Page 29 of Seven Sons (Gypsy Brothers)

“Oh,” I say. “I thought we’d just go in a car or something.”

He smirks and looks me up and down. “We’re in a biker club, Samantha, not a goddamn minivan club.”

“I don’t have a helmet. Or a jacket.” I look down at my bare feet. “Or shoes.”

Jase just laughs as he continues down the hallway. “You think you’re the first girl who ever came in without a helmet, jacket, or shoes?”

Well, I don’t have anything to say to that. I just shrug in response.

Jase slides the thick steel door at the end of the hallway open, and ushers me inside. I immediately smell oil, leather, and sweat all mingled together. I look around, taking in the impressive line-up of Harley Davidsons that sit two and three deep in the massive garage.

“That’s a lot of bikes,” I breathe, squinting under the harsh fluorescent lights that illuminate the warehouse-sized space.

Jase goes over to the far wall and rummages through a clear tub full of helmets. Fishing one out, he gestures for me to come over. I thread my way carefully through the maze of metal, mindful that if I knock one bike, I’ll start a domino effect of epic proportions.

He puts the helmet on the counter next to him and hands me a pair of women’s white canvas sneakers. They are at least a size too big for me, but I bend down to lace them tightly so they will stay on my feet.

Next, he grabs a beaten, chocolate-colored leather jacket from a hook above the counter and passes it to me. I shrug into it and find the zip, pulling it up to my chin.

“Here,” he says, fitting the open-face helmet on my head. “How’s this?”

I am about to reply, but the door is dragged open again and loud voices fill the once-peaceful space.

It is two of the Ross brothers – Chad, who held his hand over my mouth as I screamed for Dornan to spare an innocent life, and Mickey, the fourth brother.

They are chatting in an animated fashion, every second word Fuck, when they lay eyes on me.

“Hey, darlin’,” Chad says, striding through the silent motorcycles to where we stand. “Where you off to?”

Jase looks at him without a single ounce of brotherly affection. “I’m taking her for a ride, Chad,” he bites out. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

Chad slides between his brother and I, forcing Jase to step back. His chest is pressed into mine but I stand my ground, looking up at him through a haze of violent memories, my jaw set stubbornly.

“Sorry about your little boyfriend,” he says with a broad smile, not sorry at all. He runs a finger down my arm, from shoulder to wrist, and smirks when I jerk my hand away.

“Sorry about your little hand,” I reply, not taking my eyes off him for a second.

His smile twitches, and for a moment I get the oddest sensation that he is going to take a swing at me. Instead, he leans real close, so that I can feel his breath on my face. It smells sickly sweet, like pineapple flavoring or those ultra-caffeinated energy drinks.

“I know what you’re up to,” he says menacingly. “You think you can just come in here because you’re screwing my pop? It ain’t that simple, sugar. There are rules around here.”

I raise my eyebrows and laugh, unnerving him. “Your father’s head over heels for me. I doubt very much anything you have to say will sway his mind.”

The smirk reappears on his face, and he slams me against the wall with brute force, planting his hands on either side of me so that I am effectively trapped.

“Hey!” Jase bellows, trying to pull his hulkish brother away from me.

Mickey suddenly appears and pulls Jase roughly by the back of his shirt. “He’s not going to hurt her, brother,” he says. He seems irritated, and bored. Everyone here is always either cruel or bored.

“Yeah,” Chad drawls, grinding himself against me. The move isn’t sexual so much as dominating. “I’m not gonna hurt her, baby brother.” With that, he yanks my black t-shirt up with one hand and rips the clear plastic dressing off my stomach with the other.

Fuck.

The lighting is so bright in here, and the coloring isn’t finished. Can he see my scars?

He scrapes his calloused hand along the length of my freshly scabbed tattoo, making me wince. He studies the design, poking and prodding, before letting my t-shirt fall again, apparently satisfied.

“Nice tatt,” he says, baring his teeth in a vicious smile.

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