Page 6 of Unmasked Anarchy (Fallen Sons MC #3)

T he hospital discharges me as soon as I am walking on my own, which is a matter of days.

The sterile walls and constant beeping of machines fade into the background as I prepare to leave.

The idea of going back to the club is something I didn’t realize I was dreading until the moment Gage walks in to collect me.

His presence is a reminder of the life waiting for me, a world filled with noise and chaos.

I love the members; they are my family, bound by loyalty and shared history.

Each face holds memories of laughter and hardship.

But Kael has been on my mind in a way that hasn’t let me forget.

His image lingers, a constant presence in my thoughts, stirring emotions I can’t quite name.

There’s a complexity to him, a depth that draws me in despite the uncertainty it brings.

He came back, just like he said he would.

Every single day.

Then, he put his number in my phone.

Knowing it’s there, knowing I can reach out anytime I want, is a feeling I can’t process. I should delete it, cut all ties and go back to my life, yet every time my finger hovers over that button, I can’t bring myself to do it.

Dammit.

Gage comes and discharges me, saying nothing until we’re out front and the large black truck comes into view—the only other thing he will drive that isn’t his bike. It’s bright out, and the sun burns my eyes as we move across the parking lot. I throw my hand up, blocking out some of the light.

He opens my door first, not the passenger but the back, and says, “Up,” tipping his chin. I carefully clamber up and manage to get myself into the seat. A moment later my things are thrown in beside me. My heart sinks, a lack of compassion and kindness making pieces of me ache like never before.

Gage doesn’t slam the door. He closes it with both hands, like he thinks the whole thing might shatter.

The truck rocks when he gets in, and I fight the urge to cry at his lack of care.

Does he love me at all? Sometimes I wonder why he keeps me around.

Isn’t there some part of him too that wants love?

He says nothing for the next eleven minutes, just drives with single-minded intent up the highway, chain-smoking through the cracked window.

My stomach knots and I swallow down the bile that rises.

My phone vibrates three times but I ignore it, every time, and Gage doesn’t turn to glance or mention it.

At the clubhouse, I expect the usual: beer, girls, distant laughter, a football game echoing from the over-sized TV.

Instead, it’s silent. The two prospects pacing the front porch look at each other, then at me, then back to each other, their faces unreadable.

I don’t know where everyone is, and quite honestly, I don’t ask.

Gage helps me inside with a grip behind my elbow, not gentle but not mean either, and the warmth is so sudden I blink and nearly lose my balance.

He doesn’t ask if I’m okay. Doesn’t ask if it hurts.

Not even when I stumble against the wall, my insides screaming with pain.

Instead, he mutters, “Fuck’s sake, Sable,” and wraps an arm around my waist, hauling me to his room.

He lowers me down onto the bed, my breath catching when his body goes down with it before releasing me.

His huge shoulders loom above me and his face is inches from mine.

He holds his weight off me, careful not to crush my wound.

I want him, so badly, to just kiss me or hug me or do something to spark the aching desperation I have for him back to life.

“Rest, baby,” he murmurs.

Blood rushes through my veins.

He rarely calls me baby, and when he does, it nearly cripples me.

I should say thank you. I should say something.

Instead, I meet his eyes and hold there, like I’m challenging him to blink first. My body aches for him.

He knows it, he has always known it, and yet it changes nothing for him.

The silence between us is heavy, charged with unspoken words and lingering tension.

My heart races, each beat echoing the conflict within me.

I want to reach out, to bridge the distance that feels insurmountable, but fear holds me back.

Fear of rejection, of vulnerability, of opening myself up to a world of hurt.

His gaze is steady, unwavering, and I wonder if he can see the turmoil swirling inside me.

The longing, the desperation, the hope that maybe, just maybe, things could be different.

But reality crashes in, reminding me of the barriers that stand between us, the choices that have led us here.

I feel trapped in this moment, caught between the desire to speak and the safety of silence.

The ache in my chest is a constant reminder of what I want but cannot have, a bittersweet longing that refuses to fade.

And so, I hold his gaze, hoping he can see the truth in my eyes, even if my lips remain sealed.

“You don’t have to act like you care,” I whisper. “We both know you don’t.”

He’s close enough that I see the flecks of brown in his nearly black eyes. “You’re our girl. No one else is gonna touch you. Ever again.”

