Page 82 of Burning Ember

Closing my eyes after Griz left last night proved difficult. Each time I did, I relived Mav breaking into the room, his dark presence looming in the doorway, and how his face transformed with fury while he held the knife to my throat.

Even now, my stomach twists with unease at the thought of seeing him today. My only hope is that like last night, he still feels remorseful. But his moods change like the current, fast and unpredictably, so who knows which version of him I’ll see today.

Griz said Mav could change. That with time, he’d start seeing me for me. I’m not sure if that’s possible. He seems too hell bent on judging me for my similarities to his ex. I only know I can’t stay here if he’s going to continue threatening the two things I have left.

My life and my freedom.

What I left Warner to protect.

Now, in the light of day, I’m a little more leery of leaving the clubhouse and trying my chances on the street. Maybe voluntarily diving back into that black abyss isn’t the smartest thing. I don’t know where I’ll sleep, or how long the money will last. I’ll be alone again, something I can’t stand to be, and jobless. And I’ll have to be careful. There’s still a chance someone could recognize me and turn me in. More of a chance if Davis follows through on his threat.

After quite a bit of self-prodding, I finally force myself to leave the bed. I wince as my neck screams in protest with each small movement. I head into the bathroom and stop short when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. It’s bad. Possibly worse than I feel. My hair is in knots and frizzy, and my eyes are glazed over. Even my skin looks pallid. Truth be told, I look like a doll.

Yeah . . . a ragdoll.

Maybe not exactly a four-year-old’s plaything, but definitely something played with carelessly.

Ragged. Marked. Certainly abused.

A shower sounds like the perfect remedy though, so I stagger in, careful not to get my bandage too wet. And once dry, I dress in worn jeans, a loose gray T-shirt and leave my hair down so it can somewhat conceal my bandage.

I’m prepared to find a bunch of hungry, angry bikers by the time I enter the main room, but that’s not what I find at all. No. Instead, I see HOCs laughing and stuffing their faces. Eating donuts. And Donut, himself, is attacking a cardboard box on the floor, shaking his head from side to side and the box with it. However, the jovial mood shifts as the guys notice me.

I hate it. The attention. The pity. Their stares feel like worms under my skin. I try my best to play it off, but even I can hear the insecurity in my voice. “I leave you guys alone for a few hours and you’re already cheating on me. Figures.”

Dozer walks toward me. He pulls me into him and circles his arms around me. I shift uncomfortably and expect someone to say something, but no one does. “Thought you could use a break this mornin’.”

“Thank you.”

Leaning away from me, he plants his hands on my shoulders and his steely, gray eyes narrow on my neck. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

His brows pinch together. “You sure, babe? I could kick his ass a second time for you?”

“Yeah . . .” Whoa . . . wait . . .a second time?

Griz points his donut at Dozer. “Mav’s the one who sent you to get the donuts. Don’t be takin’ all the credit.”

While D’s distracted, I shift out of his arms and circle around the bar. I reach for the box of donuts. I need both the pick me up and the sugar.

“Didn’t know if he’d pitch a fit s’all.”

Taz smirks at me from his where he’s sitting at the bar. “Sorry you had a rough night, little stray. You good?” My mouth falters on its way to my donut. Not only is Taz eating his donut awkwardly, but also did he just ask me if I’m okay? I eye him questioningly.

He just grins wider and keeps eating. Finally, I ask, “What are you doin’ to that poor donut?”

He chuckles at my response, and rips off another piece of the inside of the donut, then shoves it inside his mouth. While he chews, he says, “Just eatin’ ‘er from the inside out. I always eat the best part of my meals first.”

I scrunch up my nose and mouth, which has one corner of his mouth curling to reveal a hint of a dimple.

Griz comes up next to me, and speaks low. “Doc will be here ‘round three to stitch you up. Long as he doesn’t get called in.”

“Okay,” I whisper.

He studies my face. “You havin’ a change of heart?”

“I haven’t decided . . . yet.”