Page 14

My wrists burned, and my ankles ached from the tight, abrasive coils of rope. I had been bound in this torture device of a metal chair for twenty-four hours. It wasn’t a long time, but it wasn’t a short time, either, to be tucked away in the dingy, damp, uninviting warehouse Father dared call a clubhouse.
I sustained a split, swollen lip that stung like a bitch. I could still see the look in Wesley’s eyes, still see the regretful line of his mouth. He hadn’t wanted to hit me. We had history; he was one of the few Wolverines with a semblance of morality. Then again, I had a history with most of the club members. Some I had shared non-MC conversations with, others I shared beds, and others I had threatened more than once.
Even though I wanted to hate Wesley as he struck me and hurt me, I couldn’t. An order was an order. If Wesley even tried to refuse Father’s demand to teach his daughter a lesson, he would be in the same position—self-preservation at its best.
So Wesley made my head explode in pain and drew blood and then walked away.
Leaving me with a slob of a bodyguard.
Every so often, a limb or digit would start to go numb. I had to adjust and wriggle just to keep the blood flowing.
“Stop squirming already,” Heel barked around a mouthful of burger, leaning back in his own far more comfortable desk chair.
I curled my lip. “Shut up and eat your burger, Heel.”
The bastard was in his mid-forties, covered from head to toe in tattoos, and deceptively fast despite that gut. He was one of Father’s most trusted men after proving himself ten times over to be one of the most ruthless Wolverines.
And trusted him to watch over his daughter, who could be ruthless in other ways than brute strength and the ability to fire a gun.
Heel narrowed his eyes and tossed a soggy fry at me. It bounced off my nose and landed by my foot. It wasn’t much of a threat, but it was mildly humiliating. “Still think you’re the tough chick, huh? You’re as delusional as your old man.”
I smiled slowly, the kind of smile that made men wary about their next words. Heel wasn’t fazed, but he did eye the blood that oozed from the reopened split in my lip. “You’d better watch your mouth, Heel. If my father heard you talking about him like that, he’d use me as a battering ram against your skull until we’re both dead.”
Heel just laughed like a dunce. A dollop of ketchup dropped on his shirt.
I rolled my eyes even if I wasn’t in the position to be acting so haughty. Useless man.
Voices sounded outside the office. I heard my father’s voice before I saw him, and when I did see him through the grimy windows, it was to slam the door open with a bang that made Heel start and let go of his box of fries. They scattered all over the floor. One of them came dangerously close to my father’s boots.
Most ruthless. Yeah, right, he can’t even hold a damn French fry.
I kept calm and collected. It was how I was raised to be. Obedient and quiet, unmovable in any situation. Flinching could mean the difference between escape and getting shot.
But it wasn’t my father that made my heart lurch into my throat.
The rhythm of Father’s heavy footsteps was as familiar as my own face, but it was the second set behind him that seemed to funnel all the air out of the office.
His face wasn’t familiar—this tall, muscled, built-like-a-tank man who wore violence like a second skin. He followed Father into the office. Every step was like a death knell, vibrating the concrete beneath his booted feet. In the dim fluorescents, I saw the glint of metal—his personal arsenal. He was armed to the teeth. Guns in holsters under his arms, a knife in a leather sheath on his hip, and another smaller hilt peeking out from the edge of his dusty leather boots.
He wasn’t a Wolverine. He wasn’t some scrappy street muscle Walter Bates wanted to initiate to give him a found family.
No, this guy—this beast of a man—was professional. Precise.
The way he moved, lumbering yet silent, his dark skin smooth, his black hair shaved close, it was terrifying. And his eyes? Fuck.
They flicked to me, and the stare he fixed me with shook me to my core.
But I couldn’t let any of these men know that.
I flattened my gaze, schooling my features into disinterest, sliding my attention to Father. “Who’s this brute?”
“Your babysitter.”
I blinked at my father’s dismissive tone. “Excuse me?”
My father moved forward like a shot, dropping to a knee before me, catching my chin in a rough, unforgiving hand. The sudden aggression made me want to flinch, but I held my composure. Even if adrenaline sluiced through my veins like ice water. I didn’t want to admit it was fear.
I stared into his eyes—eye. The blue one bored a hole in my head while the milky white one wandered, slightly lazy.