I am Dressed in Sin (Death by Daybreak MC, #2)

by C.M. Stunich

“In nature, there are neither rewards nor punishments—there are consequences.”

I’ve changed a lot since then. And the guys? Well, you know what they say? Can’t teach old dogs new tricks. That’s what they are to me: mutts.

“Before you take that test,” Beast begins, and I shudder at the sound of his voice. It reminds me of how he felt when he was inside of me, and I hate that. I don’t want to remember it because then I’ll want to repeat it. “Know that I’m on your side. Period.”

“Gidget, honey, you run from those men, and you don’t look back; they’re like a slow poison.” I know she’s right. I do. And yet somehow, someway, I crave more.

That’s when I learn a very powerful lesson: to survive, you can pretend, you can lie, and you can swallow back the blood until you find an opportunity for attack. So that’s what I do.

Then I wake up and realize that I’m not just reliving a memory; I’m having a nightmare inside a nightmare. No matter where I retreat to—inside my head, my heart, or out into the world—the result is the same. I’m in big fucking trouble.

“Don’t touch me.” The words don’t sound like me, more like a poor imitation of the person I used to be. I’m tough as nails, right? I can handle anything, right?

I was never meant to be caged. That’s why I ran.

Guess I was born ruined, but now I’m dressed in sin. It’s an outfit I wear like a designer dress, as proud of it as a red-carpet gown, something to show off. It’s in my blood, that awful, awful blood that I share with Cat.

I’d rather bleed and suffer for dignity’s sake.

His reply? A cemetery. Euphemistic or not, I got the point: we’re not getting out that way.

The food here is bomb, I’ll at least admit to that. We eat like kings. Like kings, because of course, we’re nothing but prisoners here.

I think about my sisters constantly, and when I’m not thinking about them, I’m thinking of the four horse-fucks of the apocalypse.

After a minute, Grey reaches down and takes my hand, curling his fingers through mine. I squeeze his right back.

I might be eighteen today, but I’ve been an adult for a long, long time. Since my sisters died. Since before that. I wasn’t allowed a real childhood, not with Nellie and Cat for parents.

I know for a fact that we’re firmly entrenched in the middle of a very complicated chess game.

Because that’s how you survive against all the odds: you pretend, and you lie, and you swallow back the blood and bile until you get a chance to make your move.

I didn’t want them to cage me. I’ve just traded a chrome cage for a gilded one.

I’d have rather married one of my father’s dickhead officers. I hate how much that sentiment appeals to me.

In order to control my temper, I’ve sent a good portion of my psyche into the clouds. I’m experiencing a level of depersonalization disorder that’s never happened to me before, like my body isn’t really mine, like I’m not really here at all. I’m just an observer, watching it all from on high. Or down below, drenched in hellfire. That seems more appropriate.

Fuck you, you stupid bitch. I’m going to rip you apart, first chance I get. If I have to marry your son and play mafia wife just to get a chance to kill you, then you best bet your fake tits, that’s what I’m going to do.

“Let’s make a pact, okay? No matter what happens, you have my back, and I have yours.” He smiles at me and leans in, pressing a light kiss to my lips, like a promise for tomorrow. “Deal,” he says, and then, when I try to turn over, he moves his hand to my face and holds me there. Even though it’s pitch-black, I can see the reflection of the moon in his pale irises. “For all my faults, I never lie. I will have your back, Gidge, no matter what.”

I dress myself in the lingerie that Giulia selected—which, if you think about it, is weird as fuck—and then allow the girls to put me into the jewel-encrusted poof that serves as a wedding dress.

I realize that it wasn’t that I hated the life … I just hated being a second-class citizen within it.

I slept with them because I was an old soul trapped in the body of a bird with clipped wings.

I’m a heathen, a hedonistic lush, a dirty biker girl with questionable morals and blood under her fingernails.

“I missed you so much,” Grainger grates out through gritted teeth as I dig my fingers into his rust-red hair and yank on one of his lip rings with my teeth. “I hate you so much.”

“After Grainger brought you to the compound, you bummed a smoke from Sin, and that’s the last thing I can recall. Only the five of us know you traded us for that boy.”

Just remember, Gidge, you are still a bear. You are still solo, even if it looks like you have allies.

Sin looks devastated; Grainger is furious. Crown is … I don’t even have words to describe that man right now.

I always found that a bit weird, that Cat had a mother at all. Like, wasn’t he just birthed into existence in hellfire and brimstone? The idea that he came out of a woman’s body is disturbing.

“What are you cooking?” I ask, because I’m not going to lie: I have intimacy issues. Enough emotional problems to choke an elephant. Do you blame me? But … I’m trying here.

I could capture that voice in a jar and keep it for myself, like a firefly.

“Did you wrong more than once,” Beast admits, shaking his head. “I won’t make that mistake again.” He gives me a long, hard look. “This is the last time I’mma say this: three people. Nobody else. After our wedding, I can’t promise I’ll be inclined to share.”

To the uninitiated, to the ignorant, to the inexperienced, anger and passion look quite similar from afar. To someone who’s seen their fair share of both, I know what it is that I’m looking at. Unbridled passion.

“That’s right, Gidge. Pray for me. I’mma need it.”

reject the idea of a cage, I remind myself. Claim your armor, Gidget.

Beast ignores him, continuing to eat his food like the polite Southern gentleman that he is. I mean, a polite Southern gentleman that kills people, but eh, we’ve all got flaws.

“I lied for you, yes. That doesn’t mean I’m going to let you run right over me. If you want to play games with grown men, then we’ll play. Get on your knees. This is the last time I’m going to ask.”

“You’ll be a good girl for me,” he says, his voice strong and firm. Confident. He fully and utterly expects me to follow his rules.

I don’t want to rule the mafia; it’s the club that I want. I’m a barbarian, through and through. Tainted. Dressed. Reveling in ruin, in sin, wanting for glory.

Avoidance is a key symptom of PTSD. I will not give into it; I cannot. Reba needs me.

And despite the sheer bizarreness of it, the unbelievability, it feels so damn right. More right than anything I’ve experienced in my life thus far.

“Dying is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I’ve a call,”

permission from a place of submission is often just coercion at its finest.

Started trying to actually parent me. Well, sort of. I mean, if your idea of parenting is shooting your daughter’s dog and pretending to kill her.

I’m pretty sure Beast could poke me in the arm, and it would turn my clit into a rock.

“Tell me what a good wife you’ll be, Gidge, and I’ll give you something nice.”

There’s a little bit of pain, the agony of a first time, but mostly it’s just pleasure. Awful, awful, ugly, pretty pleasure.

I fall asleep watching him, a demon bound and leashed to a devil.