by V. Theia
She was fascinated in how his teeth ground together like this was a personal vendetta to the MC president. His eyes flashed so darkly he had a look of the devil. “He deserves nothing short of a bloodbath ending, babe. And that's what he'll get”
“No disrespect intended, but I don’t know you or your Souls people. Or why you'd take on that responsibility. This is for the law to deal with.”
Hades was still out there alive somewhere.
What terrible news to tell a girl when she was fresh out of her un-gilded cage.
She would have laughed once over for that irony. But not now.
Something occurred to her that turned her blood cold.
“He’ll come for me if he knows I lived through whatever you did to his clubhouse. He is not a man who likes to lose, ever. He’s the proverbial kid who won’t share his candy.” She shivered, unconsciously wrapping arms around her knees once more.
“He won’t fuckin’ get near you, Icy!” His outburst was sudden. Again, he growled.
Zara was confused at his display, not to mention hearing that nickname again after so long.
It wrenched unfamiliar pain throughout her belly. But then, nothing made sense to her.
“You can stay here until we get him. We will get him.”
“Okay.” What did she care? If Rider and his MC had their own grudge against Hades let death find that bastard by his hands.
She was so tired, too tired to deal with it.
But she knew one thing; Hades had treated her like his own special project to mentally torture, it was why she reasoned he'd never sold her on like the other women or killed her.
She remembered how he'd laughed the day she'd slipped up and spat in his face declaring he was no president like Rider. Rider fucking Marinos? You know him do ya, sweet love? oh well, this just gets better and fucking better, you just became my favorite fucking toy, I’ll have to keep you real close. Now get the fuck here while I show you why you don't ever fucking spit at me. You'll be calling me Sir President before I'm done with you, sweet love. Beg me, bitch, beg your fucking President to hurt you.
She gulped back the rise of bile.
Before she could speak, Rider rose slowly this time as if to prepare her, give her warning he was not a threat. She watched his sleek movement, he walked languidly with his hips, she noticed the way his jeans molded to his long legs and the sway of his wallet chain around a lean waist making it clang. A distraction from her vile thoughts.
Her eyes crawled up his body, reached his chest, continued up, by the time she’d found his face he was already positioned in front of a dark wood chest of drawers, and bringing a plate over to her. Oh god. He’d brought her food. She didn’t care what it was, she wanted it now. Her belly growled like a tiny cub.
Gimme Gimme Gimme.
“Here, babe. You need this. Our medicine man said you were malnourished, you’re all skin and bone. Eat and I’ll bring you some more, as much as you want.” the plate snatched out of his hand, set on her lap, she was already sinking teeth down through the first huge bite of the roast beef and mayo sandwich before he’d finished talking.
Though she ate like a savage coming off a hunger strike she was polite with it, remembering to chew with her mouth closed, though in truth she barely chewed at all.
So good. So, so good. It tasted incredible. The best food she’d ever eaten.
Oh, God. Food. It had been days since she'd eaten a scrap of anything. She bit off more, gulping before the food was ready to be swallowed, she didn't care. Soft chewy white bread, she tasted the salted butter, and the creamy mayo slathered on the thick slab of beef with crispy lettuce leaves. She’d been a vegetarian once for about a minute. She'd never enjoyed cow so much before.
All went quiet. The food needed her attention. Just the sound of Zara’s hungry gulps and moans of enjoyment. A can of soda cracked open and appeared in front of her nose, she grabbed it, gulping half, before returning to the fourth and last sandwich.
She realized she’d eaten way too fast when nausea rolled through her, but she didn’t care for her body's reaction, she was full in she didn’t know how long. The Rebels were not big on feeding their captives, even if their fat asses and beer guts were overloaded daily.
Assholes.
While she was inhaling the food, she tried her best not to notice Rider. But the sheer size of the man was hard to ignore. Instead, she drifted her one good eye around the room from under her lashes. A bed. Chest of drawers. Table. Chair. Armchair. Oh. It was all the same as she remembered. This was. Ohh. She'd been brought to Rider's room.
“It all looks the same.” she murmured.
“Hm.” was all he said.
Taking a firm grip on the soda can, coldness penetrating her hands as they shook a little. Full circle was here; she'd returned to the scene of her original crime. How ironic. She would have smiled had she had that in her to do.
When she felt ready she lifted her head, found him watching her intently. Just those piercing blue eyes trained had the effect to make her belly roll, tossing the food around like a rollercoaster.
Please don't throw up. Please don't vomit in front of this man, it would be the perfect end to a shitty existence so far. Luckily, she controlled her nausea waving through her with a few heavy inhales before she spoke.
"What happens now? I mean. Should I leave? I won't go to the police if you don't want me to. I can go to..." Nowhere. She had nowhere. The thought of facing her parents curdled the beef sandwich, turning it greasy, heavy...threatening to make a reappearance. No, she couldn't face her family yet, not looking as she did.
"You'll stay here, Zara. The club can provide protection until the Rebels shit is dealt with. No fucker is getting in, Hawk, my VP has this place rigged like we're the Pentagon on steroids."
