Arthur ran Pure Corruption so differently. His men were their own. They had freedom and happiness. Their loyalty was unswerving because it came with no conditions, no threats.
“Happy to be home, Buttercup?” Rubix’s fingers pinched my wrists.
I flinched as a sharp stone stabbed my toe, adding to a long list of discomforts. I should curb my tongue. Hold my rancid loathing and play along quiet and meek. If I did, I might have a better chance at lulling him into smug laxness and escape.
But I couldn’t hold my tongue.
My parents couldn’t stand up to him. Arthur couldn’t. It was up to me to point out what a twisted and deluded bastard he was.
To remind him that he’s a dead man walking.
Tilting my head, and with the airs and graces of a biker princess, I said, “This ceased to be home the day you murdered my parents.” Looking over my shoulder, ignoring the pressure around my elbows, I added, “You sold your soul, Scott Killian, and I’ll make sure you die for it.”
Rubix laughed. “Didn’t you read the report I gave you? It wasn’t me who slaughtered your family.” His fingers squeezed hard. “It was my lowlife pussy of a son.”
My heart stumbled as Arthur’s face played bright and true in my mind. His winged eyebrows, chiseled jaw, and fathomless emerald eyes. He was a romance novel. A fairy tale. My past, present, and future.
My hands fisted. “He was always too good for you.” I raised my voice. “You never deserved him. He’s a hundred times the man you will ever be and I’ll dance on your grave when he delivers the justice that you deserve.”
Rubix slammed to a halt, jerking me close so I crashed against his body. The pungent whiff of cigarettes and staleness wrinkled my nose. “We’ll see who will be dancing on graves, little princess.”
“I guess we will.” Our eyes locked and I had no doubt that if he meant to kill me, he would’ve dispatched me right there in an ocean of gravel. My blood would’ve poured through the dusty pebbles to the earth below and stained the sanctity of Dagger Rose.
But no matter how hot his temper, he didn’t slaughter me.
Why? Does he have more self-control than I thought? Or is keeping me alive more valuable than killing me?
What did he want?
Men looked up from their menial tasks around the compound, summoned by our wordless rage and silent death stare.
You won’t win. I won’t let you.
Rubix tore his eyes from mine, taking note of our audience. Smiling thinly, he propelled me farther from the home I’d been imprisoned in and toward the communal Clubhouse.
My skin prickled as more eyes fell upon me. Brothers young and old emerged from homes, falling in behind us to form a biker parade.
Tendrils of fear gathered like ghosts inside my stomach.
What are they planning to do?
Staring straight ahead with blank eyes, I forced my terror not to show on my face. However this ended, I would not show my fear.
Rubix looked behind us, grinning at his entourage. “See, Cleo … everyone has come to welcome our runaway pet. I have half a mind to collar you and make you crawl.”
“Do it, Prez!” a man shouted.
“I’d pay to see that kinky shit!” another yelled.
My body begged to whirl around and attack—to show them how rabid a pet I could be. Instead, I remained outwardly frigid, ignoring their manipulation and taunts.
I had no amnesia to hide me this time.
No protection from what would happen.
I knew these men too well and my mind filled with painful imaginings of what they would do.
Rubix laughed, shoving me the remaining distance to the Clubhouse. I tripped and winced, my feet becoming bruised and dust-painted from the gravel path. My attire of T-shirt and panties had been perfect for sleeping beside Arthur—the material enticing and sensual for my lover’s tender fingers and soft embrace. But here, with Dagger Rose devils gnawing on the fringes of my courage, it was woefully too revealing.
Then again, no wardrobe would be equipped to defend against being biker-napped and held hostage. The only armor I had was my mettle and ability to be dauntless in the face of certain torment.
“I want some clothes,” I snapped as Rubix pushed me up the stairs of the meetinghouse. “I’m still a Dagger, after all. What’s yours is mine and I demand some clothing.” The lessons Detective Davidson taught me when he prepared me for my foster family came back.
“If you ever find yourself in a situation where help fails, remember you did nothing wrong and to remain strong.”
I glanced up. My new name, passport, and documentation had been completed. I’d been in the state’s care for a few months while waiting for the final go-ahead to locate overseas. “What do you mean?”
“If you get taken, try to keep the kidnapper talking. Get them to see you, not as a victim, but as a fellow human being. Don’t beg or grovel, just be yourself. Appeal to the soul.”
I traced my pink burns. Bandages still covered the worst ones and pain was a constant daily war. “And if they have no soul?”
“Then it’s their life or yours. And yours is paramount.”
Rubix snorted. “You’re demanding clothes?”
“Yes. I’m cold.”
“And you’re calling yourself one of us? When you just told me you’ll try to destroy me?”
I held my chin high even though navigating the steps with my arms behind my back took concentration. “Yes. I know what I’m entitled to. I’m hungry as well. Add that to my order—clothes and food.”