Page 12 of Unmasked Anarchy
Gage hasn’t come back in, but I have no doubt he’s out there, partying with the rest of the club.So much for finding who did this to me.It seems more likely that he’s busy protecting his men over his old lady.He is far more focused on the injustice served to him.It hurts deep in my soul.
I try not to think of the brothers out there, of Kael.My hands shake so badly.I can’t text him, can’t let myself reach out even though every ounce of my being wants me to.I want to see how he is, I want to know more about him, even though I know that thought is dangerous.
So fucking dangerous.
I must drift off, because when the door swings open, it cracks so hard against the wall that it rips me awake.Light from the hallway shines into the dim room.Gage stands in its outline, and I already know he’s drunk—he always is on nights like these.His cut is off, and he’s shirtless, his jeans riding low on that perfect fucking body.He is a sculpted fucking god, the kind of man that will suck the breath right out of your lungs.
His face is flushed, eyes glassy, mouth twisted in a smile that means nothing but trouble.“You’re awake.Texting your biker friend?”
Of course he’s jealous.
It’s a pattern I’ve come to recognize, a cycle that repeats itself with maddening consistency.He can’t show a single hint of emotion when it comes to me, yet the idea of anyone else even looking at me sends him over the edge.It’s infuriating, this contradiction that defines our relationship.I see it in the way his jaw tightens, the flash of something dark in his eyes whenever another man so much as glances in my direction.
It’s as if he’s torn between wanting to claim me and keeping me at arm’s length, a push and pull that leaves me spinning.I want to scream at him, to demand why he can’t just admit what’s so painfully obvious.But the words catch in my throat, trapped by the fear of what his answer might be.The frustration builds, a simmering tension that threatens to boil over.
I’m tired of the games, the unspoken rules that govern our interactions.I want clarity, honesty, something real to hold onto.Yet, every time I think we’re close, he retreats, leaving me in a limbo of uncertainty.It’s exhausting, this dance we do, and I wonder how much longer I can keep up before I finally break.
I force a laugh, a ragged sound in my throat.“You think I’m that stupid?”
He watches me from the threshold, head cocked to the side.Then he comes at me in a slow, deliberate stalk across the room, every step measured.With Gage, there’s always a predator and prey, and I never know which one I am until it’s too late.He doesn’t ask before sitting on the edge of the bed; the mattress dips under his weight, and the scent of diesel and smoke hugs the air between us.
He’s so close I can see the brown flecks in his eyes.“You thinkin’ about that biker?”
I hold my breath, keeping calm.
I shrug.“He’s nothing.Just a guy who happened to save me.”
Keep it casual.
“Sure,” Gage murmurs.There’s a dangerous patience in the way he traces an old scar on my arm, one I got when he put me in a dangerous situation years ago.It’s as if he’s reminding me.He has all the control.
“You scared me,” he says, voice lower now.“Thought you were gone.”
That’s his version of love, the most he can give me.There’s no apology, only the purest possession.I can’t help it.My gut flips, the warmth pooling out from where his thumb pushes on my pulse.
He knows what he does to me.He knows the kind of twisted obsession I have with him.
He releases my arm suddenly, grip shifting to the back of my neck.He pulls me to him so we’re eye to eye, so I can’t look away or even turn my head.“If you want him, I’ll kill him.”The words are so gentle they almost sound like a promise, not a threat.
The worst part is, I believe him.
“I don’t want him,” I manage.“He’s not—”
His hand on my neck tightens.“Doesn’t matter.If he even thinks about you again, he’s gone.”He strokes my face with his other hand, thumb dragging across my bottom lip.I can’t decide if I want to bite or suck it.
Maybe both.
God help me.
Carefully, he drags me into his lap and shifts me so I’m straddling him, knees digging into the bedsheets, his cock already half hard against my thigh.I should hate it, should tell him to fuck off, but he’s the only one who can make the pain mean something other than fear.
Gage’s hands grip my hips, pressing them down until I can feel every line of him, the heat of his skin hot through the thin fabric of my shorts.He doesn’t kiss me, not at first.He just watches my face, waiting for me to break, to admit how much I want this, how much I want him.
But he already knows.
The fucking asshole already knows.
I close my eyes, only for a second, and let him push up the hem of my shirt, exposing the battered mess of my stomach.I don’t want to see it.Even now, I have refused to look at the mess those monsters made.
