The Devil's Ride

It Gets Real

Rachel's POV

Scar’s whole demeanor shifted the moment we exited the laundry room. The air around him changed, tightening as we moved through the hall and into the kitchen. By the time we reached it, the space between us had gone dangerously quiet.

I leaned against the kitchen island and watched him without speaking. He opened the fridge, pulled out two ice cold beers, and handed one to me. I took it, my fingers brushing the glass, and noticed the tension in his shoulders as he turned slightly away from me. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a prescription bottle, and tried to hide it as he popped a couple of pills into his mouth. He tipped his head back and washed them down with his beer.

“What were those that you just took?” I asked.

He shot me a glare sharp enough to cut, then brushed past me, his shoulder knocking into mine with more force than necessary. The contact felt intentional, like a warning. He kept walking, already expecting me to follow.

“Mind your damn business, Spitfire,” he said. “And follow me so I can show you to your room.”

He did not look back at me again. I hesitated only for a second before pushing off the island and trailing after him. I lifted the bottle to my lips and chugged the rest of the beer quickly, following behind him like I had nowhere else to go.

“This is the living room,” he said when we arrived at the beautiful and cozy large space.

He suddenly gripped the back of the couch, his fingers tightening as his eyes squeezed shut. A sharp curse slipped from him under his breath.

“Urggggh… motherfucker…”

I immediately set the empty beer bottle on the table and stepped toward him, cautious as I reached out toward his head. Before I could touch him, he snapped, louder this time, making sure I heard every word.

“Don’t f*****g touch me.”

I hesitated for half a second, then placed my hand on his back anyway and rubbed slow, gentle circles. The reaction was immediate. His body went rigid in surprise. He inhaled sharply, then forced himself to straighten. Without looking at me, he started walking again, leaving me standing there, stunned and confused.

“Get me another beer,” he said.

“You could at least say please,” I replied, with irritation building inside me.

I took the empty bottle from his hand, grabbed mine off the table, tossed them both out, and pulled two more cold beers from the fridge. I followed him down the hall as he pointed out the bathroom and the guest rooms along the way. When we stopped, he leaned against a door frame and tilted the bottle back, pouring the beer into his mouth as he watched me.

I watched his Adam’s apple bob slowly as he swallowed, and the sight made my throat dry and my body betray me. I hated him. I could not stand him. So why did my body respond like this?

“This is your room, Spitfire,” he said. “You’ll have your own space until we’re married.”

I choked on the sip of beer I had just taken, liquid spilling from my mouth and soaking into my shirt, making my n****e visible through the fabric.

“You’ve got to be kidding me about this marriage thing,” I said. “That’s not happening, Scar. Possessive much?”

Even through the pain, he moved fast. He grabbed my wrist and yanked me into him, my forehead hitting his chest. His scent wrapped around me, heavy and intoxicating, making my head feel light as I looked up at him, anger flashing in my eyes.

“Me? Possessive?” he said. “Yes, I am. You’re right. You’re mine now, Rachel. Say it.”

His hand slid down between my thighs, cupping my p***y like he owned me. I pounded my fist against his solid chest as he held me tighter, his eyes locked on mine, daring me to look away.

“Say it, Rachel,” he said. “Tell me you’re mine.”

His palm moved against me, slow and deliberate, drawing a reaction from my body that I did not want to give him. Heat spread, soaking into my panties as he continued, pushing me closer to the edge. My legs trembled. I stopped hitting his chest and rested my forehead against it, hating myself for how good it felt.

He lowered his head, his lips brushing my ear before his teeth closed gently on my lobe.

“Stop being a f*****g brat,” he whispered, “and tell me you’re mine.”

His breath sent a shiver down my spine that shook my entire body. There was no point pretending anymore. I reached down and grabbed his c**k through his pants, a rush of adrenaline flooding me at the thought of him inside me.

“I’m yours, Scar,” I said.

“I know you are, Spitfire,” he replied. “Now get some sleep. We have a lot to go over tomorrow. My room is right across the hall if you need anything, and Ace’s is beside mine.”

He stepped away and moved toward his room, leaving me frozen in the doorway.

Ace lives here too?

Right on cue, Ace walked past my door wearing nothing but a towel.

“Yes, I do,” he said with a grin. “Told you earlier it wouldn’t be the last time I saw your tits.”

Fear hit me all at once, sharp and overwhelming. I knew my expression changed because Scar’s tone shifted immediately.

“Go get some sleep, Rachel,” he said. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

He walked away. I closed and locked the door before sliding down to the floor, my back against it as I sobbed quietly. After a moment, I forced myself to stop. I wiped my face, picked up the beer, and drained what was left before pushing myself to my feet.

None of this felt real. I had nothing to do with my mother killing Paul, yet I was the one being punished for it. There was no way I could stay in this house. No way I could be forced to marry him.

I had to get out.