Page 6
Zara
The Prospect -- I hadn’t bothered learning his name -- drove with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping an impatient rhythm against his thigh. I stared out the window, watching unfamiliar streets blur past, trying to process how quickly my life had careened off its predictable path. Twenty-four hours ago, I’d been a regular woman with a regular job and a regular apartment. Now I was riding in a club truck with a man who wore a leather cut that read “Prospect” on the back, heading to collect my belongings before moving in with a man people called the Angel of Death.
“You good?” the Prospect asked, shooting me a sidelong glance.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. What was there to say? That I was terrified? That a man named Azrael had declared I was under his protection -- and apparently that meant living under his roof for the rest of my life? In all fairness, he had given me a choice. Not much of one, but still…
The truck smelled like cigarettes and pine air freshener, an odd combination that made my nose twitch. The Prospect had a tattoo creeping up his neck -- some kind of twisted vine with thorns. His knuckles were scabbed over, evidence of a recent fight. These were the kinds of details I used to only notice in movies about dangerous men. Now they were my reality.
“Charming says you’re important,” he said, breaking the silence. “Says Azrael’s claimed you.”
I straightened in my seat. “It’s not like I’m luggage or a stray puppy. He’s protecting me.”
The Prospect snorted. “Claim. Protect. Same thing in our world, sweetheart.”
“I’m not your sweetheart,” I snapped.
To his credit, he grinned rather than took offense. “Yep. You’ll fit right in with the old ladies.”
I bit back another retort. This wasn’t the time to make enemies, especially not with someone who was apparently loyal to the man who now controlled my immediate future. I’d been clear with Azrael that I wasn’t ready for a real relationship with someone I’d just met. He’d said we could take things slowly, but what if he changed his mind?
The Prospect pulled into the motel parking lot, a run-down place where I’d spent the night before Azrael had swooped in to save me.
“I’ll wait here,” he said, putting the truck in park. “Don’t take forever.”
I rolled my eyes and climbed out. The sun beat down mercilessly, making the faded asphalt shimmer with heat. My room was on the ground floor, second from the end. The key card took three swipes before the light blinked green.
Inside, the air conditioner rattled and wheezed, barely cooling the stuffy room. I hadn’t unpacked much -- just enough for one night. My toothbrush on the bathroom counter. A change of clothes draped over the single chair. My phone charger plugged into the wall.
As I gathered my meager belongings, reality hit me like a slap. I was leaving my life behind. My apartment with its mismatched furniture and the balcony where I drank my morning coffee. My job at the accounting firm where I’d worked for three years. My book club that met every second Thursday. All of it suspended indefinitely. Probably forever.
“Fuck,” I whispered, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed. The springs creaked beneath me.
I’d always thought of myself as strong, independent. The kind of woman who made her own choices and stood by them. Now I was being shuffled around like a chess piece by men with nicknames instead of real names, men who killed without hesitation and lived by a code I didn’t understand.
But what choice did I have? Azrael was my only chance at finding my mother. Now that my father was gone, she was all I had left.
I shoved the last of my things into my overnight bag and did one final sweep of the room. Nothing left behind. I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror for a long moment. I looked the same -- dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, wary blue eyes, lips pressed into a tight line. But everything had changed.
The Prospect was leaning against the truck when I emerged, smoking a cigarette. He dropped it and crushed it under his boot when he saw me.
“That it?” he asked, eyeing my single bag.
“I travel light,” I said. Most of my life was still in my apartment.
“You’ll need to get the rest of your stuff soon. Or rather someone will most likely be sent to retrieve it. Azrael won’t want you going back to your place alone.”
I ignored that and walked to the motel office to check out. The clerk barely looked up from her phone as I slid the key card across the counter. One more tie severed.
Back in the parking lot, I headed for my car -- a modest sedan that had never seemed smaller or more vulnerable than it did parked next to the massive club truck.
“Follow me,” the Prospect called. “Stay close.”