Not his girl.

Our girl.

The club’s girl.

The club’s property.

“There is a part of you that wishes I didn’t climb out of that ditch,” I croak, staring up at him, swallowing down the pain rushing through my body.

He stares at me, silent. The gold of his ring glints against my skin where his hand sits beside my ribcage, caging me in, pinning me to the world with just a stare. My pulse hammers in my ears.

“Is that what you want to believe?” he says, low, almost amused. “That you’re better off under a pile of dirt? That you don’t belong here?” His gaze flicks to my lips.

“I belong wherever you put me,” I whisper. “Right?”

He leans closer, pressing his forehead to mine, and the world shrinks down to the scent of whiskey on his breath and the heat of his skin against my face. “You’re mine, Sabie. Now, forever.”

I want to push him away. I want to pull him closer. I can never make up my mind.

His hand moves, sliding beneath my jaw, his thumb tracing over my bottom lip. I think he’ll kiss me. I want him to, and I hate myself for it, for making the next breath huff out uneven. But he doesn’t kiss me. He presses his mouth to the hollow of my throat, and bites hard enough I gasp.

“Fuck you, Gage,” I hiss, trying to shove him, but my body is far too weak.

“Later, baby.” His teeth sink again, and the pain is exquisite, blooming up through my body, a pulse that vibrates right to my core.

“You’re an asshole,” I manage, but my fingers tremble on his wrist, and he knows I’m weak when it comes to him. He laughs, low and dangerous.

“Get some sleep.” He doesn’t move away, but his voice shifts, a softness barely there, hidden behind the gruff.

I close my eyes, just for a second, and he drags his lips across my collar bone, then, just like that, he’s gone.

Like always, leaving me empty.

~*~*~*~*~

T HE FIRST NIGHT BACK at the club is brutal. I’m uncomfortable, sleeping is difficult and the noises from outside keep me awake even after I have taken everything the doctors left me. I’m frustrated and grumpy, slowly rolling, my body not working how I want it to, no matter how hard I try.

I feel trapped.

Gage hasn’t come back in, but I have no doubt he’s out there, partying with the rest of the club. So much for finding who did this to me. It seems more likely that he’s busy protecting his men over his old lady. He is far more focused on the injustice served to him. It hurts deep in my soul.

I try not to think of the brothers out there, of Kael. My hands shake so badly. I can’t text him, can’t let myself reach out even though every ounce of my being wants me to. I want to see how he is, I want to know more about him, even though I know that thought is dangerous.

So fucking dangerous.

I must drift off, because when the door swings open, it cracks so hard against the wall that it rips me awake.

Light from the hallway shines into the dim room.

Gage stands in its outline, and I already know he’s drunk—he always is on nights like these.

His cut is off, and he’s shirtless, his jeans riding low on that perfect fucking body.

He is a sculpted fucking god, the kind of man that will suck the breath right out of your lungs.

His face is flushed, eyes glassy, mouth twisted in a smile that means nothing but trouble. “You’re awake. Texting your biker friend?”

Of course he’s jealous.

It’s a pattern I’ve come to recognize, a cycle that repeats itself with maddening consistency.

He can’t show a single hint of emotion when it comes to me, yet the idea of anyone else even looking at me sends him over the edge.

It’s infuriating, this contradiction that defines our relationship.

I see it in the way his jaw tightens, the flash of something dark in his eyes whenever another man so much as glances in my direction.

It’s as if he’s torn between wanting to claim me and keeping me at arm’s length, a push and pull that leaves me spinning.

I want to scream at him, to demand why he can’t just admit what’s so painfully obvious.

But the words catch in my throat, trapped by the fear of what his answer might be.

The frustration builds, a simmering tension that threatens to boil over.

I’m tired of the games, the unspoken rules that govern our interactions.

I want clarity, honesty, something real to hold onto.

Yet, every time I think we’re close, he retreats, leaving me in a limbo of uncertainty.

It’s exhausting, this dance we do, and I wonder how much longer I can keep up before I finally break.

I force a laugh, a ragged sound in my throat. “You think I’m that stupid?”

He watches me from the threshold, head cocked to the side.

Then he comes at me in a slow, deliberate stalk across the room, every step measured.

With Gage, there’s always a predator and prey, and I never know which one I am until it’s too late.

