Page 5 of Heresy (The Lost Gospels #1)

I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can't shut out the feeling of his body against mine—the solid wall of his back rising and falling with each breath, unyielding strength that speaks to years of violence made routine.

I can smell whiskey clinging to his jacket like expensive cologne, sharp scent of gasoline, and something else underneath—something dark and uniquely him, like ozone after lightning strike or metal heated past its tolerance point.

Every lurch of the bike, every powerful turn, forces me closer to him.

Physics conspires with fear to create intimacy I never consented to, violation disguised as necessity.

Each shift in momentum presses different parts of my body against his, unwanted contact that carries electric charge of terror and something else I refuse to acknowledge, something that whispers from cellular level about proximity to power and the dark magnetism of barely controlled destruction.

It's a violation disguised as transportation. Assault wrapped in mechanical necessity.

After an eternity measured in heartbeats and the steady erosion of whatever dignity I have left, the bike finally slows.

The roar drops to a menacing rumble that seems to emanate from the machine's steel heart rather than its engine.

We're turning down a dark street lined with warehouses, heading straight for the open mouth of a massive building that yawns before us like the throat of some industrial beast.

We drive inside.

And a heavy steel door begins to grind shut behind us, a mechanical sound that carries finality of coffin lid closing or prison gate locking. The rumble reverberates through the enclosed space, acoustic signature of my old world being sealed away forever.

The sound of transformation. The sound of everything I used to be is becoming irrelevant.

The steel door hits concrete with a boom that echoes through vast space—sound of absolute finality, the period at the end of sentence I never wanted to write.

He cuts the engine, and the violent roar that has been my universe for the last ten minutes dies with mechanical sigh, leaving silence that somehow feels worse than noise.

It's not empty silence. It's pregnant with new possibilities, all of them terrible.

The quiet fills with sounds that speak to infrastructure of organized violence: clink of metal on metal suggesting tools designed for purposes I don't want to contemplate, low thrum of music bleeding through walls that have absorbed too many screams, murmur of men's voices carrying casual menace that suggests brutality as normal business rather than exceptional event.

This is the acoustic signature of a place where terrible things happen with administrative efficiency.

He swings his leg off the bike with fluid grace that speaks to decades of practice, heavy boots hitting concrete without sound despite their obvious weight.

He doesn't look back at me. Doesn't acknowledge my existence or my terror or the way my entire worldview has been shattered and reconstructed in the space of twenty minutes.

He just starts walking with the measured stride of someone who owns every molecule of air in this space.

The owner of everything, including me.

My legs feel like jelly when I slide off the seat, muscles turned to gelatin by combination of terror and forced intimacy with machinery designed to intimidate.

I stumble as my feet find solid ground, equilibrium destroyed by transition from unwilling passenger to walking evidence of whatever crime I've committed by existing in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Before I can catch my balance, before I can even process the geography of my new prison, a hand closes around my upper arm again.

The angry one—the one whose grip promises bruises that will bloom purple and yellow like poisonous flowers across my skin—hauls me forward with casual efficiency. His fingers find pressure points with the precision of someone who has learned anatomy through application rather than textbook study.

He pulls me along in the President's wake, deeper into this industrial cathedral.

Each machine represents months of devoted labor, polished chrome so flawless it looks like liquid mercury catching the dim light.

The custom paint jobs are more than decoration; they're entire mythologies rendered in layers of lacquer so deep you could drown in them.

They tell stories in symbols I don't yet understand—skeletal reapers, snarling wolves, flames that seem to writhe with actual heat, all imagery of a brotherhood forged in violence.

The level of craftsmanship is staggering, a manic, almost surgical precision in every weld and seam that's far too meticulous for simple street bikes meant to be scratched and dented.

The realization clicks into place with the cold finality of a deadbolt sliding home: This isn't just their garage.