I tossed my bag into the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel. My hands trembled slightly as I turned the key. The Prospect pulled out of the lot, and I fell in behind him, keeping a careful distance between us.
The route he took was circuitous, seeming to take twice as long as it had on the way to the motel. I wondered if he was taking a deliberately convoluted path to confuse me or to ensure we weren’t being followed.
My mind drifted to Azrael. The intensity in his dark eyes when he’d told me I had a choice to make -- take my chances on my own or stay. I trusted him. Whether that was the right decision I couldn’t be sure. What I did know is that I’d been half in love with him before we’d ever met. The stories I’d heard had given me a big case of hero worship. When I’d first met Azrael, he’d lived up to his name. But since then, I’d seen his softer side.
The Prospect’s brake lights flashed, drawing me back to the present. We were approaching the front gate. I hadn’t really taken the time to pay attention to it. The gate was set into a high fence. The fence extended in both directions, topped with razor wire. Very welcoming. Of course, it also meant whoever was inside should be safe.
A man emerged from a small building beside the gate, hand resting casually on the gun at his hip. He nodded to the Prospect, then peered into my car. I met his gaze steadily, refusing to show fear. After a moment, he stepped back and pressed a button. The gate rolled open with a metallic groan.
Welcome to the Devil’s Boneyard . My new home.
The compound sprawled across what looked to be twenty or more acres. A large clubhouse dominated the center -- a low, sprawling building with motorcycles parked in neat rows outside. Smaller structures were scattered around it -- houses, garages, what looked like a workshop. Men in cuts moved purposefully between buildings. A few women lounged outside the clubhouse, wearing clothes that left little to the imagination.
The Prospect led me past the main cluster of buildings to a section that seemed more residential. Here, the houses were well-maintained, with actual yards and carports instead of dirt patches. He turned down a narrow drive and pulled up in front of a single-story house painted a deep blue with white trim. The same one Azrael had brought me to the night before.
I parked in the driveway and took a breath, trying to steady my nerves. The Prospect turned and drove back toward the clubhouse, leaving me alone. Well, not entirely. I’d parked next to Azrael’s bike, which meant he was inside waiting for me.
I took a deep breath and walked to the front door. It wasn’t locked. I pushed it open slowly and followed the sound of movement to the kitchen. And there he was.
Azrael leaned against the counter, a mug of coffee in his hand. He wore faded jeans and a black T-shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders. His dark hair was damp, like he’d recently showered, and his equally dark eyes watched me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
I wondered what job he’d been sent on, but he’d made it clear I wasn’t supposed to ask. He’d intended to go with me to the motel. Then at the last minute, he’d said he was sending someone to watch over me. He’d had weapons strapped to him and looked like he was about to go on a mission. But now he was back, and freshly showered.
The Angel of Death in his natural habitat, drinking coffee like a normal person. It reminded me of the breakfast he’d made that morning. For someone who killed people like it was just another day, he was oddly domesticated.
He flashed me a smile that transformed his face from intimidating to devastatingly handsome. “Welcome home,” he said, the words simple but holding meaning.
Home. This place wasn’t my home. My home was a third-floor apartment with a leaky faucet and a fire escape where I grew basil plants. This was a stranger’s house where I’d slept one night because said stranger had decided I needed protection. Yet something about the way he said it -- like he meant it -- made my stomach flip in a way I refused to examine too closely.
“Is it?” I asked, setting my bag down by the kitchen island. “Home, I mean.”
Azrael’s smile faded slightly, replaced by something more considering. He took a slow sip of his coffee before answering. “For better or worse.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to respond. The kitchen was clean and surprisingly well-equipped. I hadn’t allowed myself time to really take anything in last night or this morning. So now, I did. A professional-grade range against one wall. Clean yet worn countertops. A knife block with handles worn from use. Homey and masculine at once.
“Coffee?” he asked, indicating the full pot behind him.
“Please.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “Although, if this is truly my home now, we’re going to need some creamer. Preferably hazelnut flavor.”
