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Egg green? Stained ivory? Ion blue? Translucent Grey? Crayon yellow? Holy hell, can’t they just have simplistic terms for colours and shades rather than about fifty different shades for each colour? I decide on a magnolia, duck grey, and vase grey (basically light and dark grey, whoever decides the names of these things just has a problem that can’t be solved).
Now to see how good my decorating skills are when I put it all together in Liam’s room.
“You took forever,” Crow tells me as we head back towards the car.
“I was less than half an hour in there! You should be grateful, I could always decide I want to go clothes shopping too,” I declare.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh you know I would but luckily for you, I’m not feeling it today,” I tell him with a smirk. I hate clothes shopping, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Get in the car.” Crows voice is as cold as ice as he opens the door and shoves me in.
“Excuse me bu”- My words are cut off as I realise what or rather who he’s eyeing up. I open the door, my hand on the back of his leather jacket.
Edgar is heading our way with a group of the Devil’s Dealers not far behind him. He’s the President's son, formidable in his appearance with dark, soulless eyes and a very nearly bald head that shows off the scar running across his forehead and the burns covering his head, cheek and upper chest, as well as the countless tattoos plastered along his bare forearms.
I watch on as Crow is facing the gruesome bunch of men that head our way.
My dad had always taught me that although fear can often be useful, it’s letting fear overwhelm you that puts you in danger. Right now, it feels like I’m being overwhelmed by fear.
They haven’t done anything threatening, but I know them. I know they went after Gray, whether there’s any proof or not. I’m certain of it. They are the only rival Club that would have enough gall to go directly after a member, let alone the President's son.
I know what they’re capable of from the stories I’ve heard and unlike the ones I’ve heard about Liam that I have no doubt are mostly false, the stories about these men come from the men within the Cobras that have seen the torture they inflict first-hand.
“What do you want, Edgar?” Crow often acts grumpy or illusive around others but this isn’t him acting. He isn’t just grumpy, he’s uptight, angry, and ready to attack. You can see it in the stance he’s holding, legs wide, hands clenched.
“Princess not coming out to say hello?” Edgar asks with a laugh as those with him follow along and laugh at his seriously unfunny joke.
Crow takes a few steps away from me, closer to them.
I hate Crow being so close to them alone. I know he can handle himself but there are six of them and only one of him. Despite how well trained he may be, those aren’t great odds.
“I just wanted to come and say hello to the princess. The last time I saw her in person, she was a small wee thing. She’s practically prime for fucking now. I can imagine now just how sweet she’d be to break.” His words come out with a smile so hollow it’s hard to imagine any woman willingly going near him.
His words make me cringe in disgust, knowing all of the awful things he’s done to women in his time. So many of the women he’s hurt are now protected by the Dark Cobras.
Crow inches closer to Edgar, his face taking on a look of pure fury.
“You even think about her again, and I will crush you and every one of these pussy ass sheep that follow you. Do you understand me?” His words are low, quiet yet no less threatening.
Edgar looks from me to Crow, looking him up and down before returning his eyes to me.
“I’m only playing with you. No one wants a marked girl. Not worth the hassle,” he says with a dry laugh.
“What the fuck do you mean marked?” Crow growls at him.
“You haven’t heard? She’s for sale. Marked. Bet dear Daddy is the one that’s got her up there. Always did think he was a bit dark for the Cobras with his taste for pain. Do say hello to the dear ol’ Pres for me, won’t you, princess?” He speaks without taking his eyes off me. I feel disgusting. My mind goes blank when I register what he’s said. Marked? Questions are racing around my mind as Edgar walks off with his trail of men eagerly following behind him.
Crow gets in the car and starts driving without saying a word.
“What did he mean, Crow? How am I marked? For sale. I can't be, can I?” I ask him.
I know what it means and so does Crow. So many of the other MC clubs not only in the country but around the world sell, trade, and deal with human trafficking – women, men, children. To be marked means that you have a price on your head, that you’ve been marked and put on the black market for sale.
“I don’t know.” His words are short, abrupt, the edge to his voice like steel.
“What do you mean you don’t know? You must know something, Crow! What was he talking about? He must be wrong.” Even if it is about me, I know Dad won’t tell me anything. Someone must know.
