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Brenna blinked and shook out the cobwebs. “You’re right. Yes, of course, you’re right.” She reached out and squeezed Liv’s hand. “Thank you. I trust you guys. Let’s go.”
Please don’t let me make a devastating mistake.
“Good.” Brooke gave her a smile that was probably supposed to ease her mind, but concern still shone from her gaze, negating any comforting effects.
Knowing this was the right choice didn’t eliminate the fear that she was a fluffy rabbit walking into a hungry lion’s den. Unease sat in the pit of her stomach like an anvil.
“Let’s go.” Liv grabbed her hand and practically yanked her shoulder from the socket as she tugged her out of the building. How the woman walked so fast on those spiky heels would be a mystery Brenna never solved. She’d be in a wheelchair with two broken ankles if she tried to move half as quickly in half-as-tall shoes.
“Sweetie, slow down!” Brooke called as she jogged to keep up.
For Brenna’s part, she appreciated the women’s take-charge attitude. Until the shock wore off, she didn’t trust herself to make rational decisions.
A loud woof preceded a giant German Shepard charging their way. Brenna’s heart leaped into her throat.
“Ray, sit,” Brooke called.
The dog immediately plopped its fuzzy butt on the ground.
“Whoa,” Brenna muttered. “He listens well.”
“My primary job is as a dog trainer. That’s my baby, Ray. He’s the best boy in the world. Saved my life on more than one occasion. Literally.”
Brenna glanced at Brooke from the corner of her eye. Those were stories Brenna would want to revisit later. She looked at the dog with newfound respect. Someone had told her the women in the club all had pasts that were complicated and fraught with trauma. Maybe once her life got back on track, she could stay in contact with the ladies and learn more about them. They seemed like they’d make good friends, and Brenna would love to be involved with the shelter more permanently.
As she drew closer to the clubhouse, still at a near sprint, a man ran out onto the porch. Brenna recognized him as Jinx, the intimidating giant who’d been present the night Oliver tried to destroy her life.
“Saw you all charging over here out the window. You okay?” he shouted from the porch.
“Brenna got a text from Oliver!” Liv called back.
“Shit. Okay. Get your sexy asses in here, and I’ll round up the boys.” He disappeared into the building before Brenna could register the comment regarding their rear ends.
They ran the last few feet to the clubhouse and up the steps to the porch. As Liv yanked the door open, Brenna came to a dead stop, panting. Brooke slammed into her from behind.
“Shit! Sorry.” She also breathed hard from the run.
Her shoulder protested as Liv tried to continue forward. The other woman stopped and turned, keeping her hold on Brenna’s hand. “What’s wrong?”
What was wrong?
The thought of going in there terrified her. Every movie she’d ever seen with bikers displayed the clubhouse as a den of sin and debauchery, and a place where she’d have to be hypervigilant and prepared to fight off aggressive advances when her “no” wouldn’t hold any weight, and she’d have no voice. Hell, it’s what Oliver thought. It’s why he’d gifted her to the club.
“I, um…”
Brooke slung an arm around her shoulders. “You’re safe, Brenna. We promise.”
“Promise,” Liv reiterated with force.
How come she wasn’t short-winded like the rest of them?
“Okay,” Brenna whispered, then allowed herself to be guided into the clubhouse. She blinked as she stepped inside and gave her eyes time to adjust to the dimmer lighting. The place looked nothing like the filthy, alcohol-soaked party house she’d imagined. It was gorgeous, even to her critical decorator’s eye.
A striking bar lined the left wall, made of high-quality wood that matched multiple round tables. Biker memorabilia hung on nearly every inch of wall space, but someone with a tacky taste hadn’t decorated the room. It had been designed by someone with the true love and knowledge of the Handlers’ men at heart. Whoever had decorated it wanted this building to be a home for the club, not merely a meeting place or party house. She ran her hand over a round table crafted from solid mahogany. The wood floor lacked sticky residue, and the staircase leading to a second level had a custom iron handrail that had to cost a pretty penny—a true masterpiece.
The heavy tread of footsteps had her whirling around and into a crushing embrace. Two strong arms closed around her, gathering her against a firm chest. Surprise at the embrace faded in seconds, leaving behind the delicious feeling of being held by a man. By Lock. Already, she’d know the spicy scent of his cologne anywhere. Half his house smelled that way.
“You holding up okay?” Lock whispered in her ear, sending a zing down her spine. His lips brushed the shell of her ear as he spoke, and she had to fight the urge to shiver visibly. How long had it been since a man took one look at her and sensed she needed physical contact? Oliver thought of himself too much to notice her needs. And even if he found her upset, he wasn’t the type to draw her against him and use his body to comfort her. She’d almost forgotten how much she loved it. Physical touch had always been her strongest love language, and she’d suppressed that side of herself for too long to appease Oliver.
