Page 62 of True Bastard
I stared at Morpheus, my throat tight and my eyes stinging. The idea of belonging somewhere felt foreign and terrifying, yet at the same time, strangely comforting. For a moment, I let myself believe his words could be true. Maybe, just maybe, I could finally stop running from the ghosts of my past.
Nodding, I slipped quietly from the room and headed upstairs—the vision of my mother dying right before my eyes weighed heavily on me. I refused to end up like her, like my sister. I wanted to believe Morpheus. Believe that I finally found a place to call home. But the word was foreign to me.
I walked quietly down the hallway, the weight of Morpheus’ words echoing in my mind. Every step felt heavy, burdened with memories I wished I could erase as well as the fragile hope he had offered. The silence pressed in around me, offering a strange sort of solace as I tried to anchor myself in the present instead of drowning in the past. The air felt different now—less threatening, almost safe. I wondered if, with time, I could learn to trust it, to trust them.
Trust Firestride.
Just thinking about him now made my body come alive. I hated it, but I could no longer deny it. I was his. There would never be another for me. Not only had he found something in me, something I didn’t even know existed; he’d also broken down every wall I had to get to the heart of me. I think on some elemental level I knew when I first saw him that day standing on my doorstep that he would be the one to break down all my walls. Maybe that was why I’d been so resistant toward him. Not because he scared me, but because he saw the real me.
As I entered his room, I saw him sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes shadowed by concern. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched me, as if gauging my mood as I walked about his room. The quiet between us didn’t feel awkward, but charged with something unspoken. Slowly, he extended his hand, offering comfort without words, and for the first time in years, I didn’t want to turn away. Maybe after everything that had happened, I was finally giving in, accepting what I refused to believe—that I was finally home.
Taking his hand, he pulled me close, his arms wrapping around me.
“I can’t let you go.”
“I know,” I whispered, my words stolen by the intensity of his gaze. It was a confession, a surrender that felt both terrifying and strangely right. The anger, the defiance, the desperate fight for freedom—it all felt like a distant memory, a shadow that had finally receded. I was here, tangled in his embrace, in his world, and for the first time, the thought didn’t send a jolt of pure terror through me.
Instead, it was a heavy, almost comforting certainty.
He pulled me closer, his arms a vise around my waist, his head resting against my chest. The scent of him, once a symbol of my captivity, now felt like home, a familiar anchor in the storm.
“You’re mine now, Kitten,” he growled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through my very bones. It was a declaration, a claim, and this time, it didn’t feel like a threat.
It felt like... belonging.
I leaned into him, the exhaustion of the past weeks finally catching up to me. The fight was over, not because I had lost, but because I had found something more potent than freedom. I had found a connection, a bond forged in fire and blood, a love that had bloomed in the most unlikely of places. And in his arms,surrounded by the deafening roar of the Brotherhood, I knew that I was finally home.
A quiet calm fell over the clubhouse. It was strange, especially knowing how rough and rowdy the brothers could be. It almost felt like the lull before a storm. I could see it in their eyes, all of them watching, waiting for the other shoe to drop. The chaos and violence, the secrets and betrayals—all faded into the background. I let myself breathe, for once not guarded or wary, and realized that maybe with this clubhouse, these brothers, with Firestride was the life I had been yearning for all along. It was a strange feeling, one I was still unsure of, but I knew I was tired of fighting the inevitable.
A few days later I woke to find Firestride wrapped around me, sleeping peacefully, his arms holding me close, his legs pinning me to the bed. It had been like this every night since my arrival.
I closed my eyes, letting the stillness settle over me like a blanket. The air was thick with old memories and new promises, and I could almost hear the distant hum of engines outside, a reminder that life here was never truly quiet. But for now, wrapped in his arms, the world felt far away.
“It’s too early. Go back to sleep.”
“For you maybe, but I’m awake.”
He groaned, deep and low, the sound vibrating through the mattress as he turned onto his back. The sliver of sunlight that glittered around the room cast long, vibrant rays of warmth, and I could feel his gaze on me, heavy and unreadable. The silence between us, usually thick with unspoken tension, now felt charged with something new, something akin to acceptance.I had stopped fighting. The relentless urge to escape, to run, had finally softened, replaced by a weary resignation, and perhaps, a nascent curiosity.
He reached out, his fingers brushing against my cheek, a touch that was both startling and strangely gentle. The rough skin of his hand was a stark contrast to the tenderness in his gesture, a dichotomy that had become the hallmark of our tangled existence.
I leaned into his touch, welcoming, seeking the peace of this moment. The fight had drained me, leaving behind a hollow ache and the cautious acceptance that my future, and his, were now irrevocably intertwined. My prison had become a sanctuary, not of freedom, but of a strange, perilous belonging. His scent of sandalwood and mint, once a symbol of his dominance, now felt like a faint whisper of an unfamiliar comfort. He released me, the absence of his weight a strange emptiness, but the memory of his embrace lingered, a phantom warmth against my skin. Here, in the quiet of his opulent prison, a fragile peace had settled, a temporary truce in the war that had raged within me.
I watched him as he dressed, his movements economical and precise. The same power that had once terrified me now held a different kind of allure. He was a paradox—a monster forged in violence, yet capable of a tenderness that defied his brutal nature. He had claimed me, broken me, and in doing so, had somehow become the anchor I desperately needed. He turned to me, his obsidian eyes meeting mine, and for the first time, I saw not just a conqueror, but a man. A man who had been forged in fire, just as I had. He offered a small, rare smile, a hint of something tender beneath the layers of his hardened exterior.
“Get dressed, Kitten,” he commanded with a throaty growl that went straight to my core.
Sitting up on his bed, I gathered the surrounding sheets around myself to give me some sense of modesty and said, “That’s going to be hard.”
“Why?” he grumbled.
“I’m not sure if you remember your temper tantrum the other night, but you cut the only pair of jeans I owned and ripped my shirt to pieces.”
A slow smirk appeared on his lips.
I narrowed my eyes. “It’s not funny, Firestride. I have nothing to wear.”
Striding toward me, he leaned close, the heat of his body radiating against mine, causing me to fall back against the pillows, a blush I couldn’t control creeping up my neck. “What’s not funny is going to be your ass if you don’t get dressed,” he said, his gaze intense, pinning me. “I have shit you can wear.”
