“No. You said you always make good on your promises.” Ian pulls his face back from Leo just enough to turn his attention to me. He stares at me searchingly, like he’s struggling to find the logic behind my actions. The entire room is still save for the men rushing in from other rooms, obviously having been alerted to what’s happening at the bar. Even Ryan lowers his gun and waits for an answer.
“I hate him,” I say with such fire that I surprise myself. I can’t punish the men who really hurt me, so I’m going to punish the one who could have. It doesn’t matter that the club made a truce with the guy. I didn’t choose to forgive him. I didn’t choose to let him walk away. I don’t get to choose anything except this. The only power I have is the power Ian’s given me, and I’m going to wield it as I like.
“Somebody babysit the WOP,” Ian says and shoves Leo back down on his stool. He’s moving so quickly I don’t see him drop low and wrap his arms around my torso until I’m propped up on his shoulder with my butt in the air.
Shit.
This shouldn’t be hot, and I shouldn’t be okay with this kind of touching.
But it is, and I am.
It’s not the vodka giving me the courage—it’s Ian.
The crowd parts around us as Ian hauls me off down a hallway lined with doors on both sides. We enter an unlocked room, and he slams the door behind us. His chest heaves beneath me, and I think I can even hear his nostrils flaring. Blood is rushing to my head, making my position on his shoulder uncomfortable. Wisely, I don’t voice my concern. He seems like he needs to calm down before talking to me. Or looking at me. Or putting me down apparently.
The discomfort becomes too much. Gently, I place my hands on his cut, toward the bottom right, on top of the upward curving bottom patch that proudly says CALIFORNIA, and take a deep breath as I use my arms to help me lift my head for a better view of the room. Even beneath the patch and the leather and the shirt he’s wearing, I can feel the firm muscles of his lower back. Though he isn’t as bulky as some of his brothers, he’s certainly well-built in all the right places—from what I can tell at least. My face heats at thoughts of the right places I don’t yet know. His muscles tick beneath my touch, like he’s surprised by it. I guess he has a right to be. Considering he’s really the only person I welcome to touch me—and even that in itself is scary—he has a right to be surprised that I would initiate touch in this way. I don’t understand why he’s the exception, but he is, and I’m tired of trying to work it out in my head.
While I wait for him to set me down, I survey my surroundings. The room is small—with a large bed that’s minimally dressed and a worn black trunk on the side that’s functioning as a nightstand. There’s a few empty beer bottles on top of the trunk and a pile of used matches scattered around the bottles. The wall opposite the door is exposed brick, but the other three walls are painted black. The depth of the darkness makes it feel like the room is smaller than I think it actually is. There’s nothing personal about the space at all, just a few strange items attached to the walls. One wall has what looks like leather handcuffs bolted into the black concrete wall. They hang at a curious height with a few feet between them. It isn’t until my eyes find the large menacing whip hanging next to the cuffs that I put two and two together and realize what the cuffs are for.
Oh God.
Is this a torture chamber? My eyes drift back to the bed. No, I guess it’s for a different kind of torture.
Oh God.
I want to look away, but I can’t. I’ve read books about this kind of stuff—books that I’d never admit to reading—and the participants always enjoy themselves. But I’ve read books about crazed heroes who do really screwed up stuff and somehow they always come out smelling like roses in the end. The real world doesn’t work that way. It just doesn’t.
“Um, Ian.” I don’t really have anything to say, but I feel obligated to say something. I need to do something, anything. I just can’t hang here on his shoulder, staring at his . . . whatever they are . . . and not saying anything.
“Silence.” He barks out the word with such ferocity that his torso vibrates, and his grip on my legs tightens. Something about the whip and handcuffs knocks me off my game, and I’m nervous. I shouldn’t have set Leo up like that. I still don’t like the guy. At the absolute least, he’s a douche bag. That doesn’t mean I should have tried to get him hurt.
I’m jostled from my thoughts when Ian bends and drops me to my feet and takes a step away from me. His brown eyes are searching for an answer I don’t have. They’re narrowed and unkind. I definitely haven’t gotten this look from him before. I’ve gotten the grimace and even the displeased pout. But this is different. Instead of sorrow or disappointment in Ian’s eyes, I see anger. For the first time since I’ve met him, I see what he must look like when he’s taking care of club business. This isn’t my Ian. This is Ian, the treasurer of Forsaken. This is the guy who unsettles Sterling Grady. And I start to doubt how well I know him after all.