“Yeah. About a year ago I moved to Calgary. Got a job serving drinks at this skeezy biker bar, and then I met Broedy.”
He was exactly like the men I grew up with. A little mean. A little violent. A big, tattooed biker. It’s what’s safe to me. Jack and Axe. Jimmy. They aren’t good guys, but they are. They’re good in the way it counts. Like Linc.
But Broedy wasn’t a good guy.
I didn’t see it at first. He was a little rough around the edges, like all the men had been in my life. They all have the same kind of wild in them. The Raiders’ world felt a lot like the world I grew up in. Sex, drugs, parties. It was fun. It was… home.
“I went by Grace McKenna out there.” It was easy. It was my name for the first fourteen years of my life. “They didn’t knowwho I was, and Broedy didn’t ask many questions. I was good with that. But then… then he started asking me to do things for him. And I did them,” I admit.
Because that’s what you do for a club. Whatever they ask.
“The drugs and cash?” Decker asks.
“Yes. The local PD was really cracking down on bike clubs out there. There was a lot of heat, and I was a nobody. Clubs don’t involve their women in their shit. So I wasn’t really at risk of being randomly pulled over. No reason to suspect a chick on a bike. For a while, I was happy to do it.”
I sigh, press down on my knuckles until they pop.
“But then… then he wanted more from me. Said I had to make a sacrifice. That the prez wanted acrack at me, so it was my turn to get up on the block. Give what was owed to them. I told him to go fuck himself, and he hit me. And”—my voice wavers—“and I just reacted. I’d never been hit like that. Not since… not since Rick.”
Decker nods, his expression turning icy. His father. Not the man who raised him, but the father he shares with Jack. The man who raisedme. Whose fists I had to endure.
“Maybe I should have run,” I say. “Just agreed and then left in the middle of the night. But it was instinct. The second I pulled myself up from the floor, I grabbed that knife and swung down. My body did it before my brain could catch up. I don’t know what happened. It’s all I see now when I close my eyes. His face. The shock. All that blood. I kept waiting for the cops to come, for flashing lights and handcuffs and a fucking life sentence. But I kept driving, and the only thing that came after me was that skull and crossbones.”
Silence shrouds us, bringing with it a deeper sense of unease. I wiggle beneath him, itching to escape the hold he still has on me. “You think that makes me a bad person?”
He frowns thoughtfully, like he’s really considering the question. “No, Grace. I don’t. He had it coming. Like I said. Beautifully ruthless. You protected yourself. It’s why you’re alive. Never let go of that.”
“But I could have… I could have left. There was a way out that didn’t include him dying on the floor.”
He shrugs. “It was a trauma response. Fight-or-flight on overdrive. Your body picked fight. Rick hurt you in ways you can’t just shrug off.”
I shake my head. “It was only a few times. I know Jack likes to make it out that I’m some kind of victim. But I didn’t have it as bad as my mom. He didn’t hurt me like he hurt her. I was strong enough to handle it. She’s the one with the trauma. Not me.”
His eyes soften a little. “Just because someone had it worse than you doesn’t mean what happened to you wasn’t horrible. Shit like that cuts deep into our bones. It shapes us. Guides our decisions. You don’t process what happened to you, then you’ll never be able to face it. Never shed its control over you.”
I arch a brow. “Is that what you’re doing? With all your deep breathing and punching bags? You’re processing?”
“Maybe. Or maybe we’re the same. And I prefer to do my processing with a knife.” He rolls off me and pushes to standing. “Come on. You’re not done kicking my ass yet.”
He holds out his hand, and I take it. And then I’m swinging at him again. And again. I don’t stop until I’m sweating and breathing heavy, and then Linc is between my legs. Kissing me like he can fix it, undo what I did. Or maybe like he doesn’t give a shit. Like maybe these dark corners, these wild, violent spaces I’ve always kept guarded, are ones he’s not keen on cutting out, on running from.
My pants are off, and then he’s inside me. Taking me in this harsh, beautiful way. Like he wants to devour me. Consume me.
And he is. Lincoln Decker is fucking consuming me.
23
“Ah, fuck, Gracie,”I grunt out as I pull her tighter against me.
Her tits are pressed to my chest, fingers in my hair, bed bouncing with every slow rock of her hips as she rides me.Veryslow. It’s fucking excruciating.
I palm her ass, desperate to make her go faster, to take control of this situation.
She only chuckles, breathing into my neck as she stops altogether and pulls back, giving me the perfect view of her chest. Fuck, she’s gorgeous. Face damp with sweat, dark hair sticking to her temples, cheeks flushed. Like she’s been fucking me forever. And she kind of has been. I’m not one to complain, but the woman’s been edging me to the point of torment for what feels like a fucking hour. If she doesn’t wrap this up, I think I might actually die.
One side of her mouth quirks up. “Need something from me, Decker?”
I release a long breath and bury my head in her chest, my resolve fraying. It’s this thing we do. This game where we fight for dominance. Push each other, tease and torture.
