His mouth touches mine. “On my dick, at my mercy, and only mine to destroy.” Heat ripples through my stomach and travels to my toes as I feel myself build again. I grind against him, meeting every thrust as he tightens the curtain every now and then, depriving me of air. His lips crash onto mine just as the tension he thrashed into me explodes through the air and my toes curl in, my forehead resting against his. “Mine.”

My head nods against him. “Yours.”

I wake the next morning, stretching my arms wide. I didn’t want to come, but even after last night, which thankfully Wolf slept through, I feel like my windpipes are clear and I can breathe again. Shifting Wicked’s heavy arm off my body and careful not to wake him, I shuffle off the bed and make my way to the windows near Wolf’s bed. The curtains are a basic white, and in the early morning daylight, it actually looks clean. There’s a double bed pushed up against the wall, with the bathroom right beside it. Wolf’s bed is on Wicked’s side, and I peek over to see him snoring, his little mouth parted open. Both of them as bad as each other clearly.

Partially swiping the curtains open, I look directly to the paddock near the shed, where not so long ago bodies were burning. Most of the shed has been burned to ash along with it, no doubt to kill any and all evidence, but it’s the horses in the grass fields that catch my eye. Such a picturesque view, with rich green mountains and fat trees growing naturally. I feel a sense of calm wash over me the longer I’m here.

Closing the curtain, I grab Wicked’s discarded T-shirt off the floor and slip it over my head. It sits around my thighs and has the Wolf Pack MC logo on the front, but it’ll do. I know I’ve most likely got bruises around my throat and the bandage on my neck is going to be questionable. I just hope no one actually questions it. I’m starving, and once Wolf is awake, he will be too.

Running the brush through my hair, I shove on my pair of white fluffy socks and slowly turn the handle to the door. The clubhouse upstairs has multiple doors. The hallway leading down to the stairs is decorated with photographs. Members, families, old photos of men standing near their bikes, and mugshots.

I chuckle when I see Wicked’s, his face straight and unmoving. “Let me tell you, big boy, this would have been your final mugshot had Papa not saved you that night.” I jog down the stairs that lead to the bottom level, hearing the loud screeching of a vacuum and harsh rapping of Eminem. They have good taste whoever they are.