Page 63 of True Bastard
My mind screamed at me to refuse. To assert myself. To tell him I wouldn’t be commanded, that I wasn’t his property to dress and undress at his whim. But the raw, possessive hunger in his eyes—the very thing that should have sent me running—held me captive. It mirrored a longing I hadn’t dared to acknowledge, a dangerous siren song that whispered of being wanted, truly seen, even if by someone as undeniably forceful as him.
“They are too big for me,” I managed, my voice a wavering whisper, betraying my inner turmoil. It was a weak protest, a hollow shell of the defiance I should have felt. I hated this weakness, this desperate need for his approval clashing violently with my ingrained self-reliance.
He shrugged, a movement that seemed both dismissive and overly casual, as if my protests were mere background noise. Then, he leaned in and kissed me, a searing brand that ignited a firestorm within me. It was a kiss that promised possession, that blurred the lines between desire and dominance, and I kissed him back, a surrender I instantly regretted and craved in equalmeasure. He pulled away, the ghost of a smile on his lips, and strode toward the door. “Five minutes, then I’m leaving without you.”
At that, I sat up, the sheet dropping away, exposing me not just to his gaze, but to my own agonizing vulnerability. “Where are you going?” I asked, my question a plea, a desperate attempt to cling to whatever fragile connection we had. It was a bad choice, I knew, to show him this desperate need, but the alternative was far worse.
“Five minutes!” he said, the finality in his voice echoing the slamming of the door behind him.
Scrambling out of bed, I rushed over to his dresser and hurriedly sifted through the minimal clothing he had. “Clothes my ass,” I muttered, snagging a white T-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants. “A homeless man has more clothing.”
Quickly donning them, I ran into the bathroom and grabbed his toothbrush, the bristles coarse against my teeth as I scrubbed with desperate ferocity. Each stroke felt like an attempt to erase not just the lingering taste of the night, but something deeper, something I couldn’t quite name. I gathered my hair, twisting it on top of my head into a topknot, a hasty attempt at regaining some semblance of control.
Once back in the bedroom, I quickly found my boots and then groaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated frustration. Walking back over to his dresser, I scavenged every drawer for a pair of clean socks, my fingers brushing against unfamiliar fabrics, a phantom scent of him clinging to everything. Only to come up empty. Frowning, I looked around his room, and groaned again, a heavier sound this time, as I walked over to his nightstand. I ripped open the top drawer, my stomach clenching at the sight of condoms, KY-Jelly, and other unmentionable items that burned themselves into my retinas, a stark reminderof the vulnerability I’d surrendered.Is this how he sees me?The thought was a cold shard of ice.
Slamming the drawer shut, I opened the bottom drawer, hoping for a reprieve, but found it full ofPlayboy,Hustler, half-empty bottles of booze, and a small vial of cocaine. The temptation, even as it repulsed me, flickered.Just a small taste? To forget.I recoiled at the thought, disgusted with myself. Standing, I huffed, surveying the room as if it held the answers, when he stormed back in.
“Let’s go.”
“I can’t find any socks,” I managed, my voice tight with a mixture of anger and something akin to shame for even having to ask.
“Bathroom trash can.”
Blinking, I just stared at him, the absurdity of it all hitting me.
The trash? My mind reeled. This was so far beneath any level of decency I expected. But the thought of leaving without something on my feet, of stepping out into the world vulnerable, made my skin crawl. I fought the urge to recoil; the disgust warring with the urgent need to just leave. This was a choice I didn’t want to make, a compromise of my own standards.
“You know what? I don’t even want to know.”
Rolling my eyes, a practiced gesture to mask the churning inside me, I hurried over to the bathroom. My hand shook as I dug through the trash can and fished out a pair of mismatched but relatively clean socks, a wave of shame washing over me. I wrinkled my nose as I slipped them on, silently promising myself to organize his room as soon as possible, a futile gesture I knew. “This is barbaric,” I muttered, my words escaping before I could censor them. I yanked my boots on, the rough leather a small comfort, and looked up to find him impatiently tapping his foot, a silent countdown to my continued entanglement.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Kyllian
“Hey, boys!” Alice, the owner of the Deadwood Café, happily greeted us as we all walked in. If I thought it was just going to be me and Firestride today, I was sorely mistaken because the second I entered the main gathering room of the clubhouse, most of the Brotherhood stood waiting, their eyes on me. “Find a seat and I will be right with you. It’s good to see you again, Kyllian.”
“You too, Alice,” I barely got out before Firestride pulled me toward a booth. I tried to yank my hand away as I glared up at the man. “What the hell is your problem? I was just saying hi.”
“I’m hungry.”
“Then go sit your ass down. Alice said she would be right over.”
“Sit,” he firmly ordered as his brothers chuckled, finding their own seats, watching intently as I refused to back down.
Standing my ground, I looked up at the large fucker and said, “If I am going to be your old lady, there are going to be rules. Rule number one: I’m allowed to talk to whomever I want.”
Firestride growled, then leaned close, our noses damn near touching. “Youaremy old lady, Kitten. No ifs about it. Now sit down.”
Firestride’s grip on my arm tightened just a little, but I met his gaze without flinching. The air between us buzzed with a tension that only the Brotherhood seemed to find amusing, judging by their low laughter from across the room. Alice returned with a pot of coffee and set it down, giving me a reassuring wink. I poured myself a cup, careful not to spill any as Firestride watched my every move, both protective and possessive in equal measure. The booth felt too small for everything unspoken, but I refused to let him see me falter.
Eventually, the room settled into a low hum of conversation and clinking mugs. I glanced around, catching snippets of talk—plans for the visiting guests, rumors about a new recruit, and the ever-present undercurrent of club business. It struck me how quickly this ragtag group had become my circle, my chaos, my home, even if the rules kept shifting beneath my feet.
“Scooch over,” Alice said, sliding into the booth next to me, unperturbed by Firestride’s glare. “God, my feet are killing me.”
“That’s because you need a better waitress,” I said, glaring at the bitch shoving her tits in Carver’s face.
Alice rubbed her temples, exhaustion written all over her face. “If you are offering, then you’re hired. This place runs on sheer stubbornness and caffeine. I can’t keep good help,” she muttered, pouring herself a cup and offering a crooked grin. “But hey, at least the coffee’s strong.”
