Page 30 of Ruthless Obsession

I feel the Glock pressed against my ass as he carries me through the house and down the basement stairs.

My heart races. “Mavis, no—”

At that moment, I realize Mavis is gone. Only Ruthless the biker is in my presence.

He opens a heavy door and throws me onto a cold steel table. My wrists are strapped down before I can fight him off.

“No!” I scream at the top of my lungs.

So he didn’t really care about me? He’s about to kill me.

He waves the Glock like a man unhinged. “You kick me, Sophie, you won’t like the outcome.”

He places the Glock at the bottom of the table.

Tears blur my vision. He slides down my leggings and folds them neatly on another table. The room smells like bleach.There’s a cabinet on the wall—probably filled with his torture tools.

The room reminds me of a makeshift operating room.

He releases my wrists only to strip away my layers—hoodie, bag, shirt—leaving me exposed in my bra and panties, goosebumps rising on my skin.

The Glock glides along my cheek. “The woman I chose as my forever just can’t give in to how she fucking feels,” he snarls.

Tears stream down my face.

“You’ll stay here now,” he mutters, lifting me again.

He opens a second room—bare cement floor, toilet in the corner, no bed.

I bolt. He grabs me, throws me back in like I’m nothing. Mavis's eyes are empty as he retrieves a zip tie from his back pocket. He slaps it around my wrist and connects it to the adjustable brown metal ring. The zip tie bites into my flesh.

I slam my fist into his chest. “No, please—Mavis!”

He doesn’t flinch.

“You’ll stay down here as long as I see fit.”

He secures the door. The slot in it resembles one you'd find on a prison cell, making me feel like I'm in solitary confinement. It's just the right size to pass a food tray through.

“Mavis! Please—don’t do this. Take me to the clubhouse. I won’t run. I promise!”

No response.

I hear the main door slam shut.

“Mavis! No!”

CHAPTER FIVE

RUTHLESS

I saunter through the side door of the two-story clubhouse, jaw tight. I tried sleeping—four hours tops—after locking Sophie in the basement cell.

I’d crashed on the couch, barely home an hour, when I heard the patio door slide open. Maybe she thought because I wasn’t sleeping next to her, I wasn’t in the house at all. I lifted my head, just enough to peek over the back of the couch and watched her sneak across the yard toward Mush. That damn messenger bag stuck out from under her hoodie like a neon sign. The second she clipped the leash to my dog; I shoved on my boots and cut around front to intercept her.

My thoughts return to the present. I head to my quarters to try to get some sleep again, but it’s no use.

Her lips still haunt me. When she stood there staring up at me this morning, I had to kiss her. I wanted to drag her upstairs and bury myself inside her—but I couldn’t get over the fact that she tried to leave. After everything I’d done to protect her. That’s why she’s locked in the torture room now.