Page 25 of Biker's Conquest: Property of Rage

Our eyes meet. Deacon’s steel grey eyes send a chill straight through me. I don’t dare to move.

“Keyshawn. Come here.”

His use of my name makes me flinch. But I don’t dare give him an opportunity to get even more aggressive. I stand up and take a couple steps towards the cell entrance. The exit. My freedom. My fear response goes into overdrive, but this time I freeze completely. My gaze wanders back to Deacon, seeking permission again, or perhaps looking for some sign about what he really wants from me.

I hate that this time, his gaze reassures me.

“No punishment tonight,” he says. His eyes wander over me. I’m not even dressed in a sexy outfit but he looks at me with pure lust, like he wants to fuck me.

“Your punishment is… complete.”

I force my body to move, to obey his commands instead of my desire to remain still. His body visibly relaxes once I inch towards him, although all my muscles feel taut with tension. Once I’m close enough for Deacon to touch me, I prepare myself to feel another hard spanking. He doesn’t hit me. Deacon’s hand finds the smallest part of my lower back and he touches me gently as he guides me towards the stairs.

“I have something special planned,” he says in a voice thatsounds menacing to me considering most of Deacon’s plans that I experienced in the past.

Given the choice between accepting Deacon’s possible cruelty and staying in the basement forever, I have to take the chance. I enter Deacon’s house from the basement and the air is significantly fresher up here. I breathe in deep and slow, appreciating the deep drawing of my breath without wanting to draw too much attention to it. Freedom excites me.

Also, it smells delicious up here. Like red wine and pasta sauce.

“I made you dinner,” Deacon says. His grasp on the small of my back tightens a little. But no hitting. No pain. He guides me towards his dining room. I’ve been through the house every night for the past twelve days, but each time I was focused on the pain in my body and following Deacon to the bedroom.

The dining room is simple, modern, but nothing short of gorgeous and clearly, Deacon put a lot of effort into putting this dinner together. Two glasses of wine sit on top of a red tablecloth. There are two covered plates, which must contain some type of pasta dish. Deacon uses his hand on my back to guide me to the table and then he pulls the chair away from the table for me.

I look up at Deacon before I dare to sit. He nods.

“Sit, Keyshawn. If you can.”

He smirks at me with far too much self-satisfaction. I bury any emotional response and sit, careful not to show Deacon any signs that I’m experiencing too much pain. Once I sit, Deacon takes the seat across from me and immediately empties the contents of his wine glass down his throat. I don’t touch mine. I don’t touch anything. Deacon sets his glass down andfills it up again.

“Toast,” Deacon says, raising the wine glass. “To your freedom.”

I don’t know what I’mreallytoasting to, but I know that my best option here is most likely to justgo along with it.We clink glasses.

“To my freedom.”

“From now on, you can have every inch of the house. I’ll give you whatever you need for entertainment. My requests are simple. Cleanliness. Dinner. You exercise at least an hour a day, five days a week.”

I glance up at Deacon, who empties that second wine glass and then leans over to remove the fancy cover over my food. This pasta dish smellsincredible.It looks like spaghetti bolognaise. The basil sprinkled on top is fresh.

“You made this?” I ask Deacon, speaking out of turn out of genuine surprise. This man doesn’t look like a chef. He isn’t dressed like one either. He’s dressed like he’s on a first date, which doesn’t make me feel incredible about my “basement cell chic” pajamas.

“Yes,” he says. “You can take three days off cooking to adjust to your new environment.”

I give him a confused look.

“You’re staying here now, Keyshawn. I quit your job for you, had your things moved from Chicago, and sent a lovely letter to your cousin.”

He isn’t joking. I can see from the flat expression on his face, even if I can barely believe that he did all that. Is that where he’s been every day? Unraveling my life? I put some pasta in my mouth to stop myself from causing problems with this insane man. I can feel his gaze boring into me as I chew. I absolutelyhatehow fucking good the first bite of pasta is.

It’s like I’m tastingreal foodfor the first time in ages. I want to moan out loud because dinner tastes so good, but Idon’t want to give Deacon the satisfaction of experiencing my pleasure. I don’t want to give him any satisfaction at all. It would be so much better to punish him for daring to awaken the fucked up desires I experience whenever he gets near me.

“I’m a good cook,” he says confidently as I chase my first bite with a second one. I look up at Deacon, but I don’t nod. This is the only power that I have right now. Withholding. Deacon can’t hide the redness flushing across his face. His inability to get a reaction out of me truly bothers this man.

“I won’t beg you for a compliment,” he grunts. “For the next few days, enjoy the house. I’ll give you an iPad with a credit card. That normally keeps the women in my family happy.”

Deacon takes his first bite of pasta, eating like a literal animal. He must be hungry. His ferocious eating at least takes his attention (temporarily) off of me and I can take in more of my surroundings. My desires confuse me. I keep putting bites of food into my mouth, savoring the mixture of flavors and fighting back the panic that follows every minute of pleasure I experience with Deacon.

Logic won’t work on me. My feelings are a mess. I just have to keep eating and hope that a full stomach gives me more clarity. He doesn’t make much conversation with me until I’m almost done eating. Deacon finishes his second plate a few minutes before I finish the first and he just… watches.

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