“I didn’t want to bruise him on his wedding day.”
“He ain’t getting married, Reaper,” Skirt says, launching his fist through the air and punching me right in the jaw. The pain shoots to my head, my heart, and wakes me up. I’m bloodthirsty.
I fall to the ground and cry out.
“That’s it. Let it out, Knives. Let it out.”
My ears ring from the hit, and blood pools in my mouth. The taste of it, the pain, it brings me back to the present.
Mary is missing.
I lift my head just as the blood drips down my chin.
“There he is,” Skirt says, taking off his brass knuckles.
The sand grinds against my fingertips as I stand, a silent fury filling me as I stare at the clubhouse and head back inside. The scuffing of boots against the ground tells me my brothers are behind me.
There is one man that might know where she is.
And this time, I’m going to listen to my gut.
I’m not leaving this clubhouse, not until I have answers, and not until I’ve raised fucking hell.
Oh no, I’m going to be late for my own wedding.
No, late isn’t the right word
I’m not going to make it.
My head swims with dizziness, and nausea rips away inside my stomach like a storm swirling in the middle of the sea.
Don’t throw up on the vintage dress, Mary. Whatever happens, whatever you do, keep the dress safe.
When I get out of here—at least, I hope I’ll get out of here—I’m going to marry Knives as we planned. Reaper was right; we should have never left the clubhouse. Now was not the time to be selfish, but I wanted to be. The club never gets to be selfish, and I wanted more for myself, and so did Knives.
This is what we risked. We knew something bad would happen, but I thought we could have one night to ourselves.
What a joke. No one can ever get one night without something bad happening.
“Mary, it’s good to see you again. Do you need anything, Sweetheart?”
The sound of my father’s voice has me turning over in the silk sheets on the luxurious bed. There’s a chandelier in the middle of the room and a chaise lounge in the corner that has gold trim and white cushions.
Turning to my left, I notice the view of Vegas. The flashing array of different lights has me mesmerized for a second. There is a large Ferris wheel in the distance. Reds, whites, greens, blues, neons, the hotels around us putting on a show to attract all the tourists.
My father’s fingers graze down my neck as I look out the window, and it has my skin crawling like a thousand cockroaches. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“Don’t fucking touch me.” I scoot away from him until my back hits the headboard.
“Mary,” he tsks. “You know what happens when that pretty mouth leaves a curse in this world.” He starts to unbuckle his pants. “I searched everywhere for you. And when Mr. Moretti said you were with a biker group; I knew I had to save you.”
The belt cracks in the air as he walks around the corner, looking more threatening than ever. His white hair is combed back, and his beard is a few shades darker, a grey on its way to turning to snow. He has a gold chain around his neck with a gold cross hanging from it, settling in the middle of his chest.
And if I remember correctly, it has his favorite bible verse etched in the metal.
Colossians 3:20.
Children, obey your parents in everything, for this pleases the Lord.
A crock of big fucking shit if you ask me.
I’ve never seen a more despicable man in my entire life. He doesn’t serve God; he serves himself.
Instead of wrapping the belt around my wrist like he used to do, he wraps it around my neck, pulling the belt tight. My hands fly to my neck, and I gasp. I kick, and my back bends as I struggle to breathe. My fingers curl around the black belt to pull it away from my airway, but it’s too tight.
The blood rushes to my face, and I choke, gasp, and cough.
“You thought you could get away from me? You thought you could run away from me? You can never get away from me. I fucking own you, Mary. You’re mine. Wherever you think you can go, I’ll follow. You will not disobey me again. You will serve me, you will get on your knees, and fucking worship me. It’s what you are meant to do.” He tugs tighter to drive home his words, and I’m worried that he isn’t going to let up.
I’m going to die.
I know what he means when he says I need to get on my knees. It’s something I’ve never done before with him.
Fear soaks into the marrow of my bones when I dissect his words.
The only man I’ve ever been on my knees for is Knives, and I don’t care if my dad kills me; Knives is the only man I’ll ever worship. My father can go to hell.
He rubs his erection against my arm, and tears prickle my eyes. From the pain of the belt against my neck, the terror of feeling him along my arm, my freedom is slowly slipping away. I’m back in his clutches, and I know this time, he will make sure he will never let me go.
He wraps the belt around the post of the headboard, which has me lifting to get the pressure off, but it doesn’t work. I can’t get a full breath of air. My windpipe is constricted, and it has me barely choking. My heart is racing, and my lungs are already burning. He fumbles with his zipper. The sound of it lowering has me kicking harder, struggling more to get away. I pull on the belt, tightening the constriction further.
Now I can’t breathe at all.
“You’re a gift from God, Mary. My gift. Your mother hated how much I wanted you. How much I loved you. Still love you. I think you were always supposed to be mine.” He pulls out his cock, one I’ve seen one too many times, and I close my eyes.
His hand rubs up my leg, his fingers digging into the same spots Knives did, pressing against the bruises.
Bruises that were left from love and desire. Knives wanted me so much, he couldn’t contain himself, and my father is ruining the passion Knives left for me to remember.
My father groans, fucking his fist as he lifts my dress further. “What’s this?” he asks breathlessly, tracing the fingerprints Knives left behind. He knee-walks on the bed and settles between my legs. He tries to jerk them apart, his cock hard and leaking precum, angry that I dared to be with someone else.
“Were you a whore, Mary? Did you spread your legs for someone else?” His hands hook around my thighs to pull them apart, but I keep them shut, the edges of my vision turning black from the lack of air.
The more I struggle, the more I can’t breathe.
If I don’t struggle, he gets what he wants.
Me.
I refuse to let another man have me.
“Was it that fucking guy with you at the boutique? Was it him?” he roars, yanking my legs apart so hard that the muscles tighten and cramp. I cry out, the pain unbearable in my upper leg. I feel like it’s pulled or strained, and in the moment of weakness to try and compose myself, my father bends his head down and inspects the bruises. “I’ll forgive you,” he says, kissing one of the marks.
A tear trickles down from the corner of my eye from his kiss. “I don’t want your forgiveness,” I croak, lifting my leg, damn the pain, and kick out again. My foot smacks against his face, but it isn’t enough for him to get away from me.
He pins my legs down and crawls up my body, keeping his hands tight on my hips to keep me down. His bare cock rubs against my leg, and I sob, not wanting him anywhere near me. “Please, stop. Stop! I don’t want you. I hate you. Get off me. Get off!” My voice is hoarse as I struggle to yell as loud as I can, but the strap around my neck makes it impossible.