He reached for a mug in the cabinet above his head, the movement causing his shirt to ride up and reveal a strip of tanned skin and the edge of what looked like a tattoo. I averted gaze eyes, suddenly fascinated by the grain of the hardwood floor.
The heat from the ceramic seeped into my palms as I clutched it like a lifeline. “I should put my things away.”
“Same room as last night,” he said, pushing off from the counter. “Come on.”
I followed him down the hallway, noticing the door at the end of the hall, half-open, revealing a king-sized bed with rumpled dark sheets. We stopped at the room where I’d spent the previous night.
It wasn’t large, but it was comfortable. A double bed with a navy comforter. A dresser with a mirror. A small closet. A window that overlooked the side yard with its scrubby grass and lone oak tree. The sheets had been changed, I noticed. The ones I’d slept on had been white. These were a soft gray.
“I’m sure you remember the bathroom’s across the hall,” Azrael said, leaning against the doorframe. “Use whatever you need and make a list of anything you’re missing.”
“Thank you.” I set my coffee on the dresser and placed my bag on the bed. “For all of this. I know you didn’t have to --”
“Yes, I did.” His voice was firm, allowing no argument. “But the choice was yours. I wasn’t going to force any of this on you.”
I wanted to tell him I could take care of myself, but the memory of the men in the alley last night was still too fresh. If Azrael hadn’t stepped in, they’d have raped me. Possibly killed me.
“I need to get the rest of my stuff from my apartment,” I said. “And I need to figure out what to do about my rent. And my job. I can’t just disappear.”
“We’ll handle it,” Azrael said. “Once things cool down, we’ll get your stuff. As for the rest…” He shrugged. “You won’t have to work unless you want to.”
“Just like that?” I raised an eyebrow. “I’m now the property of Azrael so everything is magically taken care of?”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Something like that. Get settled. We’ll talk more when you’re ready.”
He turned to leave, but I called after him. “Azrael.”
He paused, looking back at me over his shoulder.
“Thanks. Really.”
He nodded once, then disappeared down the hall, leaving me alone in the spare room that was now, apparently, mine.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, my fingers tracing the soft fabric of the comforter. The events of the past twenty-four hours crashed over me in waves. And now I was here, in his house, drinking his coffee, sleeping in his spare room. And apparently his woman.
I unzipped my bag and began unpacking the few items I’d brought. A change of clothes. My toiletry bag. My phone charger. Pathetic, really. My entire life was still in my apartment -- clothes, books, photos, the quilt my dad’s mother had made, my laptop with all my work files.
My mind raced with logistics. How would I pay my rent without access to my apartment? Would my landlord think I’d abandoned the place? Would my boss fire me for not showing up? I had a deadline for the Henshaw account, and no way to access the files remotely. I may have taken a few days off, but I should have been back in my office by now. Since my job was a few hours away, it looked like I wouldn’t ever be returning. I knew others worked remotely. Maybe they could set up something for me as well.
I pulled out my phone and checked for messages. One from my coworker asking if I was sick. None from friends. Not that I really had any. More like acquaintances.
What would I tell them? How could I explain any of this?
My breathing quickened, my chest tightening with panic. I’d taken the leap and agreed to be Azrael’s, but now that I had more time to think about it, had I made the right choice? Was this a decision I could live with?
I stood abruptly, needing to move, to do something. I put my clothes in the dresser, arranged my toiletries on top, plugged in my phone. Normal actions that felt absurdly inadequate in the face of the chaos my life had become.
When everything was put away -- which took all of five minutes given how little I had -- I stood in the center of the room, at a loss. On the nightstand was a lamp, a clock, and a book. I picked it up. Hemingway. The Old Man and the Sea . Not what I would have expected from someone like Azrael. The pages were worn, the spine creased from multiple readings. I didn’t remember it being here last night. I wondered if he’d left it for me.
I set it back down carefully and took a deep breath. Self-pity wouldn’t help me now. I needed information. I needed a plan. Most of all, I needed to understand the world I’d stumbled into and the man whose protection I’d accepted.