He approached her slowly, with the room's size not being much bigger than a shoebox his long stride brought him to her in two easy steps. She visibly blanched with his nearness, she smelled fresh soap and instantly was ashamed of how she looked. Who would ever look twice at you, sweet love? He crouched, looked her straight in the eye.
It was strange she wanted badly to trust someone, anyone... him. Salvation came in many forms. Sometimes... maybe... in the shape of a six foot five badass biker?
"Can I … I need to shower; can I take a shower?"
His brows pinched in the middle she noticed, otherwise he didn't respond, instead.
“Babe. How long were you there for?” The deepness of his voice brought some semblance of calm to her as though he was preparing to horse whisper to a frightened bronco.
She smoothed the condensation from the can, looked down to break eye contact. His gaze was too piercing; she couldn't take the close proximity scrutiny.
His presence overwhelming.
She paused, her skin prickling, nerves rattling, she rubbed her arm, self-soothing until she felt ready to answer him.
“Three years, give or take a few months. I don’t really know, I lost track of the calendar after a while.”
His cold curse blistered the air.
CHAPTER SIX
“Fuck me. The want never went away.” - Rider Marinos
He was such a dirty bastard.
Who fantasized about doing dirty shit to a woman when she was all beaten and broken inside like a china doll?
Such a dirty bastard. And he owned his shit.
Rider needed to get a hold of himself.
Where had his thoughts led him to? He was meant to be thinking of ways to secure Zara some help back to normality, to get her from his club in a little while. None of his boys were happy when he’d told them she’d be staying. Instead, he was knee deep in old fantasies mixed with the new of fucking her.
Fucking her again.
Fucking her some more.
He felt punch drunk, despite he hadn’t touched a drop of booze all night until a few moments ago. Dragging the bottle of whiskey closer, he unscrewed the cap and thought about taking it right from th
e bottle.
Strung out wanting a woman. What were the chances of that she would crash-land back in his territory and he’d still want to fuck the fuck out of her?
She made him hard.
She’d shocked the fuck out of him.
And then filled him with rage hearing what had been done to her. An extraordinary sense of possessive ownership had threatened to grind Rider’s teeth to fucking dust in his mouth, so much so he’d called on patience no outlaw was known for.
Part of him wanted her gone from his club before she became too important, before she could slide underneath his skin, easily hand over the problem to someone else. He knew people, if he truly wanted her out of his hair he could easily reach out to one of the other chapters and have her go there for her own safety. The fact that Rider didn’t do that, spoke volumes.
Fuck.
Maybe she should go home. She hadn’t mentioned any family yet, but surely, she had people, people who would have missed her, wanted her back?
Long goddamn night. It felt never ending. Most of his brothers had crashed out or were still propping up the bar celebrating the night. Far as he could see there were zero fucking things to celebrate here, he felt visibly sick to his belly.
Zara had been raped, beaten, countless unquestionable times.
Yeah, nothing to celebrate.
Pouring two fingers of scotch, his third in a matter of minutes, downed it in one long burning gulp, trying without success to ease the tension between his shoulders.
His head was already throbbing, he supposed the booze wouldn’t help that, but it might stop him from thinking of the way Zara had taken off for the shower when he’d pointed to the bathroom door, she was hurting all over, but the desperation in her hasty steps made him frown.
She’d struggled with her shirt, he’d noticed before the door had closed, she was favoring her ribs. It had been on the tip of his tongue to offer his help.
Fucks sake, where had that come from?
The woman had been violated in the worse way, he doubted she wanted his hands on her, even to lift her shirt over her head.
He’d gotten out of his room quick sharp, leaving her to wash up, only to return a few minutes later with another plate of sandwiches and a bag of chips. He left them on the bed, hesitated to listen to the water coming from behind the door.
His dick ached.
Yep. He was a dirty bastard.
Slouched down in his office chair, Rider pulled the sleeves of his shirt down past his fingers. The cabin was frigid cold for October, there was even some frost in the early morning air and they were calling for snow, he could see it happening.
With his club on lockdown, expecting the sheriff and his crew to come by anytime soon, he hadn’t wanted to hang around inside, the walls had closed in on him until he felt restricted of clean air. It wasn’t often Rider was taken by surprise, but fuck if seeing Zara hadn’t kicked him in the fucking gut.
Assaulted with memories he let them play for a while.
They wound around his mind, erotic webs fixing themselves in place.
The way she’d screamed as he’d fucked her into his bed, how her legs wrapped him tight like a cobra, she’d been silky wet and Rider had gone down on her for so long she’d begged him, pleaded insisting that she couldn’t take anymore.
He could still feel the tight clasp of her pussy, those deep sharp wet thrusts taking him down to the bottom of her, and that soft exhale as she’d stretched around his cock, that first caress of pleasure, he’d seen play on her face the second she began to like it as rough as he gave her it, her body undulating wanting him to move inside her with force.
Nails gouging his back up. He’d loved that.
He’d fucked a virgin and liked it.
Best night of his life. He’d known it.
Hadn’t had sex like it.
Miss sunshine virgin had rocked his fucking boots.
