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CHAPTER TWO

PROLOGUE

THE ROOM was always cold, even when my skin burned.

Not from fever.

From fists.

From the press of fear that never left, even when the walls stood silent.

The air stank of mold and something older, something rotten that had settled deep in the cracks of the concrete. There was no window. No clock. Just a single bulb above me that buzzed like it was mocking my breath, flickering enough to make shadows dance on the walls.

I didn’t cry anymore. That luxury had been stripped away the first night.

Now I sat still. Silent. Like a prop in a room no one wanted to visit.

My knees were tucked to my chest, arms wound tightly around them. Every muscle in my body had learned how to stay small, to disappear into corners, to go unnoticed until the door opened and I had no choice but to exist again. Sometimes I wondered if that was what death felt like, not pain, not finality, just this unending blur of waiting.

I didn’t know what day it was. Or how long I’d been here. But I remembered the last sound that mattered. Applause. Thunderous and warm. My name on lips that loved me. My parents in the front row, my mother’s hijab shimmering under the lights, my father still dusted with flour from the bakery, smiling like the world was finally enough.

That was the last night I danced.

Now I breathed in time with the flicker of that damn bulb, counted the cracks in the ceiling, and pretended I was still Giselle.

It helped, sometimes. Until the footsteps came.

They were coming now.

I knew the rhythm of the boots, slow, confident, uncaring. My heart didn’t race anymore. It just waited. That was worse somehow. When you stop flinching, it means you’ve started accepting. That the fight is no longer a scream inside you, but a whimper buried so deep, you forget it was ever loud.

But today, the rhythm was wrong.

The boots weren’t heavy or rushed. They were measured. Controlled.

The lock clicked, and the door creaked open with that same slow crawl. But this time… I felt something different. Not fear exactly. Not safety either. Just a shift in the air, like the pressure had changed around me.

He stepped inside like he’d done it a hundred times in his mind.

Handsome. Tall. Broad. Tattoos creeping up his neck. Eyes like smoke, and not the kind that choked. The kind that stayed with you.

I knew immediately he wasn’t one of Ricca’s men.

But he looked at me like I was already his.

He crouched down in front of me, and I wanted to shrink away, but I was too tired to move. Too broken to care.

“I’ve seen you before,” he said, voice low, like he was confessing something. “They said your name is Zeynep. I watched you at the party last night and I can tell you don’t belong here”

I didn’t speak. Couldn’t. My throat was tight, my lips frozen.

“You remember me, don’t you?” he asked, studying me. “Our eyes connected. Just a second. But I remember how it felt.”

I didn’t remember. Not exactly. But something about him… familiar. A ghost that had hovered just outside the nightmare.

“My name’s Drago,” he said, softer now. “And I’m getting you out of here. He doesn’t own you anymore.”

That word— own —made my chest twist.

“I have a place,” he added. “My clubhouse and I’ll take care of you”

The way he said it sent a flicker of unease through me, but I buried it deep. I had no more choices. Only hope. Only survival.

He stood, offering me his hand. I hesitated.

“It’s not a trick,” he said. “But you have to decide now. I took care of the guard, but it won’t be long until another one comes along.”

My legs shook as I stood and took his hand.

Outside, the world waited like a stranger. We stopped by a motorcycle, he handed me a jacket and helmet.

The bike roared to life, black and gleaming. He swung his leg over and glanced back. “Come on, Zeynep . You’re safe now.”

I climbed on, arms wrapping around his waist. The engine growled, and we flew into the night.

The wind tore at my jacket, my hair, my thoughts. But I held on.

Because maybe, just maybe, this was the end of the nightmare.

Or maybe it was only a new one.

***

THE CLUBHOUSE WASN’T quiet.

Music thumped through the walls like a second heartbeat. Laughter rose and fell in sharp bursts. Boots stomped. Bottles clinked. Someone was always shouting.

It was chaos. And I didn’t know where to look.

I stayed close to Drago, clinging to the feel of his arm around me. His leather jacket hung heavy over my shoulders, still warm from his body. His scent—smoke and cologne—was soaked into it. I’d fallen asleep wrapped in that jacket more than once this week. Curled against his chest in motel beds where he kissed me like I was special to him. Where he whispered that I was safe. That no one would ever hurt me again.

He’d taken me from that place, from him . From the man with too many rings and not enough soul. Drago said I didn’t belong in that cage, that I deserved better. And for the past six days, riding beside him, wrapped in his world of leather and soft lies, I believed it.

But now… this place was different.

The men looked at me. Some curious. Some cold. A few with lust in their eyes that made my skin crawl. Their cuts all bore the same mark— Dragon Fire MC. I didn’t know what that meant yet, not really. Only that they all followed Drago. Or feared him.

And one woman—the tall one across the room with too much lip gloss and a dress that looked painted on—she looked at me like she wanted me gone.

Her name was Kenna. I heard someone whisper it when she walked past.

She was blonde, bold, loud—confident in the way women get when they believe they own not just the room… but the men in it. She leaned against the bar like she’d been carved into it, her eyes locked on us as Drago talked business with his men.

Then she stood. Started walking toward us. Each step slow. Intentional.

Something inside me tensed.

“Cute,” she said, stopping just short of where I sat on the arm of Drago’s chair. “Didn’t know you were into strays, Drago.”

I didn’t answer. Just dropped my gaze, like I’d learned to do. Like I was supposed to.

But my stomach twisted.

Drago looked up. “Walk away.”

Kenna smirked. “Oh, come on. I’m just saying hi. I don’t mind sharing.”

She reached out—like she still thought she had a claim.

Drago caught her wrist mid-air. His fingers dug in. Tight. Unforgiving.

The music didn’t stop. The voices didn’t pause. But something in the air changed.

His voice dropped—low, lethal. “Don’t ever put your hand near me again.”

Kenna blinked. Laughed, weakly. “Drago—”

He stood fast. The chair scraped across the floor.

The room hushed.

Drago stepped into her space. “You think just because I fucked you once or twice that gives you the right to speak to me like that? Or to her ?”

Kenna’s face paled. “She’s not even one of us. You don’t even know what she—”

The sound of the backhand cracked through the air. A glass fell from a nearby table, shattering like the moment itself.

“She’s mine,” Drago said. His voice rough. Possessive. “That’s all you need to know.”

Kenna stumbled back. Eyes wide. Hand to her cheek. The confidence was gone. Only fear remained.

“If I hear one more word about my ol’ lady, I’ll do more than rip your patch-pass and give you a warning. Got it?”

She nodded fast. Didn’t speak again. Just vanished into the crowd.

Drago turned to me. His jaw clenched. Eyes darker than I’d ever seen them.

“Come on,” he muttered, grabbing my hand. “You don’t need to be around trash.”

He led me down the hall, past men who stared too long, and into his room. The door slammed shut behind us.

He stood with his back to the door, breathing like he was still ready to fight.

I sat on the edge of the bed, silent. My heart still thudding, unsure if it belonged to fear or gratitude.

“You’re safe with me,” he said finally, noticing how tense I’d become.

I nodded. Because I was afraid to do anything else. Because I’d let myself believe he was my savior. Because he’d been soft with me. Gentle. And I wanted to believe that meant something.

But as I looked at the door he’d slammed, and felt the sting of what I just saw still lingering in the room, a small voice inside me whispered something I didn’t want to hear.

The danger didn’t stay behind in the past.

It followed me here.

And it was holding my hand.