Page 26 of Lucky

“Stay still,” she whispered to herself. “Think. What would Lucky do?” The thought of him brought a spark of warmth to the icy tendrils of terror that threatened to overwhelm her. The room seemed to press in closer, and she writhed once more against her bindings, the friction igniting a burning sensation.

She refused to yield to despair. With each pull, each twist of her frame, she fought against the ropes that held her captive, her movements growing more frantic as desperation took hold. The soft sounds of her exertions were muffled by the thick air, her grunts and sighs whispers lost to the darkness.

Memories of Lucky's firm hands guiding her, teaching her the strength in surrender, clashed violently with her current plight. They’d played with shabari a few times in the last month; she’d flown into subspace tied tightly in his room. This, however, was not the sweet release of submission; this was raw survival, a battle against the bonds that sought to claim her freedom.

The ropes seemed almost alive, slithering and tightening with every struggle. She felt the heat where the fibers dug into her flesh, the rawness of her skin was testament to the intensity of her efforts. The pain was tangible, a visceral reminder that she was still here, still fighting.

“Come on, Trinity,” she urged herself. “You're stronger than this.” With one last defiant tug, she arched her back, pushing her shoulders up and pulling at the ropes with all the fervor of a caged animal. But despite her resolve, despite the grit that coated her soul, the ropes held fast.

Panting, her body slick with perspiration born of exertion and fear, Trinity sagged against her restraints. The realization that physical might alone would not save her settled heavy in herheart. Her eyes, adjusting to the dimness, began to search the room for another way out.

The ropes may have won for now, but Trinity was far from defeated. The pulse thrumming in her ears was a relentless drumbeat underscoring the chaos of her thoughts. How had she ended up here, bound and alone in the murky shadows? Memories flashed like lightning—Lucky's gaze, the rumble of Harleys, The Watchmen. They'd been a seductive force, a whirlwind that swept her off her feet and into a world where danger and desire danced perilously close. She’d accepted Lucky as her Daddy and with that came the brotherhood of all the motorcycle club’s members. Being Lucky’s girl meant putting herself in direct fire of assault from evil men.

And yet…

She would do it exactly the same. Lucky had stoked to life a part of her she’d thought was dead. He was a giving lover, making sure she orgasmed at least once every night. He pampered her, doting on her with endless attention. They played for hours in her playroom, he read her story books and colored pictures alongside of her. He gave her exactly what she needed even during times she didn’t know she needed it. At fifty-seven, she thought she was too old to find her soulmate. She was wrong.

If she died here, at the hands of these men, she would die knowing she’d made the right choice. Deep inside, she knew she wasn’t going to die. She wouldn’t let them kill her, and no way in hell would Lucky allow her to die.If you die, Daddy is going to blister your ass.She laughed at the obscurity of her inner thoughts. If doing something dangerous was against the rules, she knew dying was definitely breaking them.

As the minutes bled into an hour, the chill of the room seeped into her bones, but fear's icy grip was melting away, usurped by a rising tide of fury. Anger flushed her cheeks, a heated bloom that spread through her limbs and set her heart ablaze. It was acatalytic flame, transforming her trepidation into an unyielding resolve.

“Enough!” The word was a guttural growl, torn from the depths of her being. Trinity was a warrior, a survivor, a woman forged in fire and defiance. She’d overcome too much in her life to be a victim of circumstance or a pawn in someone else's game. She imagined Lucky's eyes upon her, that mix of pride and challenge, and something within her clicked.

She envisioned herself as the heroine of her own story, not a damsel in distress waiting for rescue—but a force to be reckoned with, a tempest about to break free.

“Watch me,” she whispered to the shadows, a promise to herself more than a threat to any unseen captor. “I am not a helpless old lady!” With renewed purpose, she surveyed her surroundings, seeking out any advantage, any oversight by those who thought they could contain her. She refused to bow down to despair. She was not going to feel sorry for herself or wait for Lucky and the men to get here.

Trinity knew the essence of power—the true kind—lay not in the ability to dominate others, but in mastering oneself. And as her anger forged the key to her liberation, she was ready to break free from the rope, to step back into the light, transformed, reborn, victorious—her own hero.

CHAPTER 13

TRINITY

Was she wrong?

Trinity shifted against the cold floor, the rough texture grazing her skin as she moved. Another hour had passed, and she wasn’t any closer to escape. Her breath hitched in her throat; the air was heavy with the musk of old wood and the faintest scent of oil—the kind that Lucky's hands would carry after working on his beloved Harley. The recollection sparked a flame within her, igniting memories she had tried to keep at bay. Was he coming?

In the dimness, the vivid images of vulnerability surfaced unbidden. She remembered the tender way Lucky called her "Little Rabbit," how his strong hands easily immobilized her yet cradled her with such care. The dichotomy of their Daddy Dom Little Girl dynamic had thrilled her, the surrender sweet, intoxicating. But now, here, bound and alone, doubt nipped at the edges of her resolve.

Was I ever truly ready?Trinity questioned herself. Her submission to Lucky—a deliberate choice, a gift given—felt worlds away from the helplessness that clawed at her now. Yet, it was that very act of yielding to him, the release of control,that had taught her more about her own strength than any act of defiance.

Her mind danced between moments of past sessions with Lucky and the brothers of The Watchmen MC, each one a patchwork piece of the mosaic that composed her newfound identity. It wasn't merely the play of ropes and commands; it was the journey into the depths of her own desires, the exploration of boundaries, and the safe harbor found in trust. They had shown her a place where her passions were not shackles but wings, where her voice—whether in a whisper or a cry—was heard and honored.

“So much more than just BDSM,” she murmured. The lessons learned were the threads weaving through the tapestry of her being. In the silence of captivity, those threads pulled tight, reinforcing her will. It was about owning who she was, the entirety of her—the business owner, the lover, the Little—all facets of the same unbreakable woman.

With each passing second, Trinity gathered the fragments of courage scattered by her initial panic. As her body tensed against the ropes, her spirit refused to be caged. She was ready to fight with the ferocity of a woman who knew her worth. A worth she wasn’t sure of a few months before but now, nothing in life could take away.

The intensity of her thoughts lent her strength, and Trinity prepared to channel that power into her next move. Each memory of submission was now a steppingstone toward reclaiming her agency, every lesson a key to unlocking this new challenge. She was no longer simply recalling; she was readying herself for action. She closed her eyes and thought hard. How did Lucky untie her after their sessions? Which rope did he pull, which did he loop?

Trinity's heart hammered against her ribcage as she strained against the ropes. Within that physical discomfort, a warmember of defiance glowed. She shut out the ominous shadows of the room, and focused. She felt the ropes loosen with her ministrations, but she couldn’t quite get them undone. Her fingers tingled as she moved her wrist around, circulation flowing back into them.

Surveying the room, her keen eyes caught sight of a small window high up on the wall—a sliver of the outside world barred and out of reach. Her captors had underestimated her. They saw a woman bound by ropes, but failed to see the iron will that bound her spirit to something greater. A surge of defiance rose in her throat, and she stifled it back down, channeling it into cold, calculated focus.

“Bars,” she murmured, her lips curving into a half-smile that bore no humor, only the sharp edge of strategy. “Every cage has its weakness.”

With her body taut, Trinity shifted, inch by inch, toward the wall directly beneath the window. Each movement was measured, purposeful. Grit scraped against her skin, and she welcomed the sting—it was reminder that she was alive. In her mind's eye, she envisioned Lucky's knowing gaze upon her, that imperceptible nod that said, “You've got this.”

“Think, Trinity. Use what you have," she coached herself.

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