Rider didn't kid himself about the image he presented to the citizens of Armado Springs. He was never the golden boy, the glorified boring jock and not the boy to bring him to mom and dad for an apple pie supper.
He left women with a wicked taste of curiosity, and a touch of fear in the older generation because they knew first hand or had heard of his reputation.
No one messed with Rider.
Nevertheless, he loved his town and did all he could for the people within its borders. Rider contributed to charities, he helped flagging businesses to get back on their feet.
Last year when half the church burnt down in a freak thunderstorm the Renegade Souls rallied the money together, held a giant cookout and even arranged for an out of town construction company to donate most of the hard labor to the fund.
Now if he'd used persuasive non-political tactics to get that discount, did it really matter. His sway reached far, they'd all heard of Rider, whether by association, or word of mouth. If people didn't bend over backward to aid his requests, then he'd help them along to change their minds.
Outlaws would never be in style.
Just because he did good things didn't mean Rider was in any way a good man. Gray areas covered a wide span of space. It was impossible to be a Hollywood type when you had an ink sleeve and a bad attitude pouring out of your every facial expression.
This was his city and he loved every seedy inch of it. He didn't have the key to the city, but he felt in a somewhat part owner of Armado Springs since he ran a lot of it whether people knew or not.
Rider Marinos might present a mean image to those who didn't know him, their opinions and whispered rumors were not wrong about, he'd buried more men than he could count, but he was never black or white, his moral compass was surrounded by murky underhanded gray areas.
The biker with a heart was probably going too far. But he did care. He cared a fucking lot for Zara, he was realizing with startling clarity that stung his chest.
Hadn't he always. He'd just buried it.
Now she was here. And he was caring too much as if it was the first time all over again.
She'd plagued many of his dreams over the years. He'd wanted her, taken her and discarded her in a fucked-up way because he was too pussy to admit he liked a woman for more reasons than just a simple fast fuck.
As if reminded of the last time his dick had been wet by her it kicked to life behind his zipper demanding the same wet warm attention, making him crave her again. Grinding the heel of one hand on his crotch to calm the ache Rider took another long gulp of the whiskey, it's familiar burn racing to his gut.
Dick ignored.
Fantasies ignored.
He was a filthy bastard without an ounce of good intentions picturing her in his shower. Imagining the slow rivulets of water sluicing down over her naked body. She would be using his soap, the unscented white bar that sat on the shower ledge, a strange possessive sensation swept over him.
She'd smell like him.
Fucks sake. He pressed the heel of his hand against his zipper again, telling that hardening bastard to shut up.
He was sat chicking out over his past one nighter.
If he looked down to see he was growing a pussy, he wouldn't be surprised.
He pushed Zara out of his mind for the moment, choosing instead to take up drinking professionally, at least for the next hour.
Now wasn’t the time to try and recall the exact sound she made when she came underneath him or how her pussy sucked him in, drowned him in blissful heat.
She’d however, done something more impactful for him than provide him with a few moments’ worth of dirty fantasies of old.
She’d pressed home the urgency of their situation.
And it was theirs now. Not just a vendetta club-to-club.
That shit-for-brains Hades had performed something to warrant Rider's utmost attention. He would hunt that bastard to the ends of the earth, he would make him his only goal in life, to bring death to his door in the most painful of ways, to shove justice for Zara so far down his throat Hades' would shi
t it out even as he hurtled his sorry ass into Hell.
Forty-five minutes later, Rider was outside his room, swaying in his heavy-duty leather boots, effects of his fast drinking session taking full hold of him when he rested his shoulder to the doorframe to stay upright, thumbs hooked into the waist of his jeans trying to talk himself out of going inside.
After more than half bottle of whiskey, a whole shit ton of sexual fantasies and murderous thoughts later he was no clearer on the new shitstorm.
Advice from his VP would be to dump her at a local woman’s shelter and let her dice fall where they may.
Fuck. That.
He’d scraped the girl off once before against his own wants, and somehow, she was then led into the hands of monsters.
Three years. God fucking damn it. Three years.
He only made the same mistake once.
His room was cast in near complete darkness except for the shine of the moon from the one window that didn’t have a curtain only a broken roller blind that was stuck midway, he’d been meaning to have it changed, but not on his list of priorities Rider had left it to hang broken, now he was reluctantly thankful he didn’t when the light hit his bed perfectly to show how Zara was sleeping with the covers buried essentially masking her face.
Had the light bothered her? Some reason that had him frowning.
Closing the door with a quiet click, he toed off his boots, picked up both and carried them over by the tv, under his arm he carried a lone pillow and a dark gray wool blanket, the kind you get in jail only less itchy. He fucking hated those jail blankets, he was sure they kept them so as no one got any sleep down in lockup.
Cops were sadistic motherfuckers.
Rider was tired as hell, his eyes burned, and didn’t want to hunt a bed elsewhere.
Truth was he hadn’t for a second thought he’d sleep anywhere else.
He could insist this was his room, he was president, he’d sleep wherever the fuck he wanted, but again the truth was he felt he should be close by to Zara if she needed him.
