“You’re mine,” he hissed, snatching my neck—not at all gently—and yanking me to him.
“I’m not your fucking property,” I snapped back, trying to struggle out of his grip and ignore the fact my panties dampened at the onset of his violence.
I was not a woman turned on by violence. By ownership. By brutal men with brutal souls.
I wasn’t that woman.
Except I was.
“You are my property,” he said, without letting go, if anything, his grip tightened. “Everyone is someone’s property, Peaches, whether they know it or not.” He yanked my neck, so I was flush with his body. “And you fucking know it.”
I did know it.
In my bones.
In my ruined soul.
Even in the mind I’d been so intent on convincing it wasn’t so.
“We both might not want it to be this way, but it is this way. I can’t change that. I can’t change you bein’ in the alley that night, or you making the decision to come into the club. And even if I could, I don’t think I would. An honorable man would. But I’m not him. So I wouldn’t change it, if that damns me, so be it. I’ve done a lot of damning things in my life.”
I struggled with elation with his words and utter dread. I wanted to belong to him. I already knew I did, but it was stifling, terrifying, when I knew every day he got on his bike he might not come back. I could watch five Russians die ugly, but I couldn’t keep watching that.
“I need some time off, a vacation,” I whispered.
Liam frowned. “From what?”
“This!” I yelled, gesturing between us before I began pacing.
He stared at me pacing, not moving anything but his eyeballs to follow my jerky movements. “You can’t take some time off from being in love.”
I stopped. Froze. We hadn’t said that’s what we were. Hadn’t admitted it to each other. But it was the truth. And he was bullying me with it. “You did,” I whispered. I wanted the words to come out sharp and barbed, an accusation to cut through his skin. I wanted to wound him. Whether I was physically unable to do so or if I didn’t have the energy, I wasn’t sure. “You took almost fifteen years off, Liam.”
His eyes stopped moving and then his body was across the room and I was in his arms. Harsh. Not comforting. Painful.
That’s what his grip was now.
That’s what he was now.
“No,” he rasped, the single word violent and grating. “I took fourteen years off from everything but that. There wasn’t ten seconds I took off from loving you.”
My heart thundered in my chest. My ribs fractured. My panties were soaked. “Prove it,” I demanded.
And he did.
I was babysitting.
Macy and Hansen hadn’t had a night to themselves in what I guessed was a long fricking time, in between the whole club being destroyed, then having to rebuild it, then having a brand-new baby, a toddler, then going to war. It didn’t leave much time for date night.
And I found myself wanting the cold, ruthless and fair president to have time with his warm, kind and funny wife. I felt something coming, something bad, though you didn’t exactly need to be clairvoyant to see that something bad was coming. They deserved time together, time to do something borderline normal, like go to a movie, out for dinner or just fuck each other’s brains out on their kitchen table without worrying about a crying baby.
So I was at their house, holding a baby that most definitely wasn’t crying and was the most beautiful little human being I’d ever encountered, second to my nephew. Their toddler was asleep in his little bed, I’d exhausted him by playing cops and robbers all evening, probably not the most appropriate game, but whatever.
I had an escort, of course. I couldn’t figure whether it was because Hansen still expected me to run, to rat, because he didn’t trust me alone with his children, or because he was worried about someone striking while he wasn’t there.
I didn’t think about it. Because I was holding a beautiful baby. I was somewhere that wasn’t a biker clubhouse. In fact, I was in a beautiful home in the middle of the desert. Cluttered with photos, and odd fantasy paraphernalia and decorated in boho chic. Everything about it was the home that I wished I could have. A place that was warm. A place that had roots. That seeped my personality from the walls.
But I didn’t even know what kind of decorating style I had.
I was pretty sure I didn’t have one.
None of my previous apartments had much but the rudimentary household items and furniture, as I was never there long enough to waste money on such things.
And then when I moved back home into a condo just outside of town—because I couldn’t stand being within town limits, let alone at my parent’s house—my mother and sister had taken over the decorating and I didn’t have any say in the matter. I didn’t want a say. Because seeing them fighting happily over which cushions would go with my sofa again filled me with warmth. I was making them happy, for once, instead of filling them with worry.