Page 53 of After the Chase

I keep thinking about the clubhouse. The men in leather vests, the smell of oil and cigarettes, the way they looked at Noah with a mixture of respect and fear. But I mainly focus on the way Noah established his claim over me in that room. The cold certainty in his voice when he told them I was off-limits. It was like a public branding but without the mark. A mark I wishI had. I should be disturbed by the fact that I'm now under the "protection" of a criminal organization.

But I'm not disturbed, I’m exhilarated, the whole thing is like living in a movie and I did get a jolt of power as we circulated the clubhouse, in the knowledge that any word from my mouth could get someone hurt. The old Chase in the therapist’s chair would be mortified at my behavior, demanding I check myself in for treatment, but the more time passes by, the less I know that guy.

I slip out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake Noah, and retrieve my journal from the desk that he rudely stopped me from writing in earlier, and I wince at the pain in my ass. But it was so fucking worth it if I struggle sitting for the next day or two.

Tonight, I walked into Blackrose Saints club's headquarters as the husband of a man who has just agreed to permanently fund their operations.I stood beside Noah while he established his authority, while he made it clear that I belong to him in ways that transcend normal relationship boundaries.

And I felt safe.

Not despite the danger, but because of it. Because Noah's possessiveness is absolute, as he would destroy anyone who threatened me without hesitation.

I watched him closely tonight, the way he moved through the club with complete confidence, spoke with authority, the way he assessed every person in the room like he was diagnosing them. Noah doesn’t miss a thing. For someone who hates people, tonight he was in his element. This is what he was built for. Power and control. And here I stay, by his side.

I pause, pen hovering over the page.

I'm not a victim. I'm not being coerced or manipulated. I'm making an active choice to be complicit in whatever Noah does, to be his husband, his possession, and his willing participant.

The therapist in me knows this is pathological. That I'm exhibiting signs of trauma bonding, of Stockholm syndrome, of codependency taken to its most extreme form. But the rest of me, the part that's been obsessed with Noah since the first day he walked into my office, doesn't care.

I want this, to be able to watch him operate without constraints, to note every moment of his psychology while drowning in his presence.

I want to be criminally his.

I set down the pen and stare at what I've written. It's the most honest I've been with myself yet.

"Can't sleep?"

I turn to find Noah watching me from the bed, his eyes reflecting the dim light from the desk lamp.

"Just processing," I say.

"Come back to bed."

I close the journal and return to him where he pulls me against his chest, his arm wrapping around my waist.

"What were you writing?" he asks.

"About tonight, the clubhouse."

"And?"

"And I'm not afraid."

He's quiet for a moment.

"You should be."

"Why?"

"Because we're crossing lines that can't be uncrossed, once I start funding them, there's no going back. Your association with me will tie you to this world, Chase. For someone like you it’s good to be afraid, then you won’t ever truly relax letting your guard down."

"I guess."

“Sleep.”

“I love you,” I murmur as I snuggle up close to his warm body that covers me like a bullet proof vest. I’ve accepted this life. We're embedded in darkness now and there's no pretending otherwise.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN