Page 5 of Property of Lucian

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Chapter 3

Haylee

A radiating heat was filling me, sending blissful shocks through my body. I was warm, in bed, safe. I rolled over. God, I felt like I had just lived a nightmare. And what a nightmare it was, being Lucian’s woman. My sleepy eyes opened, and I blinked.Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I gasped, sitting up. This wasn’t my room! Hell, had I passed out at one of the clubs again? Had the bartender been kind enough to show me a room?

“I need ya to leave.”

I gulped, and it wasn’t because of an unfamiliar voice. No, it was the opposite. I knew that voice and with tears brimming in my eyes, I looked up. I saw Lucian standing there, threading his club patch on.

It hadn’t been a nightmare . . . itwasa nightmare.

“Got my girl coming in, can’t have you here.”

My stomach dropped. His girl. God, I was his property, not a woman he wanted to love. I weakly nodded my head and in this moment, it hit me like a hurricane—I was basically a slave. Emotions overcame me, and the tears fell as I dropped to the floor looking for my clothes.

“Haylee.”

I wiped the tears from my eyes and looked at him. “What?” I didn’t say the one word disrespectful, in fact, I tried to say that word with as much respect as I could muster.

“Ya clothes are in the bathroom, wet and on the floor. Get dressed and leave.” With those words, he walked out of the room.

I knew he had saved me from a gang rape last night. Why he had, I still wasn’t sure. Clearly, he had a woman but wanted his slave—which was me—to disappear while she was here.

I wondered if he was one of those bikers that tried to live a full normal life outside of these club walls.

I walked into the bathroom. Sure enough, my clothes were damp and on the tiled floor.

I was tempted to slip one of the big warm jumpers on, but I knew if his girl saw me in his clothes, I’d be dead and so would Harley.

I slipped the damp clothes on and left the room, making sure there was no trace of me in it.

* * *

I was behind the bar, cleaning jugs and trying to stay busy. No one had spoken to me, apart from the President. It was like I was off limits.

Even the club girls stayed clear of me. It actually seemed like they were enjoying having a slave for themselves. I cleaned, moped the floors, did all the jobs I knew they would normally do.

The sound of motorcycles pulling in the load scored most attention from the members at the club. A few of the men hovered near the double black doors—which I was too scared to stand near, let alone go in—began to walk away. It was as if they had been guarding it but were leaving their post.

Then it happened in a second.

A loud thud of the clubhouse door broke open. The members that had been guarding the door slammed their fists against it. Then they ran.

I looked at the entrance, three men had a gun pointed and a few bullets whizzed through the air.

My hand wrapped around the shotgun under the bar. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two girls and one boy come running into the bar.

Fuck.

I didn’t know there were kids here!

I aimed the shotgun. With so much training, I knew the kick back and aimed fired, it was a warning shot. And the man leading the attack knew that. I moved around the bar and stood in front of the kids.

“Think your next move through clearly,” I spoke loudly and clearly to the gang of bikers who looked like they wanted to ambush the clubhouse.

The man looked at the way I was holding the gun, even looked somewhat impressed.

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