Chapter 4: Stacked and Stolen
The door clicked shut behind Havoc, plunging the room into a silence that felt heavy and unnatural after the bar's constant low roar. Clara stood frozen for a moment, her back pressed against the cold wood, listening to his retreating footsteps. The room was exactly as he’d said: a couch with cracked leather, a threadbare blanket, a single bare bulb overhead. It smelled of stale beer and dust, with the faint, sweet tang of spilled liquor seeping from the floorboards.
She let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, her shoulders slumping. This was her cell. Temporary, they said. The word felt like a lie.
Her stomach growled, a sharp reminder of the skipped dinner, the normalcy of a life that already felt days away. She needed to use the bathroom. The thought of going back out there, of navigating the gauntlet of stares and Chaos’s predatory grin, made her feel faint. But the alternative was worse.
Taking a steadying breath, she cracked the door open. The bar seemed quieter now, more settled. A few men played cards in the corner, their conversation a low murmur. She didn’t see Reaper. She didn’t see Chaos. Havoc was leaning against the bar, talking to a grizzled older man, his back to her. Perfect.
She slipped out, moving quickly along the wall towards a dim hallway she guessed led to the restrooms. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Almost there. The door marked with a crude skull and crossbones was, she hoped, the women’s. She pushed it open.
It was a single stall, grimier than she’d imagined possible. She did what she needed to, trying not to touch anything, the frantic need to get back to the relative safety of the back room overriding everything else.
When she emerged, he was there.
Chaos leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, as if he’d been waiting his whole life for this exact moment. He pushed off the wall, that same unnerving smile playing on his lips. “Get turned around, library girl? It’s a maze back here.”
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice tight. She tried to step around him.
He moved with her, blocking her path. “Nah, you’re not. You look lost as a little lamb. Come on, I’ll show you a shortcut.” He gestured down the darker end of the hallway, away from the main bar.
“I know the way,” Clara insisted, trying to keep the tremor from her voice.
His hand shot out, not to grab her, but to land on the wall beside her head, caging her in. “But my way’s more fun.” Before she could protest, his other hand found the small of her back and he was propelling her forward, away from the sounds of the bar, deeper into the clubhouse’s belly.
“Stop it. Let me go.”
He ignored her, his grip firm. He stopped at a heavy door, shouldered it open, and nudged her inside. The door swung shut with a solid, final thud. The click of the lock was deafening.
It was a storage room, larger than the back room, lined with metal shelves crammed with bottles of liquor, boxes of napkins, and industrial-sized cans of food. The air was thick with the sweet, sharp scent of whiskey and disinfectant.
“See? Shortcut,” Chaos said, his voice a low purr in the confined space.
“This isn’t the back room.” Panic, cold and sharp, began to lace its way through her veins.
“Details.” He took a step forward. She took a step back, her calves bumping against a stack of wooden crates filled with whiskey bottles. She was trapped.
“Havoc will be looking for me,” she said, a desperate bluff.
A dark laugh escaped him. “Will he now? I saw him head out back for a smoke. He’s got his own problems.” He closed the final distance, not touching her yet, but his presence was overwhelming. The whiskey on his breath. The heat coming off his body. The intense, focused light in his eyes. “Besides, I think you’re lying. I don’t think you tell him much of anything.”
He reached out, his calloused fingers tracing the line of her collarbone above the neck of her sweater. She slapped his hand away, a burst of defiant energy.
The playfulness vanished from his face. It was like a switch flipping. His eyes narrowed, and his hand shot out, grabbing her wrist and pinning it against the crate beside her head. His other hand clamped on her other wrist, effectively shackling her against the rough wood.
“You’ve got some fire in you after all,” he murmured, his face inches from hers. “I like it.”
She struggled, but he was immovable, his body now pressed against hers, holding her in place. The crates dug into her back. Fear was a live wire in her chest, sizzling and raw.
He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. His voice dropped to a whisper, all trace of the reckless boy gone, replaced by something darker, more deliberate. “Now that we’re alone,” he breathed, the words a hot promise against her skin, “let’s see if librarian girls taste as sweet as they look.”
Then, he was gone from her space. Before her reeling mind could process it, he dropped to his knees in front of her. The sudden shift was so disorienting she froze. He looked up at her, his gaze holding hers as his hands slid from her wrists, down her arms, over her hips, and finally to the inner seams of her jeans. His thumbs pressed against the denim, right where her thighs trembled.
He didn’t move. He just stayed there, on his knees, his hands a brand on her legs, his eyes locked on hers, challenging her, waiting for her to break. The only sound was her own ragged, terrified breathing and the distant, mocking wail of the wind outside.