, doing my best to breathe through my nose and ignore the panic that wanted to make me bolt.
He rocked my head on him, steady, saying nothing, not even breathing loud. The only sound was the wet click of my mouth and the soft beat of the music being piped into the room.
“Take it all the way down your throat little slave. Swallow my cock. I want my cum down your throat and then all over your tits.” He growled.
My wolf yowled. I felt her claw at my insides, begging for escape, but I shoved her down. This was how you survived. You did what you were told and hoped it ended fast. He pushed his dick further down my throat. I wanted to grab at his thighs so he’d pull back but I didn’t dare.
“Get ready, girl. Yeah, that’s good. I like to see your throat bulge as you swallow me down. You have finally learned how to give a decent blowjob.” His laugh was cruel, and I felt like I was suffocating.
He came with a grunt, jetting down my throat. He finally pulled out, his hand pumping his cock as jets of his cum still shot out across my face and chest. I coughed, but didn’t dare wipe my mouth. I kept my eyes on the floor. He leaned back, sated, his pants still unzipped.
“I don’t know what you were thinking about tonight, but you better clear your head, slave.” He tangled a hand in my hair and jerked my head up. “You make me a lot of money, Harper,” he said. “If you ever think about running, you know what I’ll do to your sister.”
I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Now clean your cum covered self up my little slut. I won’t send anyone else to you tonight. I’ll have Rage drive you home, and I’ll check on you when I get in. Remember slave, you are always being watched.”
My head was still looking at my hands in my lap as cum dripped down to them. “I know, sir.” And I did. My tinyapartment in Waylon’s building was covered in surveillance cameras. I had no privacy.
He stood straightening his cuffs. “Next time you’re on stage, I better see you smile, Harper. That’s why they pay you.”
“Yes, sir.”
He left without another word. I sat there naked and cold, the taste of him thick in my mouth, and tried not to cry. I knew Jess and his friend had left. I looked for him when I made my way back to my dressing room. I was glad he’d gone. I hadn’t wanted him to see what I’d really become. But deep down inside, I hoped he’d come back for me.
Chapter 2
Arsenal
The clubhouse was at its best before dawn. Most guys thought that was after hours, during the silent slot between bar close and the sunrise, when every surface still held a film of the previous day’s sweat and gasoline but before anybody had the energy to spill blood or secrets. Me, I liked the hour when the only people inside were the ones you’d trust to hold your skull while you puked, or hide your body if you went missing. The Iron Valor MC clubhouse still looked newly built from its rising from the ashes of the explosion that killed Parker, Wrecker’s mate. But the building crumbling on top of her couldn’t keep her dead thanks to the Angel King. He brought her back to life. Now theAngel King is Big Papa’s father-in-law. What a mind-fuckthatturned out to be.
I showed up early, per habit. My boots didn’t squeak on the painted concrete. I let the main doors swing closed behind me and stood there a second, letting the place tell me who was in it. Nobody in the lobby. Distant sounds—coffee percolator, sound of a shower, the quiet scrape of a barstool being set down—told me exactly who was already up. No danger. No surprises.
I passed through the main hall, where the faded American flag and the club’s own heart and dagger insignia flanked the long table. Church, they called it, though the only worship happening here was of the tactical variety. I noted the fresh slug in the drywall from last night’s argument—Wrecker’s handiwork, unless I missed my guess. Menace’s absence was palpable, now that he was running the Midwest. The whole building felt fractionally lighter, like a sandbag had been cut from the load.
I found Bronc alone at the table, salt and pepper head bent over a stack of handwritten notes and the inevitable legal pad, his reading glasses perched halfway down his nose. He looked up at my entrance, blue eyes registering and dismissing me in a single pass.
“Regan,” he said. “Coffee’s fresh.”
