Page 29 of Biker's Collar: Property of Scrap

He wants to torture me. I have to remember that.

Even if I wish he didn't want to torture me. Because... watching him dismount that motorcycle floods my mind with the dumbest thoughts. He's hot. Really hot. Age only helped this man. He got bigger. Broader shoulders. His beard looks way less patchy.

But what about that gambling problem, huh? That must not be going well or he wouldn't have been hovering over me in this very bedroom whispering weird shit to himself...

He looks up at the window, but he doesn't see me -- or at least he doesn't act like it -- he just looks self-assured as he walks up to the front door. I go from just seeing him to just hearing him. I move away from the window towards the bedroom door that connects me to the rest of the house.

Owen's footsteps get louder as he approaches my door. What happened to the baby in the picture? What about the person behind the camera? I'm not complaining about not seeing him, but what about his brother? I have a lot of questions that I shouldn't want answers to. I'll let go of my curiosity if I have a chance to run away.

I stand still a couple feet away from the door once I hear Owen opening it. I don't want him to find me seated. I'm not a particularly short or small woman, so I want to let him know that... he might be bigger than me and easily capable of subduing me but... I'm strong enough to give him a taste of his medicine if he tries to hurt me.

He pushes the door open carrying a brown paper bag. My eyes dart to the paper bag, ignoring all other details of Owen's unwelcome entry into my room. Hopefully it's a breakfastsandwich. I give him a pleading look and he slams the paper bag on the nightstand. Based on the sound it makes... that isn't a sandwich.

"Good afternoon," he says. "You slept all morning."

"What time is it?"

I try to sound confident, but I don't think I'm pulling it off.

"Twelve-thirty," he says.

"Lunch time..."

I'm not trying to be subtle about my hint. He gestures towards the bag.

"You can get lunch once you get this on."

"What is that?"

"It's a collar," he says, staring at me with unflinching eyes, daring me to question him. I'm sure the look I give him is just as bad as the look he's giving me. Because I feel my heart drop into my stomach. He's not serious.

"I'm not wearing an animal collar."

"So your pride is worth starving to death?" Again, his voice is calm and buttery smooth. No tension. He's the dangerous gambler I met in Vegas five years ago again. He loves this.

"You won't let me starve to death," I say to him calmly. "And you won't make me wear that collar."

There's even less space between us now. He occupies most of the space in most of the rooms in this cabin. Compared to Owen's immense size, this place is basically a dollhouse. I'm above average height and he still towers over me.

"You're going to wear the collar," he says. "Or I'll have to bruise your neck every night to make sure men know you belong to me everywhere we go."'

My stomach does another annoying and confusing flip. I shouldn't let him render me speechless. I should fight him.

"Then bruise my neck," I say to him, looking Owen dead in the eye, calling his bluff.

He won't make me wear that collar and he won't bruise my neck either. I glare at him, daring him to test me. Daring him to prove that he's actually that fucked up and cold-hearted. I was there five years ago. I know deep down... he has a soft heart. He won't hurt me.

My reflexes aren't fast enough for Owen's reaction. He sticks his hand out and when I think I have control over his forearm and push him away, I feel his fingers around my throat and he squeezes. Tight enough to hold me still. Tight enough that I don't want to test him.

Tight enough that my sharp inhalation feels... dangerous. I'm waiting to exhale, waiting for a sign it's safe, waiting for this crazy motherfucker to let me go.

"I know you think I'm bluffing," he whispers. "But I'm not."

Holding me in place with one hand, he unwraps the paperbag with the other and reveals a thick leather collar with a small metal heart in the middle. The center of the heart has his name in it with rhinestones. What the fuck? He grips my throat with a little more force as he moves the collar close to me.

"Don't fight this," he whispers. "Because we can do this the easy way or the hard way... and I don't think you're ready to see me hard again."

Fourteen

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