I picked up my cooling coffee and headed back to the kitchen. Azrael was still there, now sitting at the small table by the window, scrolling through his phone. He looked up when I entered, those dark eyes unreadable.
“Better?” he asked.
“Not really,” I admitted, sliding into the chair across from him. “But I’m dealing with it.”
He nodded, setting his phone down. “You’re stronger than you think.”
“You don’t know me well enough to say that.”
“I know enough.” He leaned back, studying me. “I know you didn’t cry or faint when you were faced with those assholes. You screamed for help. I know you’ve handled this whole situation without falling apart.”
I took a sip of coffee to hide my surprise. I didn’t feel strong. I felt terrified and out of my depth.
“What happens now?” I asked, setting the mug down. “I need to know what to expect going forward.”
Azrael’s expression shifted to something more serious as he leaned forward, forearms resting on the table. His massive hands capable of such violence -- I’d seen it firsthand -- cupped his coffee mug almost delicately. “There are rules,” he said, his voice dropping to that low timbre that seemed to vibrate through my chest. “For your safety as much as the club’s. When I say something is club business, that means it’s off-limits to you. No questions, no arguments, no trying to find out on your own. That’s non-negotiable.”
I matched his posture, leaning in. “Define ‘club business.’”
“Anything that happens behind closed doors at the clubhouse. Our dealings with other clubs. Our income streams. The decisions made by the officers.” He held my gaze, unwavering. “You don’t want to know most of it anyway.”
“Maybe I do,” I countered. “Maybe not knowing makes me more nervous than knowing.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “It’s for your protection, Zara. What you don’t know, you can’t tell -- willingly or otherwise.”
The implication sent a chill through me. I’d already seen enough to understand that the Devil’s Boneyard existed in a world parallel to normal society, with its own laws and consequences.
“So I’m just supposed to, what, sit here in your house while you go off and do God knows what, and never ask questions?” My voice rose slightly.
“I’m not asking you to be blind or stupid,” Azrael said, his tone still measured. “You’ll learn how things work. But there are boundaries. Church, for example -- that’s when we meet around the table to vote on club matters. No one is allowed in unless they’re patched in, or unless Charming specifically invites them.”
“And that would include me.”
He nodded. “Unless Charming asks for you, which he might if it concerns you directly. Otherwise, you keep out.”
I took a sip of coffee, using the moment to gather my thoughts. “So I’m essentially being kept in the dark about most of what you do.”
“About some of what I do,” he corrected. “Most of my life is right here, in the open. I’m not some mystery man with a secret identity, Zara. I’m just a man who’s part of a brotherhood that values privacy and loyalty above all else.”
I studied him, searching for a hint of deception. His dark gaze met mine steadily, giving away nothing but sincerity.
“What happens when the people who took my mother are… dealt with?” I asked carefully.
A shadow crossed his face. “If you’re hoping I’ll say you can return to your old life, that’s not going to happen. I gave you a choice. Now you get to live with the consequences of your decision.”
He stood abruptly, moving to refill his coffee. I watched the fluid movement of his body, the controlled power in his shoulders and back. There was nothing superfluous about Azrael -- no wasted motion, no unnecessary words.
“There are other old ladies in the club,” he continued, his back to me. “Women who belong to patched members. They’re good people, for the most part. Some of them are a little… extra. Clarity is married to Scratch. He was our VP for years. She’s solid. Then there’s Jordan, she’s with our Sergeant-at-Arms, Havoc. Quite a few others. They’ll help you get oriented.”
“Old ladies,” I repeated, tasting the unfamiliar term. “That’s what you call your… girlfriends?”
He turned back to me, leaning against the counter. “Wives, girlfriends, significant others. It’s just the term we use. Has been since before my time.”
“And is that what I am? Your ‘old lady’?” I raised an eyebrow, trying to keep my tone neutral despite the flutter in my stomach.
Azrael’s gaze was steady. “You’re under my protection. You’ll wear my patch. So, yeah.”
I nodded slowly, filing that information away to examine later when I wasn’t sitting across from him.
