Page 11 of Strength in Submission
“Nasty, naughty, dirty. We know. Have you seen this son of a—” I shoot Max a warning glare and he stops, knowing not to ever finish that phrase. I have the utmost respect for my mother, and the man who ever calls her the b word will have my fist through his teeth before he can even finish. “Sorry, all I was tryin’ to say is the name fits. Now, how do you two know each other? I don’t think I’ve ever seen Whip bring you around here,” Max says, and it causes me to laugh.
“Give her some of my stash, and I’ll let Vi tell you.” I tap the barstool for her to take a seat and she does, so I sit beside herand settle back, watching her finally relax since stepping foot in this place.
Chapter Seven
VIOLET
"Max, this man here doesn't actually make me tell people how we know each other," I laugh, taking the shot of tequila he places in front of me. I down it without hesitation, feeling the liquid burn my throat in the most satisfying way possible. The ice pack Santiago—or Whip, as they call him here—gave me is starting to numb my cheek, and between that and the tequila, the pain is already dulling.
"That right? You two got somethin' to hide?" Max raises a brow and shoots Santiago a knowing look.
"She's my sister's best friend," Santiago interjects, keeping his eyes focused on me. His gaze is intense, assessing, and I can't help but feel like he's taking in every inch of me. The air between us feels loaded with something I can't quite place.
"Ahh, little Ashley's friend," Max nods, recognition spreading across his weathered face. "Knew she was comin' to the city for a job. You work with her?"
"No, I work for a fashion magazine," I explain, feeling oddly at ease in this testosterone-filled environment. "I run their social media. You know, the posts that go out on X and Instagram? I create all the graphics, schedule them, all that fun stuff."
Max nods like he understands perfectly, though I doubt he's ever given a thought to social media marketing in his life. He's being kind, and I appreciate it more than he knows.
Santiago hasn't taken his eyes off me, and I feel a shiver run up my spine when he reaches out to adjust the ice pack on my face. His fingers brush my skin, just barely, but it's enough to make my breath catch.
"You wanna tell me what happened?" he asks, his voice low enough that only I can hear it.
I take a deep breath, knowing I can't avoid this conversation. "I went to get my things from the apartment. Derek was there with... with her."
Santiago's jaw tightens. "The woman he was with when you caught him?"
I nod. "She was wearing my underwear, Santiago. My fucking underwear. Who does that?" Tears spring to my eyes, and I hastily wipe them away, wincing when my fingers brush against my tender cheek.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters, shaking his head. "So what happened with your face?"
"She grabbed me by my hair, and when I went to defend myself, Derek punched me." The words come out in a rush, and saying them aloud makes it all real again.
My hands start to shake. "He said he knew where I was staying and threatened to come teach me another lesson. I... I couldn't go back to Ashley's. What if he follows me there? What if–"
"Shh," Santiago soothes me, taking the empty shot glass from my trembling fingers. "You don't have to worry about him. Not anymore."
I see something dark flash in his eyes—something dangerous and primal that should frighten me but instead makes me feel protected.
"Another round, Max," Santiago calls without looking away from me. "Make it doubles."
Max slides two more shots our way, and Santiago hands one to me, raising his glass.
"To new beginnings," he says simply.
I clink my glass against his and down the shot, this one going down easier than the first. The tequila's warming me from the inside, taking the edge off my fear.
"Want a tour of the place?" Santiago asks after a moment. "Might help get your mind off things."
I nod, grateful for the distraction. Santiago helps me off the barstool, his hand resting at the small of my back as he guides me through the clubhouse. The space is surprisingly clean, with leather couches, pool tables, and a massive TV setup in the main area.
"The guys all have rooms upstairs," he explains, pointing to a staircase. "Some stay here full time, others just crash when they need to." He hesitates for a moment. "Want to see mine?"
Maybe it's the tequila, or maybe it's the way his eyes hold mine, but I find myself nodding. We climb the stairs, and I'm hyper aware of his hand still on my back, steadying me.
His room is at the end of the hallway, away from the others. When he opens the door, I'm surprised by how... normal it looks. Clean, minimalist, with a king-size bed covered in dark gray bedding, a desk in the corner, and framed motorcycle prints on the walls.
"Not what you expected?" Santiago asks, amusement in his voice.
