Page 19 of Her Beastly Biker
He nods succinctly. “Don’t tell anyone else about this.”
I only reply with a grunt.
I follow behind Eddie as he lets me into a room on the bottom floor.
“Everything is still here,” he says quietly. “Looks like maybe she’ll be back.”
I don’t answer. I run my finger over the keys to her car and the little travel purse she carries sometimes. Something is definitely not right. Not right at all.
Finally, I spot something that makes my blood run cold. A stone settles in the pit of my stomach.Her notebook. Her fuckin’ notebook is here.She takes that notebook everywhere. We even talked about it last night. She’s always afraid she’s going to observe something or get an idea and then forget it. She always has it.
I ball up my fists. “What time did they leave, Eddie? How long ago?”
He watches me closely. “Not long before you got here. About thirty minutes.”
I take a deep breath and nod. A feeling of rage overtakes me.I’m coming to get you, Maggie. You’re mine. And no one takes what’s mine.
Chapter Nineteen
Maggie
I know he’s coming for me. I know he’s going to make me his again. -Maggie
Prescott…freakin’…Masters. Those two goons brought me back to marry Prescott I’m an asshole Masters. I have no desire to find out his real middle name, just as I have no burning desire to make his last name mine.
“This is your duty, Magnolia. Do you understand?” my father’s hard voice echoes through the massive study. He narrows his green eyes, so like mine, in a way that makes my stomach curdle with nerves. He’s been making me want to puke since I first learned what that look meant. That look meant pain…not physical pain, but finding a way to hurt me nonetheless. Whether it be by taking away my puppy, my friends, whatever hurt the most…my father always knew how to hurt me.
I nod meekly. “I understand, Father.” The rebel within me snarls at me.Stand up for yourself, Maggie. Don’t let him make you weak.
Unfortunately for her, I’m stuck. The two goons who brought me back across country stand there with smirks on their faces and guns in their side holsters.
“You will greet your guests to this party as I expect, and you will act as the dutiful fiancé. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, father,” I murmur.
“As for your little trip out west, we’ll come up with a proper punishment for that soon.” He steeples his fingers together on his desk and the smile that crosses his face is positively predatory. “Samantha Shivers.”
My stomach drops at the mention of my pen name.Shit.
“She can leave now. You’ve done well.” My father nods at his two goons and they give him satisfied little smiles and nod in unison. I’m surprised they don’t bow like the little pussies they are.
With those words, I’m dragged out of the study that I was rarely ever allowed in as a little girl. I say dragged, but the truth is I don’t fight, so it’s more like a forced walk.
My mother waits for me in the parlor. Her skin is even more pale than usual and she sends me an awkward smile.
“It’s so good to have you home, Magnolia. I know your father is a bit upset, but this will all work out. You’ll see.” She pats my shoulder awkwardly and I slump even more.
She puts on a bright, fake smile. “Let’s go greet your guests. Prescott is so excited to see you again.” She runs a critical eye over the gauzy pink dress that was on my bed this morning with a note to “Wear me” along with a warning to not dare disobey. I want to sink even further into despair.
“You’ll do.” Her perfect manicured pink nails pick at a piece of imaginary lint on my shoulder. “And remember your posture. You’re a Malone, dear. We always stand up straight.”
Fuck you. That’s what I want to say. But instead, I merely nod my assent.
Can I really blame her though?This woman, with her perfectly coifed dark red hair and her perfect trim figure, never had a chance. She was practically sold to my father, much like I’m being sold to Prescott now.
My family is part of the Southern Mafia. I looked up the term once-mafia, and it explained exactly who my family is. Despite its’ Sicilian beginnings, these families in the South have appropriated the term to encompass their “good ole boy” mentality and the rich families that belong to this group.
I knew I was different when I was growing up. I was always meant to be shown off as a price, not a person. While my friends played, I silently sat by while my father and mother ran off to “meetings”. My nanny was my best friend and she was let go when I was twelve. After that, I hovered in doorways trying to figure out what important “business” my rich father was a part of, but I was always shut out.
