"Stay close to me," Vance says, climbing out. He comes around to my side and practically lifts me from the seat, keeping one massive arm around my waist as he guides me toward the group.
"Boss! You're back early," calls one of the men, a stocky guy with a salt-and-pepper beard. His eyes shift to me with undisguised curiosity. "And not alone."
"Boys," Vance's voice carries an undercurrent of authority that makes everyone stand a little straighter. "Meet Wynter. My wife."
The word lands like a grenade, silent shock rippling through the assembled men.
"Your..." The bearded man recovers first, eyebrows shooting up. "Well, shit. Congratulations?"
"Thanks, Diesel." Vance's arm tightens around me possessively. "Where's everyone else?"
"Supply run. Back tomorrow." Diesel's eyes are still fixed on me, assessing. "No offense, but you don't look like his usual type."
"She's not," Vance answers before I can speak. "She's better. Get the bags from the truck."
Diesel nods, gesturing to a couple of younger guys who immediately move to obey. I stand awkwardly, acutely aware of how out of place I must look—a small-town librarian in jeans and a t-shirt, surrounded by leather-clad bikers who look like they eat girls like me for breakfast.
"This is Diesel, my second," Vance explains to me. "And that's Knuckles, Ripper, and Snake." He points to each man in turn, but their names blur together in my mind—they all sound like villains from a bad action movie.
"Nice to meet you," I say automatically, my small-town manners kicking in despite everything.
Several of them chuckle, exchanging glances that make me flush with embarrassment. I've clearly said something amusing, though I don't know what.
"Polite little thing," mutters one—Ripper or Snake, I can't remember which.
"Damn right she is," Vance's voice carries a warning edge. "And you'll all be just as polite back. Clear?"
Nods all around. The message is received—I may be an oddity, but I'm their leader's oddity, and to be treated with respect.
Vance guides me toward the main building, a concrete structure that looks like it might have been a warehouse in a previous life. Inside, it's been converted into a clubhouse of sorts—open central area with mismatched furniture, a large bar along one wall, pool tables, and various motorcycle paraphernalia adorning the walls. The air smells of cigarettes, leather, and motor oil.
"Club space," Vance explains briefly, leading me through it. Men nod deferentially as we pass. "Living quarters are separate."
We exit through a back door into a courtyard, then to a smaller building off to the side. Inside, the space is surprisingly nice—still masculine and minimalist, but clean and well-appointed. A large living area with leather couches, a decent kitchen, and down a short hallway, a bedroom with the biggest bed I've ever seen.
"Your things will be brought in," Vance says, closing the door behind us. "Hungry?"
I shake my head, too overwhelmed to think about food. This is real. I'm really here, in the middle of nowhere, with a man I barely know who seems to think he owns me.
"I need to use the bathroom," I say, spotting a door off the bedroom.
Vance nods. "Make yourself comfortable. This is your home now."
The bathroom is unexpectedly luxurious—a huge walk-in shower, double sinks, even a jacuzzi tub. I close the door and lean against it, finally alone with my thoughts for the first time since this morning.
This is insane. I need help. I need to get out of here.
My phone. I still have my phone.
I dig it out of my pocket with trembling hands. There's signal, thank God. I pull up my contacts, thumb hovering over my best friend Melanie's number. She'll help. She'll tell me what to do.
The door opens before I can hit call. I didn't even hear footsteps.
Vance stands in the doorway, his massive frame blocking any escape. His eyes drop to the phone in my hand, and something dangerous flashes in their depths.
"Who are you calling?" His voice is deceptively soft.
"I—" I clutch the phone tighter. "My friend. To let her know I'm okay."
