Page 2 of Kneeling to Candy

And then Bianchi’s men fucked up, letting her escape. I should have bought her off Lorenzo when I had the chance. She wouldn’t have been able to escape the gilded cage I would’ve kept her in.

Bitterness has me grinding my teeth together as I come back to the present and focus on the woman in my grip. This female has eyes duller than a desert. They’re not nearly as rich-colored compared to Leslie’s soulful eyes.

I’m pathetic for trying to compare the two.

And more pathetic for wishing it was Leslie instead of this no-name.

My obsession is gone…for now.

More frustrated than I was a moment ago, I jab the barrel of my gun harder against her head. The young woman whimpers, going limp in my hold.

“You will do as you’re told. Climb your sorry arse into the truck. If you don’t,” I threaten, taking the safety off my Glock with a flick of my thumb, “I will blow your goddamn brains out. Are we clear?”

The frightened woman woodenly nods her head, her eyes dropping to the ground in defeat.

“Good bird,” I coo with a twisted smirk, removing my gun from her temple. “Off to the truck with you.”

CHAPTER ONE

CANDY

Past—A Little Over One Year Ago

It’s difficult being the most misunderstood and hated woman in the Mercy Ravens Motorcycle Club. With how close knit this group of bikers and their women are, it would seem impossible to be on the wrong side of this crew when you’re an insider. But here I am, sticking out like a sore thumb—the most loathed member of the entire MC.

Most people would crumble under the cold, constant scrutiny of the retired Navy SEALs, current mercenary bikers who make up the brotherhood. However, I’m not most people. It takes more than giving me the cold shoulder or a few muttered words of detest to make me turn cheek and cower.

I decline to show others how they affect me. Call it a defense mechanism, or whatever psychological definition you want to label it. Past traumatic experiences have taught me never to let others see the cracks in my armor—they could weaponise my emotions against me. I refuse to fall victim to my own feelings if I can help it. I’ve learned to wear a mask of indifference like a shield, walling up my emotions like an impenetrable fortress. Thus, my lack of showing empathy toward others has earned me a general dislike among the crew.

Granted, I’ve done enough harmful shit aside from being callous to earn the detestation of the club members. From seeing every woman as a threat to my security within the MC and in turn being a bitch to any woman who joins, my list of offenses is long. And let’s not forget I attempted to steal the vice president of the club away from his old lady and gave a mob-owned hacker access to the MC’s internal security database, a few tarnished stars on my disgusting resume.

Yes, some of the resentment I’ve earned. Though the hacker scenario wasn’t entirely my fault. It’s the latest of my blunders on a long list of transgressions, making it hard for most of the MC members to be empathetic toward my black sheep status. After all the disharmony I’ve caused within the crew, I understand their resistance to letting what I did slide.

Lucky Luca—head mobster enforcer and henchman to Lorenzo Bianchi—coerced me into betraying the club. When you force yourself on a woman, you’ll find most women will do anything not to let it happen again, including betraying their family. I’m proof of it. Fear is the only thing that’ll make me submit to anyone—fear of pain, starvation, enslavement are experiences I’m all too familiar with while trafficked under the thumb of the Bianchi Mafia. Submission isn’t natural for me, but survival will always trump my dominant personality.

Instead of trusting my club to protect me from Luca, I did what the mob asked of me. It was cowardly, but understandable, given my history of sexual assault. Most survivors would do anything to avoid going through it again. My betrayal is something I have to live with for the rest of my days, my burden to bear, and mine alone.

I’m lucky Atlas—the MC president and royal alpha-hole extraordinaire—cooled his jets and listened to Jo. His old lady explained I was a victim as much as the club when I was forced to give the mob’s hacker access to our security systems. Atlas agreed, allowing me to stay on the condition I begin regular therapy to deal with my past trauma. He had all the grounds to throw me out of the club on my ass.

Hell, in some biker clubs, what I did would’ve signed my death warrant. Lord knows I’ve done little good in my twenty-five years to deserve a hint of grace from anyone I’ve subjected to my cruelness, but I’m grateful for the chance to redeem myself within my biker family.

Counseling has helped in my healing journey. But my armor remains intact, hiding my feelings from reaching the surface outside of therapy. Some habits are harder to break without lots of management. I hope with time, I’ll be able to express myself healthily, without the fear of others using my emotions against me.

Still doesn’t mean I’m immune to the silent treatment or radiating resentment of most of the brotherhood. No one has been harsh toward me or thrown my betrayal in my face, but I feel their hostility whenever I come into contact with a member. Their hard glares knick my armor, bruising my tender heart I hide from the world. No matter how strong you appear on the outside, no one is impenetrable on the inside.

Every once in a while, I feel the need to flee their silent persecution, shut out everyone. Today is one of those days. Nothing bad, per se. Just an off feeling.

It’s lunchtime. I bring my ham and Swiss sandwich to the oversized banquet table in the mid-century modern dining room to eat. A few of the guys are already here, eating and bullshitting like any other day at headquarters. They stop their conversation as I take my seat at the other end of the table, away from them. I don’t need to see their judgmental faces to feel their eyes assessing me—I can sense it all over my skin as the little hairs covering my body stand at attention.

Ignoring them as best I can, I pick up my sandwich, forcing myself to take a bite.

Eventually, they talk amongst themselves again, censoring their words and hushing their voices. But I know I’m the reason they hesitate at all.

Worse, I don’t blame them. The guys are always talking club or security business, things that could hurt the MC if told to the wrong people. I abused my position in the club once before—they may worry I’ll do it again if put in another compromising position.

With my nerves rising, I abandon my meal, retreating from the room to find refuge.

The alcove underneath the back staircase of the Mercy Ravens’ headquarters provides me with the sanctuary I need. The space is more of a supply closet, housing the cleaning supplies and paper products for headquarters. It may give off the strong antiseptic smell of bleach, but the enclosure is big enough to give me enough room to sit on the floor comfortably. More importantly, it’s private and free of cameras inside—something of a rarity at headquarters.

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