Taken by the Bikers (Screaming Eagles MC)

King turns to look at me, his dark pools searching, examining me. He grimaces. “No bullshit. Is your daddy fucking with us, or does he really not give a fuck about what happens to you? Even monsters protect their cubs.”

I should lie. What if it turns out I'm useless to them? Will they kill me? Get rid of me, like Viking said at Church? Leave me in a ditch somewhere when they know their plan isn't working? But no, I don't think they'd do that. And I'm sick of putting up a front.

Still, it's hard to admit, and I can't meet his gaze. “I… I don't know. He doesn't like people messing with his things, and I guess I'm one of them.”

“His thing?” There's a hint of outrage creeping into King's already furious tone. It's hitting harder than I would have imagined. I don't miss Hero and Wild Thing glancing at each other again, even if they're quick about it.

“I'm… I guess I'm not sure, but I'm starting to feel like I might be an acceptable price for him to pay.” God, that hurt to say. Like someone has captured my heart in their fist and now they're trying to squeeze it dry.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” King turns away from me and scratches the back of his neck as if he's thinking. “His own flesh and fucking blood. And he calls us scum?”

I'm their captive, but just now, I feel like they're all on my side, and—surprisingly enough—especially King. At least that's the only reason I can give for why the words suddenly start spilling out of me, like I'm confessing to a best friend I never had. “He wanted a son. I'm too ugly and fat for him to want me at the galas, but he brings me anyway, hoping someone important will want to put the moves on me. But maybe this way, he can get more use out of me. He's nothing if not good at seeing opportunities to get himself ahead. And it's not like he isn't chubby too. He wears a stupid girdle under that suit.”

Wild Child barks a sharp laugh. “For real? I hope you've slit the straps on it at least once so it gave out.”

“What? No. I'd never dare.” I cover my mouth at the thought of it. And then the idea of Dad standing at the podium, making one of his stupid speeches comes to me, just as the girdle gives out and his gut expands under his crisp white shirt like he was suddenly six months pregnant. Oh God. It would be immaculate.

“You told me to fuck off, the hot biker who plays with knives and has a stud through his tongue. Are you sure?”

Hero rolls his eyes, and asks dryly, “Hot?”

I shake my head. “But that's different. I mean, you're not my father.”

“I could be your daddy,” he responds, flicking his tongue at me.

“Fuck off, Wild Child,” says King darkly, his soulful gaze right on me like he's trying to figure out why I'm so scared of Dad. Then he shakes his head. “If Hawthorne doesn't care, then we're fucked, and I don't like being fucked.”

“That's not what Janey says,” quips Wild Child. Hero snorts, even though he keeps his expression neutral. And I try not to jump too hard. It's just her name, but I'd be just as happy if I never heard it again ever.

“I told you to fuck off.”

“Are you going to let me go, then?” I ask. Please, oh please. At least let it be that, and not blowing my brains out and leaving me out in a field somewhere. But do I want to go home? Maybe I could go somewhere else. Reinvent myself. Find my own way, away from Dad and his angry fists. Where would I go?

King eyes me, thinking. “No. Not yet. We're going to make sure he understands we mean business, though.”

“Oh God, you're not going to cut off my fingers, are you?” I push back against the wall, scrambling to get as far away from him as I can.

“Cut off your—what? Fuck no. We're not the goddamn mob. Jesus. But we're taking some pictures.” And with that he pulls his gun out of his belt.

I scream. No way I'm keeping my cool any longer. “Don't kill me!”

“King!” Hero stands so fast his chair topples behind him.

“It's just for fucking show. You know me better than that. Wild Child, hold her.” He tosses Hero his phone. “Here, take pictures.”

A moment later, Wild Child has my arms behind me, his grip iron. King takes his place next to me and puts the gun muzzle right up against my temple. I'm hyperventilating and twisting, but getting nowhere. “Please, no. Please.”

Hero's expression is twisted with distaste, but he takes several shots before lowering the phone. “Done. Now put it away.”