Page 10 of Sold to the Biker
“You should go,” she says quietly. “Your men need you.”
My chest tightens at the barely concealed worry and fear in her eyes. For the first time in my life, I consider stepping back from a fight.
Grabbing my pants from the floor, I pull them on quickly, grab a compact handgun from beneath the coffee table, and check to see if it's loaded before pushing it into my pocket.
I turn to face Leah, taking her hands in mine and bringing them to my lips. “I'll be back soon.”
She nods in response, and I give her hands a gentle squeeze before letting go.
Chapter Seven
Leah
I watch Don leave, my heart hammering loudly in my chest. It's taking everything in me not to cling to him and beg him not to go.
What if he gets hurt?
What if he doesn't come back?
I should have told him I love him. I was going to say the words just before that call came in. I should have said it regardless. He'll be back soon. He promised. I'll tell him then. I'll say the words every day for the rest of my life.
The house feels oddly quiet now, too quiet. I decide to look around since I haven’t really seen much of the place yet. I start in the living area, then walk down the hallway to what I presume to be his study. I push the door open, slowly stepping in. It’s a little messier than I expected—papers strewn across the desk, shelves packed with books. The whole space feels… lived in. I smile to myself and step further inside. Every corner of this place feels like him—his presence, his scent. I let my fingers trail over the smooth surface of the large wooden table, imagining what helooks like seated behind a desk and ruffling through sheets. It's a strange image but not entirely unwelcome.
Something on the wall catches my eyes; a board—pictures pinned up, scribbles everywhere. I move closer, drawn in by the collage of images. My gaze falls on a photo of Don and Natalie with another man. Natalie looked so different there, so happy. It's like I'm looking at an entirely different person. I raise my hand to Don's face, slowly trailing my fingers over the hard angles of his face. Even in a picture, he radiates a dominance that sends exciting thrills coursing through me. I pause at the necklace around Don's neck in the photo, blinking in confusion.
"That's strange…" I mutter to myself, glancing down at the half-moon pendant resting against my chest.It’s the same one.How is that even possible? I lift my hand to touch the pendant, the cool leather against my skin feeling suddenly foreign. There has to be some explanation, but before I can process that, something else draws my attention.
Another photo—this one of my parents.
My breath catches in my throat. And there, next to it, a photo of Harry.
I step closer, my eyes scanning the scribbles beneath the images, trying to piece together the fragments of notes. The words blur for a second as my mind races, but slowly, the puzzle comes together. My hands start to shake as I read the notes suggesting Harry’s involvement in my parents’ deaths… and the other man in the picture who was apparently named Marcus.
My head starts to swim, my insides twisting painfully. What's all of this? Did Harry really kill my dad and mom? Why? I have questions, ones that need urgent answers.
Without thinking twice, I run out of the study to my room, pull on the first pants I find, grab a coat, and hurry outside the house. I order a taxi and thankfully it doesn't take long to arrive. The ride to Harry's estate seems to take forever and I can almost hear my heart hammering in my chest the entire way. By the time the taxi pulls up in front of the painfully familiar mansion, I'm a nervous wreck.
Maybe I should have waited for Don.
It's too late to turn back now, I think to myself as I see my uncle exiting the building with his loyal friend, Kane, The Hound. I hesitate for a second, taking a deep breath before getting out of the taxi. No matter how scared I am of Harry, I refuse to cower this time. All these years, I let him treat me like I didn't exist because I thought he had the right to. But not anymore. He sold whatever right he had over me at that auction.
Clenching my fists at my sides, I storm toward them, keeping my eye fixed on his soulless dark eyes. His gaze is unwavering as he waits for me, a mirthless smirk tugging at his lips.
“Well, well…” he drawls slowly when I stop directly in front of him. “Who do we have here? You look better than I expected, one would think Don would be great at keeping you locked up and useful.”
“Were you involved with my parents’ death, Harry?” I ask quietly, searching his face, hoping he'll deny it. As much as I hate him, I guess I still had a little hope that there was somehumanity left in him but the fleeting hope falters and his usually stoic expression is all the confirmation I need. My heart drops to my stomach as the realization of the truth dawns on me. “You murdered them, didn't you?”
“What nonsense are you talking about?” Harry scoffs, jamming his hands into his pants pocket.
"Why?" I ask with a silent sob. My heart feels like it's being pierced by a thousand knives and it's a miracle I'm still standing straight. "What did Mom and Dad ever do to you?"
He sighs, as if tired of acting oblivious. "Your mom? Nothing," he says with a flat shrug, then scoffs. "She was a pretty little doll, just like you, just unfortunate to have married my brother. Your dad on the other hand… he was standing in the way of my ambitions. The only way I could achieve my dreams was if he died, so I just did what I had to. You can't blame me for that, can you?"
I stagger a bit as my legs threaten to give beneath me. “W-what?”
"Oh, don't look at me like I did such a terrible thing, Leah. I spared your life. That should count for something, at least."
"Did you say you spared my life?" I scoff loudly at the ridiculousness of his words. "You had me locked up in this damn house for thirteen whole years. You had me homeschooled and didn't allow me to make friends. I barely know anything about the world because I’ve been your damn prisoner!" I close my eyes, taking a deep breath to calm the anger bubbling in my veins.