Page 103 of Juniper Unraveling

“Ole’ Rhys has a thing for watching them squirm like a worm on a hook,” Rigs adds. “The women are always happy to oblige. Like to tease ‘im when he’s chained up like this.”

I lift my gaze to the men.

One I recognize as the prick who cupped me outside.

The other sits hidden in the shadows, his legs splayed, face covered by the mask.

Like the other bikers, he wears a leather vest that’s cut at the arms, and I can see bulges of muscle peeking out. Unlike Rigs, his are hard-earned, and corded down to thick hands that rest atop his bent knees. Bone-crushing muscles.

He sits forward as I approach, and I catch the striking blue of his eyes. They pop against the bronzed tone of his skin and the dark hair pulled away from his face. He lifts his arms, bound by chains that’re attached from his wrists to the wall. The prick with the gropey hands from before unlocks the chains, and the mystery man sits rubbing his wrists, gaze never wavering from mine.

“This is Rhys. Rhys, meet your new sex gift.” Rigs thumps the heel of his hand against his temple. “Damn, I mean concubine.”

I lean into Rigs, keeping my eyes on the big guy. “Why do you keep him chained?”

“See those skulls, sweetheart? He didn’t dig those up. He has moments we call blackouts.” A nudge from behind kicks me forward, and I shoot a glare over my shoulder at Rigs. “Have a look.”

“Before she takes another step, search the bitch.” Gropey crosses his arms, feet set apart. “Thoroughly.”

“Man, she ain’t strappin’ nothin’. Gordy had her in a cage. Sure his dickhead brother already had his fingers up in her.”

I scowl at that, and elbow Rigs in his side.

“Search. Her.”

The other man, Rhys, sits quietly, watching from the shadows. Not saying a word. His presence is unnerving and intriguing at the same time. Like a beast quietly calculating the perfect moment to strike, and I wonder if the trippy chick writhing in front of him like a tease is supposed to be my new gig in this hellhole.

“Sorry, darlin’. Gotta do a quick search. We had a young girl come through our camp about a month ago, blew up all our shit and two of our men. Clean and healthy females are a red flag in these parts.”

“She doesn’t need a fuckin’ history lesson.”

“She could use a fuckin’ hello before I do this shit,” Rigs snaps over his shoulder, clearly irritated, before turning his attention back on me. “Arms out.”

The room falls quiet, save for Trippy, who moans in the corner, mumbling about spirits of the dead.

With a frown, I let Rigs pat me down and, at the pry of my lips, open my mouth. He tugs a flashlight from his side and peers down my throat. Examines my nose. “What does my nose and mouth have to do with anything?”

“The bomb she carried wasn’t strapped on the outside, babe.”

“Where was it?”

He shoves his hands down into my pants, and I have to grab his elbow to keep from tumbling backward.

“What the hell!” I squeal, as he prods his fingers up inside of me, my nails digging into his flesh. I want to punch the bastard, but my body is locked in a state of shock.

In seconds, he removes them and shakes his head. “Clean. And tighter than a mosquito’s ass stretched over a rain barrel.” With horror, I watch him shove his fingers into his mouth before wiping them across his jeans. “Sweet, too.”

I slam my fists into Rigs’s chest, knocking him back a step. “You ever touch me like that again and—” Movement at the corner of my eye steals my attention, stifling my thoughts.

Rhys finally pushes up to a stand, towering over six feet tall. His hair is shaved at either side of his head, undercut across the back and longer on top, pulled back from his face, like a Viking I saw in history books at the library. Broad shoulders taper down to a narrow waist, and the skin peeking out beneath his vest is marred by scars and ink. Some kind of tribal-looking symbols decorate his biceps, similar to those drawn by the desert natives who tattoo their warriors using sharp bones and charcoal.

It’s no mystery who the alpha of this pack is—I’m looking at him.

He strides toward me, and as he gets closer, I notice a scar at his eye that extends down along his cheekbone, as if something tried to gouge his eyeball right out of the socket and failed. His eyes are intense, searing me from where he stands just a few feet away, but they hold some familiarity in spite of that scar. As angry as he looks, there’s warmth buried in that blue. I’ve only seen one other with the same shade, whose irises damn near glowed in the surrounding darkness.

Six?

“Where’d you find her?” The sound that rumbles from behind his mask is deeper than Rigs’s voice, but without the smoker’s rasp. It has a hearty, rich tone that vibrates my chest, and my muscles sag with disappointment.