Page 15 of Scar

I cough. “Well, just this once you are going to have to have to make an exception to your normal rule.” I look up at him through my lashes, praying that I am masking just how turned on his words made me.

His jaw is tense as his eyes pin me in place. “I will not fucking hurt you,” he grits through his teeth.

I huff out a sigh. “Look, if you don’t sucker punch me?—”

He growls, interrupting me. “Don’t fucking say it like that.”

“Smash my face in? Sock it to me? Give me a beat down? Rough me up? Or knock me the fuck out? Which would you prefer?” I ask sarcastically.

He takes an angry bite of his pancake. “I never had you down for someone that was sarcastic,” he grits out.

I smile before snatching the pancake from his hand and taking a big bite out of it. “I’m just full of surprises. Would it help if I gave you a reason to punch me?” I suggest.

He snatches the last of the pancake from my hand and shoves it in his mouth. “You could hold a fucking gun to my head and I still wouldn’t hit you.”

“Fine!” I huff. “I will just do it myself.” I get up off the bed, walk across the room and grab the heavy ornament of a dog off of my bookcase. My mother got me it and I hated it. The dog’s eyes were beady, and I swear the thing was cursed. I slowly lift it just above my head, preparing to strike or drop it.

“What are you doing?” Scar asks as he removes the tray of food from his lap. I scrunch my face up and brace for the impact of the hit.

Come on, come on, you need to do this so he can get out of here,I say, giving myself an internal pep talk. After I let out a pathetic roar and slam the heavy ornament to my face, I brace myself for the hit, but it doesn’t come. Instead, a firm hand grabs my arm. I open my eyes to see Scar stood there, gripping my arm tightly in his fist. He removes the ornament with his other hand and places it back on the bookcase.

“You do not hurt yourself,” he seethes.

“Do you have a better idea?” I ask.

He pauses for a moment, still holding my arm in his firm grip. “What drugs have you got?” he asks. I raise my brow in question. “What if you just took some tablets and slept?” he suggests.

I roll my eyes as I remove my arm from his hold. “What, I drug myself and then you magically open the door and escape the basement?” I counter. “That ain’t going to work. What is believable is that I heard banging coming from the basement and then went down to see what it was. I open the door and you hit me, knock me out and run. That is believable. You are just going to have to suck it up and hit me. You are a big bad biker, so just man up and hit a woman,” I snap.

We stand toe to toe, and I refuse to back down. I may hate my mother, my father, and refuse to become anything like them, but I sure as shit inherited their stubbornness, their strong will and refusal to back down. Well, when it came to others that is. With them I just do what makes them happy from fear more than anything else.

Scar’s jaw is clenched, the muscle ticking. He’s pissed, but he’s holding back. “I’m not even going to tell you the shit I’ve done, the pain I’ve caused others, the times I’ve tortured men for hours where they begged me to end their lives. I’ve killed men for hurting women, for raping women, and I will not fucking become what I fucking despise,” he seethes through his gritted teeth.

He’s a good man, a terrifying, dangerous man with a good heart. I knew that the moment I saw him in the basement. If he wasn’t, he would have lunged for me, hurt me in any way he could to escape. I keep my eyes on him and place my palm on his chest, right above his heart. Gazing into his eyes, I can feel his steady soothing rhythm.

“I know you are a good man, and I know that you would never hurt me or any other woman or child, or even a man that didn’t deserve it. This isn’t and wouldn’t be the same situation. This is protecting you. It’s protecting me. If my father found out or even suspected I let you out, let you go free...” I pause, shaking my head. Glancing away, I swallow, fighting back thefear of what he would do. “I, I can’t even begin to tell you what he would do. This is the only way. I would rather take a hit from you, a small moment of pain, knowing that you got out of here, and that you are safe. You stay, you die, and that will cause me a lifetime of pain,” I confess. He looks down on me and I can see the torment in his decision.

Slowly, he reaches over and places his hand on mine. “You are an angel trapped in hell. You could escape this and come with me,” he states softly. My lips part as a shuddery breath escapes me at his words. I want to say yes and go with him, of course I do. To be free of my father, my family and this life, I would take his hand now and run, but I can’t. To do so would be stupid. It would be dangerous; for him, for me, for everyone.

“I can’t,” I whisper.

“You can. My club can keep you safe. We can protect you,” he says, trying to convince me.

I shake my head. “He will come for you, for your club, your family, and kill anyone that gets in his way. It’s not even that he cares about me, it’s the principle. The same way he came for one of you, for my brother. Maybe one day when he’s dead and I am free, I can come and find you and you and me can… I don’t know, go for a drink? Or maybe you could take me for a ride on your bike.” I smile, trying to make light of a tense situation.

“What will you do to make sure that your father doesn’t come looking for me?” he asks. It’s the one question I was hoping he wouldn’t ask. I move to step back, but he keeps my hand firmly on his chest. “Your father will not take kindly to me hitting his daughter, his now only child, breaking the deal and escaping. He will still hunt for me, and he will come for my family,” he states.

I was hoping me brushing it off earlier would be enough for him, that he would just be happy to take the offer of freedom, but I should have known better.

I give him a small smile. “I will distract him. A small sacrifice for your life,” I state, purposely keeping my answer vague, not just for him but for my own sanity, because if I thought about it, he would see my fear, my reluctance, and he wouldn’t allow me to help him.

He opens his mouth to say something, but my cell rings. I move across the room, seeing my father’s name across the screen. I click answer and put him on speaker, so Scar can hear him too.

“Morning, Daddy,” I answer in a sickly sweet voice, keeping my eyes fixed on Scar’s.

“We are on our way home,” he states sharply.

“Oh?” I breathe, my eyes going wide as I look at Scar. “Is everything okay?” I ask.

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