Page 12 of The Bonds We Break
“After you, princess.” I hope the dig about her high-and-mighty attitude hits home.
Instead, she turns. “Of course you’d pick a hereditary title that only passes down the male line, that’s never earned. You assume she’s spoiled. Lazy, even. Instead of wondering what it must feel like for your destiny to be known before you’re even born.” I’m about to answer when she steps towards me and taps myPresidentpatch. “Hmm, I wonder ...”
Then she turns and heads to the van.
I follow her. “‘Hmm, I wonder,’ what?”
She glances over her shoulder. “Did you choose that patch for yourself, or was it always expected that you’d follow in your father’s footsteps?”
What the fuck? “Don’t try to get inside my head.”
“Thank you for answering my question.” She holds out her hand, and Bates takes it on autopilot to help her into the van. Her head appears around the door. “And if you really must grasp for a snooty title, call meduchess. I always imagined them older, seasoned, wise, and caustic with their wit.”
With that she sits back in her seat and busies herself putting on her seat belt.
Bates looks at me. “What the fuck?”
Niro slaps me on the shoulder. “Hope you know what you’re doing.”
And the truth is, I don’t.
Because I’ve never met anyone quite like Rae Miller.
5
RAE
The world passes by in a blur: Houses. Trees. Long expanses of highway.
I sit in silence, processing what the hell just happened and trying to estimate how much trouble I’m in.
Even at its simplest, Ryker and Rose are two people, and I’m only one person. The math is in their favor. Me for the two of them feels like a fair exchange. They are happy. I exist.
I just have to survive wherever they take me until Ryker returns in eleven days. Then we can put an end to this stupid game. King will offer Ryker his choice of me or the club, and my brother will choose me. Or, King won’t, and Ryker will rescue me anyway.
But for the next eleven days, King can do anything he wants with me, because for my brother, there isn’t anything I won’t endure.
I glance at the back of King’s head. His dark hair is short at the back but longer in the front. He pushes it off his still-tanned face when he’s frustrated, I’ve noticed. He did it when the gas station was closed, when there was no obvious place to get subs for dinner, and when he took a series of calls from Clutch, who my brother had told me is the vice president. I find this motorcycle club structure fascinating. That menoutside the lawhave such a hierarchy and traditional titles. I did my university paper on the impact of fringe societies filling the connection gaps among disenfranchised men. How, despite the lack of morality, they create a bonding sense of brotherhood. And how toxic masculinity builds their frameworks of power constructs.
Whatever Clutch had to say had King cursing when he hung up.
There’s a tattoo that creeps above his collar. I can’t make out what it is. I’m guessing he’s covered in them beneath his clothes because I see ink on his hands and wrists.
Bates is asleep next to me. His short hair is getting smushed against the headrest. With every breath, his lips let out a little puff of air.
Niro focuses on the road, with the occasional glance into the rearview mirror. Our eyes have met a few times, and I see nothing but hatred and disgust in them.
Part of me wants to start a conversation with him, just to see if I can figure out why there is such loathing there.
Part of me also thinks about opening the van door and rolling out onto the highway where I’ll take my chances with fast-moving vehicles. Every time I do, my self-preservation kicks in, and I stay in my seat.
Part of me knows I should rest. Some of the happiest times in my life happened in the silence between my father’s beatings. It would bring Ryker, Mom, and I closer to each other. We’d heal each other’s hurts. We’d breathe properly for a little while. While Dad slept off whatever perceived injustice had caused his latest outburst, we’d relax into our own injured skin, knowing we were safe for at least another twenty-four hours.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply. I focus on where I feel my breath: the edge of my nostrils, the back of my throat, the top of my lip. It takes me a moment, but I manage to lure myself into sleep so I can rest before we get wherever we are going.
The trip takes nine hours.
Nine hours with one rest break that King tells me is my first test. Walk into the women’s washroom, then walk back out again. He shows me a picture of Ryker and Rose to reinforce his point. To reclaim a little power, I take my sweet-ass time. I go to the bathroom, wash my hands, then study my reflection in the mirror. It’s the middle of the night, I’m alone, but I still count slowly to one hundred.