“I’ll introduce you to a few of the ladies tonight or tomorrow,” he continued. “It might help to have women to talk to who understand this life.”
“I appreciate that.” And I did. The thought of navigating this strange new world alone was daunting.
Azrael hesitated, then added, “Most of the women you saw at the clubhouse this morning are club girls. Remember when I said the women here had one of two roles? They entertain the men in the club. They’re not forced to be there -- they choose it. Some are looking to become old ladies. Others just like the lifestyle.”
“Entertain,” I repeated, the euphemism not lost on me. “When you said it before, I assumed you meant they had sex with the club members. Is that right?”
He didn’t flinch. “Yes.”
“And that’s… normal? Expected?”
“It’s how it’s been for a long time,” he said simply. “Not every member participates. It’s a personal choice.”
I took a deep breath, wrestling with my reaction. On one hand, I wanted to be judgmental. On the other, I couldn’t ignore that these women had apparently made their own decisions.
“And you?” I asked, the question burning in my throat. “Do you… participate?”
His expression remained impassive. “I haven’t been with any of them in over a year.”
The relief that flooded me was as unwelcome as it was immediate. I had no claim on this man. No right to care who he slept with. Yet something possessive curled in my chest at the thought of him with one of those women.
“Why not?” I pressed, unable to stop myself.
A shadow crossed his face. “Doesn’t interest me anymore.”
There was more to it -- I could see it in the way his gaze shifted slightly, the minute tightening of his jaw. But I sensed it was one of those boundaries he’d just established. Club business, perhaps, or something personal he wasn’t ready to share.
“I’m not judging,” I said softly. “I’m just trying to understand this world I’ve landed in.”
He nodded, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “It’s a lot to take in. And it probably seems barbaric to someone on the outside.”
“A little,” I admitted. “But I’m reserving judgment.”
“Smart woman.” A hint of a smile touched his lips.
“So what does an old lady do around here?” I asked. “If I’m not privy to club business and I’m not… entertaining the masses?”
The smile grew. “Live your life. Some work outside the club. Some help with legitimate club businesses. Some take care of their homes and families.” He shrugged. “There’s no rulebook, Zara. Just boundaries that keep everyone safe.”
“And these boundaries -- they’re for my protection? Or to keep me in line?”
His expression hardened slightly. “Do you think I brought you here to control you? To keep you ‘in line’?”
I matched his stare. “I don’t know why you brought me here, not really. Protection, yes. But there are other ways to protect someone.”
He pushed off from the counter and came back to the table, lowering himself into the chair opposite me. “Listen carefully. If your mother was abducted, and it’s by someone who knows about you, then it means you could also be in danger. I don’t want you to leave the compound by yourself. They could know exactly where you are and be waiting for a chance to grab you.”
“So why didn’t they before now?”
“Maybe the timing wasn’t right,” he said. “You’re safe here, Zara. I’ll make sure of it.”
I wanted to argue, to point out that being forced to live with a stranger and follow his rules didn’t feel particularly freeing, but something in his expression stopped me. Concern, genuine and unmasked, filled his dark eyes.
“Look,” he said, his voice softening. “I know this isn’t ideal. But you’re worth protecting.”
I nodded slowly, absorbing this. “Okay. So I stay here, I avoid asking about ‘club business,’ I meet some other women in similar situations, and I wait until it’s safe for me to… what? You said I couldn’t go back to my old life.”
Azrael didn’t look away, didn’t soften his response. “No, you can’t. Before you decided to accept my property patch, I made sure you understood this would be like a marriage. This is your life now, Zara. Whether you like it or not. There’s no walking away. Not now. As for the waiting, you’ll eventually be free to go where you’d like without having someone glued to your side for protection. The ladies here typically go out for lunch, shopping, and whatever else they want to do. As long as we know where they’re going, so we can get to them quickly if trouble pops up, then they have the freedom to do as they please.”
I digested his words and hoped I hadn’t made a really big mistake. Only time would tell.