CHAPTER 3: GOLDEN CAGE

POV ESMERAY

The sound of the heavy oak door locking from the outside echoed in the room like a gunshot. I stood frozen against the wall, my breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. The silence that followed was even worse than the roar of the motorcycle; it was heavy, suffocating, and filled with the presence of the man standing just a few feet away from me.

Ruan didn't look at me. He moved with a terrifyingly calm efficiency, tossing his leather vest onto a chair and beginning to unwrap the black tape from his knuckles. His hands were large, scarred, and steady—the hands of a man who dealt in violence as easily as I dealt in bandages and IV drips.

—The bathroom is through that door— he said, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly rasp that seemed to vibrate in the small space. —There are towels and a shirt you can wear. Use them. You smell like the hospital and the street, and I don't want either in my bed.

—I’m not getting into your bed, Ruan— I snapped, the fear finally giving way to a spark of indignant rage. —I don’t care if you lock me in here for a hundred years. I am not a 'thing' you can just collect and put on your furniture.

Ruan stopped mid-motion. He turned his head slowly, his steel-blue eyes pinning me to the spot. There was no anger in them, just a cold, hard amusement that made my skin crawl. He walked toward me, his boots thudding softly on the wooden floor. I wanted to shrink away, to disappear into the drywall, but I forced myself to hold his gaze. I was Esmeray Fenlon; I had dealt with aggressive patients and high-stress ER rooms. I wouldn't let a criminal see me crumble.

He stopped inches away, his heat radiating off him like a furnace. He reached out, not to grab me, but to place his hand on the wall right next to my head.

—You have a lot of fire for someone whose life depends on my whim— he whispered, leaning in until I could see the dark ring around his pupils. —But let's get one thing straight, little nurse. This isn't a negotiation. This is survival. You saw my face. You saw my blade. In my world, that makes you a ghost. The only reason you’re still breathing is because I decided your heart should keep beating. So, when I tell you to wash the filth off, you do it. Not because you’re mine, but because I’m the only thing standing between you and a shallow grave.

He didn't wait for a response. He turned his back on me and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling off his heavy boots.

I stood there for a long minute, my heart hammering against my ribs. My options were non-existent. The window was barred, the door was locked, and the man who held the key was a killer. With a trembling sigh, I retreated into the small bathroom.

It was surprisingly clean, though it smelled of his cologne—musk, cedar, and something sharp. I stripped off my scrubs, my hands shaking so much I fumbled with the buttons. I looked at myself in the cracked mirror. My face was pale, my green eyes wide with a mixture of terror and a strange, flickering adrenaline I didn't want to acknowledge.

I stepped into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the grime of the shift and the metallic tang of the alleyway. I stayed there until the steam filled the room, trying to wrap my mind around the fact that my life as I knew it was over. I was a prisoner of the Steel Phantoms. I was the "property" of Ruan Montague.

When I stepped out, I found a clean, oversized black T-shirt on the counter. It bore the emblem of the club—a silver skull intertwined with thorns. Shuddering, I pulled it on. It reached mid-thigh, smelling faintly of detergent and Ruan’s scent. It felt like a brand on my skin.

I walked back into the bedroom, my damp hair clinging to my shoulders. Ruan was lying on top of the covers, his chest bare. The tattoos across his skin were a map of a life I couldn't understand—dark, intricate, and violent. He had a book in his hand, but he closed it the moment I entered.

—Sit— he ordered, nodding toward the other side of the massive bed.

—I'll sleep on the floor— I replied, my voice cracking.

Ruan’s eyes darkened. He moved so fast I didn't have time to blink. In a heartbeat, he was off the bed and standing in front of me, his hand wrapping firmly but carefully around my arm. He led me to the bed and pushed me down onto the mattress. It was softer than I expected.

—I don't have the patience for your martyr act, Esmeray— he growled, climbing in beside me but staying on his side. —The floor is cold, and I don't need you catching pneumonia. My bed is large enough that we don't have to touch, unless I want us to.

He reached over and turned off the lamp, plunging the room into a darkness broken only by the moonlight filtering through the steel bars. I lay there, stiff as a board, staring at the ceiling. I could hear his steady breathing, a rhythmic sound that should have been soothing but was instead a reminder of my captivity.

—Ruan?— I whispered into the dark after a long silence.

—What?— his voice was a low rumble.

—Why me? You could have killed me. It would have been easier.

There was a long pause. I thought he wouldn't answer, but then I felt the mattress shift as he turned toward me. Even in the dark, I could feel the intensity of his stare.

—Maybe I’m tired of things being easy— he said, his voice softer now, almost dangerously intimate. —Or maybe I just wanted to see how long it takes for a girl like you to realize that the monsters aren't always the ones holding the knife.

—What does that mean?— I asked, my heart skipping a beat.

—It means go to sleep, Esmeray. Tomorrow, the real nightmare begins.

I turned away from him, curling into a ball at the very edge of the bed. I expected to stay awake all night, but the combination of the day's trauma and the strange, magnetic pull of the man lying inches away eventually pulled me into a heavy, restless slumber.

My last thought before drifting off was that Ruan Montague hadn't just taken my freedom. He was starting to take my breath away, and I didn't know which was more dangerous.