He doesn’t ask before sitting on the edge of the bed; the mattress dips under his weight, and the scent of diesel and smoke hugs the air between us.

He’s so close I can see the brown flecks in his eyes. “You thinkin’ about that biker?”

I hold my breath, keeping calm.

I shrug. “He’s nothing. Just a guy who happened to save me.”

Keep it casual.

“Sure,” Gage murmurs. There’s a dangerous patience in the way he traces an old scar on my arm, one I got when he put me in a dangerous situation years ago. It’s as if he’s reminding me. He has all the control.

“You scared me,” he says, voice lower now. “Thought you were gone.”

That’s his version of love, the most he can give me. There’s no apology, only the purest possession. I can’t help it. My gut flips, the warmth pooling out from where his thumb pushes on my pulse.

He knows what he does to me. He knows the kind of twisted obsession I have with him.

He releases my arm suddenly, grip shifting to the back of my neck. He pulls me to him so we’re eye to eye, so I can’t look away or even turn my head. “If you want him, I’ll kill him.” The words are so gentle they almost sound like a promise, not a threat.

The worst part is, I believe him.

“I don’t want him,” I manage. “He’s not—”

His hand on my neck tightens. “Doesn’t matter. If he even thinks about you again, he’s gone.” He strokes my face with his other hand, thumb dragging across my bottom lip. I can’t decide if I want to bite or suck it.

Maybe both.

God help me.

Carefully, he drags me into his lap and shifts me so I’m straddling him, knees digging into the bedsheets, his cock already half hard against my thigh. I should hate it, should tell him to fuck off, but he’s the only one who can make the pain mean something other than fear.

Gage’s hands grip my hips, pressing them down until I can feel every line of him, the heat of his skin hot through the thin fabric of my shorts. He doesn’t kiss me, not at first. He just watches my face, waiting for me to break, to admit how much I want this, how much I want him.

But he already knows.

The fucking asshole already knows.

I close my eyes, only for a second, and let him push up the hem of my shirt, exposing the battered mess of my stomach. I don’t want to see it. Even now, I have refused to look at the mess those monsters made.

“Mine,” he growls, running his hand up my spine. “All of you.”

He keeps sliding his hand, shoving my shirt higher, then finally pulls me flush against him, crushing his lips against mine. I gasp, he tastes of smoke and whiskey, and I can’t help the way my body responds.

Gage rarely kisses me, but when he does, the world fucking stops.

He rips the shirt over my head, not caring when the wound tugs and I yelp. The pain is white-hot, but it clears my head enough to see the way his pupils spread, hungry, wild.

“God,” I breathe, rocking my hips. The pressure is building, building, and he doesn’t tease, doesn’t slow. He presses one hand between my legs, already soaked, and he grins, the first real smile I’ve seen in months.

“Wet, as I predicted.”

He’s already got two fingers inside me, knuckles deep, thumb pressing against my clit as I rock pathetically against him.

I shake, unable to speak. He pulls his fingers out, slow, glistening, and brings them to my lips. “Tell me how much you want me.”

“Please,” I whisper. “I want you. You know I do.”

He rewards me by lifting me in one easy motion and shoving his jeans down just enough.

His cock bounces free, long, thick, hard, and fucking delicious.

He lines up, and then slowly lowers me down, inch by agonizing inch.

The pain shooting through my body from my wounds is nearly enough to cause a blackout, but the pleasure is far more intense.

He strokes up my back, holding me so I can’t wiggle away. He fucks me slow, deep, using his own strength and hips to drive the movement, knowing I don’t have it in me to do myself.

“Mine,” he grows, his breath tickling my ear.

Every thrust is a warning and a promise. If I ever run, he’ll hunt me. If I ever lie, he’ll know. I shatter around him, moaning his name as an orgasm rips through my body. The pleasure mixing with the white-hot pain.

Gage keeps rocking me, his body tense, his muscles bulging as he finally finds his own release, shuddering with a low, feral hiss. Then, his forehead falls against mine, our breaths rising hot and heavy, until he finally meets my gaze.

“Don’t fuckin’ talk to him again,” he says, not asking, just stating what will be.

I shut my eyes, let myself breathe him in one last time before the darkness takes me.

I should tell him I will.

I should promise.

But I just can’t.

I can’t.