It's a factory. A showroom. These beautiful, brutal machines are a product line, built to be sold as masterpieces of menace for wealthy collectors—bankers and lawyers willing to pay a fortune for the authentic stink of outlaw without ever having to bleed for it.

This isn't just a gang; it's a high-end, vertically integrated criminal enterprise.

The air hangs thick with petroleum incense, the holy scent of their true church.

The air hangs thick with petroleum incense.

Oil and gasoline and metallic tang of tools that have tasted blood along with motor lubricant.

Each breath carries the flavor of machinery and something else—sweat and testosterone and the accumulated residue of men who live too close together, who have learned to convert proximity into either loyalty or violence depending on circumstance.

Men are scattered throughout the space, working on bikes with religious devotion.

They all stop as we pass, conversation dying like radio being switched off.

They don't shout or whistle or make crude comments that might suggest I'm still human enough to deserve harassment.

They just watch, faces hard as carved stone, eyes tracking my every move with the intensity of predators evaluating potential prey.

The silence of their appraisal is more unnerving than any catcall.

It suggests I've moved beyond the category of woman into something else entirely—evidence, perhaps, or problem to be solved.

Their collective gaze carries weight that settles on my shoulders like a lead blanket, pressing down until each step becomes a conscious effort against gravity and expectation.

We pass through a heavy door marked with a brass nameplate: "Serpent Cycle Works."

The main clubhouse opens before us like a descent into organized chaos, space that serves as a throne room for a kingdom built from loyalty and violence.

The air here tastes different—thick with cigarette smoke that clings to everything like incense from altars dedicated to destruction, aged whiskey that speaks to rituals performed with religious regularity, testosterone and barely contained aggression that makes oxygen feel scarce.

I get fleeting impressions as we move through this social minefield:

Long, scarred wooden bar lined with bottles that catch light like amber prayers offered to gods who drink their worship rather than blessing it.

Worn black leather couches that look big enough to swallow a person whole, surfaces cracked and stained with substances I don't want to identify.

The pool table sitting under a single, low-hanging light that casts sickly yellow glow on green felt marked with burns and blade scores—evidence of games where stakes extended beyond money.

More men gather here, maybe a dozen of them.

The effect is immediate and visceral. Low murmur of conversation falters as if someone has adjusted volume on reality itself.

Heads turn with mechanical precision, dozens of eyes focusing on me like targeting systems locking onto designated threats.

Each glance is an evaluation—not of my attractiveness, but of my potential usefulness, my probable life expectancy, my value as a commodity in whatever economy governs this underground kingdom.

Hard eyes. Curious eyes. Predatory eyes.

I feel like a prime cut being inspected at market, skin prickling with the weight of their collective assessment. Some faces show mild interest, others calculation, few display what might generously be called sympathy if I squint hard enough to mistake pity for human recognition.

Don't show fear, the voice in my head commands with drill sergeant authority. Head up. Don't look at any of them directly. Keep breathing.

My captor steers me toward a staircase at the back of the room.

Cast iron and oak that rises into shadows like a Jacob's ladder in reverse—architectural metaphor for journey not toward heaven, but deeper into whatever hell these men have constructed from loyalty and violence.

Each step takes me further from ground level, further from any possibility of escape, deeper into a vertical kingdom that exists outside the law.

I can feel the eyes of every man in the room following our ascent.

Their attention is physical weight that makes each step feel like walking through deep water, atmospheric pressure that increases with altitude rather than decreasing.

Second floor. Third floor. Fourth floor.

Each level represents deeper penetration into infrastructure of organized brutality, further from civilization and closer to whatever passes for justice in this manufactured world.

The top of the stairs opens onto a long, narrow hallway.

The air is colder here, the sounds of the clubhouse below muted to distant rumble like approaching storm contained within walls designed to absorb sound along with everything else that might escape to tell stories.

A series of identical heavy wooden doors line one wall, all closed, all suggesting narratives I don't want to hear about previous occupants and their fates.