They tied me up and threw me into the back of their creepy rape van. Then they brought me to this creepy cottage out of San Remo and tied me up in the attic. To the world's most uncomfortable chair. The thought almost brings a smirk to my lips. Right, because usually kidnappers tied you to lovely feather beds. Get your head in the game Wren. Then the mean one shoved that disgusting smelling rag covered in questionable stains into my mouth and it had taken just about everything that I had not to gag. Pretty sure if I threw up right now I'd choke on my own vomit and like, die. Not exactly how I was planning on leaving this world. Not that I had planned how I was going to go at all. I'm only twenty-three for heaven's sake.
After what seems like an age – especially to my now numb backside, aching back, and itching, probably bruising eye – the door swings open and I feel fear wash over me. More fear than I have ever felt in my entire life. I swallow and then try not to gag over the taste of that gross rag again. The man standing on the threshold, his eyes raking over me, is a monster. Like, huge. He must be about six foot four or five. I'm five seven, so not tiny. But I'd be tiny if I was standing next to him. He has a black tee shirt strained across the broadest shoulders and most defined chest that I have ever seen. Colorful tattoos slide down his arms and even over his fingers. I strain, but I can't see what they say, but he seems to have a letter on each finger. A single silver angel wing is dangling from a long leather strap hanging around his neck, the jewelry resting on top of his eight pack, which is kind of visible through the tight shirt. He is wearing a black leather vest, which has patches that read 1%er and Enforcer. Great. That means he's here to hurt me, right? I mean, everyone knows that 1%er motorcycle clubs are vicious criminals, and “Enforcer” just sounds like his entire purpose in life is to cause pain. I'm not really into pain, so I push that thought aside.
He is a good looking guy. Don't know why that surprises me, I mean, not all bikers are old, gross and ugly, right? Well, clearly not, the evidence is staring right at me with the creepiest, coldest, iciest blue eyes I have ever seen. Not wanting to make eye contact, as it sends scary shivers down my spine; I turn my eyes to his other features. He's blonde; like, dirty, surfer blonde. It's shaved close to his head at the sides and back, and it's longer on top; shortish at the back, getting longer as it approaches his forehead, and it is styled in a quiff which just looks hot. Um excuse me, Wren? You’re tied to a chair that looks like it’s stained with blood. He’s not here to flutter your lady bits. He’s here to hurt you.
Returning to my examination of him, I note that he has a blonde beard too; not too long and shaped to follow his jaw line. I've never found beards attractive before, but I think I might have to reassess that when I have a moment to think straight. If I live long enough for that. Jesus.
I feel myself flinch as he comes to a stop in front of me, reaching over to untie the gag. But his hands are gentle, like, really gentle as he removes the disgusting piece of cloth. He frowns down at it before he balls it up and tosses it over his shoulder. I take a moment to savor the sweet, untainted air, even if it comes with a sharp tang of bleach. Right, bleach, because people die in this room and they have to clean up the blood somehow. But I'm not Mitch Herschel's daughter for nothing, so I sit up as straight as I can, ignoring my protesting back, numb ass, as well as the tight bindings around my wrists and arms. My chin comes up proudly and I stare this Enforcer in the eye. His terrifying eyes.
'What are you going to do to me, Monster?' I spit out at him. As soon as I say it, I regret it. Because why the hell am I poking the bear that is about to rip me apart? He just blinks at me, not saying anything; his eyes sweeping over me, which sends more shivers through me. Only, I'm not sure if the shivers are for the same reason as before. Great. Right now is not the time to indulge in some Sons of Anarchy fantasies. These are actual real bad guys. Focus Wren.
'I would be a little politer to me, Florence,' his voice is gravelly, and though I can hear the warning in his tone, I can't help but roll my eyes. It's a move that has his icy blues narrowing. Crap. I really need to control my body more, but I couldn't help it. The only person that calls me Florence is my father. And I hate, hate, hate it. The very sound of those syllables grates on my nerves.
'It's Wren,' I, um… squeak? At least his eyes aren't narrowed any more. But I can't tell if it is my weird, half explanation, or my terrified little mouse squeak of a voice. I clear my throat, take a deep breath and when I speak again it thankfully comes out in my normal tone.
'My name is Wren. I don't go by Florence.' He says nothing, but the corners of his mouth tilt upwards in the barest smirk. Why the hell am I exchanging pleasantries with a monster biker who is going to hurt me and then probably kill me and dispose of my body god knows where? Probably because if I'm going to die I don't want Florence to be the last name I hear.
The reality of my situation has finally kicked in, I think. Tears prick my eyes as the last of the adrenaline leaves my system and I'm just sitting here, full of fear. I can see him watching the water building in my eyes, so I blink them away. If I'm going to die, I'm going out with as much courage as I can muster. I raise my chin again and glare at him.
'Just get it over with. I'm ready.' His eyebrows fly up at my statement, and he stares at me for a beat longer before speaking.
'Get what over with?' he finally asks, his eyebrow quirked. Stupid, weird, scary, sexy biker.
'The torture. You know. Beating me, pulling off my fingernails, pulling out my teeth, breaking my fingers? Whatever it is you're going to do to me. Just do it. I'm ready to die now.'
Chapter 3
BRUISER
'I'm ready to die now.'
I rock back on my heels. Well. That's not what I fucking expected this little girl to say. She's got more balls than her father, that's for fucking sure. Not going to lie, the sight of her eyes filling with tears was a kick to the gut. They looked like molten fire in that moment, before she blinked them away and told me to fuck up her shit and kill her. Fuck. What's that saying that my fourth grade teacher always used to use? You catch more flies with honey than vinegar. That’s the one. Well, I'm a damn good fly catcher, and my vinegar works better than anything. But right now, maybe it wouldn't hurt to give honey a go. It's not like Aric ordered me to fuck her up. He just wants information. They just all assume I'm going to make her bleed to get it.
They won't expect me to be back at the clubhouse for a while. Not while I have a guest at the cottage. Hell, they don't even expect me to turn up for church. Occasionally Aric will stop by, and watch me work. But I know, even with how scary that motherfucker is; my work disturbs him. If I can get a steady drip feed of information from her and relay it back to the club though, no one will come to bother us. Perfect.
Examining the room, I can see that it's not exactly the best place for honey – whatever that is going to be – but it’ll have to do. No other room here is as secure, or as soundproof. I'll have to bring a bed up here though. Fuck. Sighing, I let my eyes flicker over her body once again before turning, picking up that disgusting piece of cloth – Killer's oil rag for his rig I'm pretty sure, sick motherfucker – leaving her staring after me, probably confused.