WULF : Gang Of Wolves - Motorcycle Romance | Dark Romance | MC Romance

Chapter Five - Silvie

I'm not crying. I'm not angry. I'm not even upset. I think, though, that I am in shock.

    It's funny, in a not-so-funny sort of way. Joey is the one who's used to the prison system, but as I'm led out of the only house I've ever known, it feels like I'm the prisoner. Both men are tall, but the one who is slightly bigger grips my upper arm and guides me. My feet follow obediently. I don't go kicking and screaming. It's like I'm no longer in control of my own movements.

    There's a lot of noise shuffling around me. After the gun went off, I kind of zoned out. It's like in movies when a bomb explodes and the main character is disoriented and the sound goes out. Yeah. That's how this feels.

    Before the screen door slams behind us, I think I hear my dad yell something.

    It was definitely him.

    I don't know what he said though. Love you. Or listen to me. Or something that starts with an L.

My flip-flops shuffle against the concrete. Staring down at the ground, I realize that my toenail polish is chipped horribly. I look up at the man who still has me by the arm. "Can I get my nail polish?" I ask in a haze.

    He grins at me like the Joker. "No, sweetheart." It isn't comforting. It's condescending. The way you speak to an ignorant, annoying, child.

    Another slam from the screen door makes my head jerk up. The vicious god who I saw before on the bike stands on the brick square we call our front porch. The porch light shines from behind him, illuminating his hair but casting a shadow over his face. Red brown waves glow around him, making him look like a treacherous angel. Lucifer. Satan was an angel once upon a time.

    As he walks forward, the man lets go of my arm. The two men get on their bikes and watch the door. The vicious angel looks down at me and I can see more of his face now, even in the darkness. He's got eyes that are a soulless type of brown. They're too dark, they almost look black. The stubble on his facial hair shines with bits of gold in the little bit of light there is. He's insanely handsome. Strong, rugged, gorgeous. He's also taking me prisoner.

    A sick twinge of nervous energy spins in my stomach. Suddenly, I feel dizzy. My throat goes dry while my mouth fills with saliva. "I'm going to-" be sick, pass out, scream?

    Before I can even contemplate the words, he captures my chin in his hand. "You're going to be brave," he says in a confident whisper.

    Shaking, I nod. My tongue darts nervously over my lip. Yeah. Okay. I'm going to be brave.

    I must still be in shock, because I'm agreeing with his encouragement. It's like a lifeline that I cling to. Without another word, he throws his leg over his bike and starts it up. The grass beneath me rumbles and I think I might sink down into it. He watches me expectantly and I realize he's waiting for me to get on.

    That's when it hits me. I'm leaving. I'm leaving with him.

    My eyes widen, and my hands start to tremble. I shake my head and back peddle, running myself into a brick wall. It's one of the men he brought with him, though.

    He wraps my arms around my body and pushes me forward. Lifting me easily, he sets me on the back of the man's bike. His foot jolts the kickstand and the wheels roll forward. My hands wrap around his waist, locking together, holding on for dear life.

    I feel rigid. Terrified.

    We haven't even left the neighborhood yet. Sitting at the stoplight, he turns his head and I realize he's speaking to me.

    "Relax," he says, rubbing my thigh. "Move when I move."

    Him telling me to relax seems to have the opposite effect. But when the light turns green, I try to do what he says. I'm assuming he wouldn't steer me wrong, because if he dies on this thing, so will I. He's clearly a psychopath, but I don't think he'd kill himself.

    My head leans forward, pressing my cheek into the soft leather of his jacket. He smells like it- leather. He also smells like sweat. Not a musky, dirty, smell. But like the fragrance of men's deodorant and something that's uniquely him.

    In white letters, stitched across the top between his shoulders, it says WULF. My face rests on a huge patch that's a wolf, crying to the moon. Crying. I realize it's exactly what I'm doing. Tears leak from my eyes, getting whipped away by the wind.

    When we stop at another light, one of the bikes rumbles up next to us. He was the shorter of the two... though short isn't a word I'd use to describe him. His hair is long and blonde and wind battered from riding. It makes me realize that my own must be too. It was wet when I left the house. I'm sure it'll be in dry tangles when we get to wherever we're going.

    The blonde man looks over at me with a schoolboy grin. I almost smile back at him, it's just second nature. But reality claps me, reminding me I have nothing to smile about. This is the man who shot my brother in the foot and aided in my kidnapping.

    A tear rolls down my cheek and I think about jumping off the bike. I actually sit up and look around. We're in the middle of nowhere. I could probably hide. It looks like there's some trees in the darkness.

Or they could catch me and put a bullet in my brain instead of my foot.

    His grip lightly squeezes my hands that are still locked together. One of his huge hands easily covers two of mine. "Lay back down, baby," he says, quietly but loud enough to be heard over the hum of the bike.

    My lip quivers and I lean forward, shedding all my tears before he has a chance to see them.