Page 7 of True Bastard
Chapter Four
Kyllian
Slamming my front door shut, I flicked the light switch and groaned when nothing happened. Leaning against the door, I closed my eyes and muttered, “That’s just fucking great.”
This town, this life—it was a suffocating cycle of disappointment and danger. Fired from the Prancing Pussycat, my meager savings were now even further out of reach. The lingering ache in my ribs was a constant, throbbing reminder of Jessup’s violence, a prelude to the cosmic joke that had unfolded tonight. The biker, the enigmatic figure who had watched me with unsettling intensity, had inadvertently sealed my fate, painting me as a liability in the eyes of a man who clearly valued his reputation more than any semblance of justice for his employees. My house, once a sanctuary, had been so brutally violated, and no longer offered me any comfort. And now the dead light switch was just another slap in the face, a symbol of the darkness that seemed to have claimed me.
I fumbled for my phone, its screen a beacon in the oppressive gloom. The battery was almost dead. A cruel twist of fate. I needed to call someone, anyone, but who? The thought of calling the police, of recounting recent events, felt like wading through quicksand. They wouldn’t help me. Not with Jessup, not with Cade firing me, and certainly not with a biker who I didn’t even have a name for.
No, I was done. I couldn’t take one more thing going wrong in my life. I thought when I moved to Rapid City, I’d have the chance to start over. Do things right. Live a life without drama. I should have known someone like me could never truly be free.
Sighing, I pushed away from the door and walked into my living room and sat on the sofa, only to get up seconds later and move to the small chair. Which reminded me, in the morning, I was burning that sofa.
Tipping my head back, I looked at the ceiling and groaned.
No job.
No money.
No power.
I was screwed and not in a good way.
The silence in my living room was deafening, broken only by the ragged rhythm of my breathing. Each breath was a painful reminder of Jessup’s brutal violation that had left me feeling hollowed out and broken. I looked at my phone again, the low battery icon a mocking testament to my isolation.
Who could I even call? The police were useless, Cade was a spineless prick, and there was no fucking way in hell I would ever call Jessup. I had an aunt who lived close by, but that was just asking for more trouble.
Nope, I was adrift in a sea of my own making, and the only thing on the horizon was more darkness.
A sudden, sharp rap at the door jolted me from my despair.
My heart leaped into my throat.
Jessup?
No, it couldn’t be.
He wouldn’t fucking dare.
With trembling hands, I picked up my phone, praying for enough juice to make a call, when another rap, louder this time, echoed through my small house.
It wasn’t Jessup. The rhythm was too steady, too deliberate. A cold dread began to bloom in my chest. Was this some new form of torment, or a lifeline?
Cautiously, I crept toward the front door, my phone clutched like a weapon. Each creak of the floorboards sounded like a gunshot in the tense silence. Peeking through the peephole, my breath hitched. It wasn’t Jessup. It wasn’t anyone I expected.
Standing on my porch, silhouetted against the faint glow of the streetlamp, was the biker. The one from the Prancing Pussycat. The one whose gaze had felt like a brand. He wasn’t leaning on his bike this time, but standing tall, his arms crossed over his chest, a dark, formidable presence.
My mind raced. What did he want? Was Cade right? Had I just painted a target on my back? The thought of him, the Devil himself in leather, showing up at my door, sent a fresh wave of dread cascading through me. But beneath the fear, a flicker of something else—curiosity, maybe even defiance—began to stir. I’d been dragged through the mud all week, violated and humiliated. What was one more encounter with a mysterious stranger?
Taking a deep, shaky breath, I reached for the lock.
With a decisive click, I unlocked the door and pulled it open, revealing the large, imposing figure of the biker. His eyes, dark and unreadable, met mine, and for a moment, the world outside my small, broken house ceased to exist. The rumble of his Triumph was a distant memory, replaced by the thumping of my own heart. He hadn’t spoken a word, his silence more potent than any threat.
Swallowing hard, I asked, “May I help you?”
“You Kyllian Margaret Ward?”
Gulping, I nodded. “Yes.”
