“Doesn’t matter if I do or not. I’ll wear it because I want you happy,” I say truthfully. A happy Gunter is a safe Gunter.

“I’m going to be hard all fucking night, now.” He grabs the crotch of his jeans, adjusting himself roughly.

Your problem, not mine. I wait for Gunter to unlock the car, and slide in to the passenger seat while he gets in behind the wheel.

His large hand envelops my knee, and he gives the flesh a firm squeeze before starting the car. “I know you don’t like the brotherhood or what it represents, Ryan, but you need to remember one important thing.”

I swallow thickly, stealing a look at him from the corner of my eye. “Which is?”

Gunter’s dark eyes light up as he spreads his lips into a cruel smile. “You belong to me, woman, so you do as I fucking tell you to.”

***

My nose feels like ice by the time we pull up the driveway of Gunter’s house, cold from being pressed against the glass the whole way here. Anything to avoid talking to him.

He cuts the engine, severing the last bridge we had between complete and utter silence and us.  “I know I can be an asshole sometimes, Ryan, but I only do it because I love you.”

“I know.”

“I’d do everything to keep you.”

“I know,” I repeat a little quieter.

“I’d take you to the grave with me before I let anyone else have you.”

“You’re making me feel uncomfortable,” I tell him, watching my breath make clouds on the glass.

“I was trying to.” The car jolts with the slam of his door.

I suck a sharp breath in as Tommy and Bronson descend the front steps to meet Gunter, standing beside what must be Bronson’s sports bike. They chat briefly, all hand gestures and sharp nods between the three of them. He’s beautiful to watch, Bronson. Just the way he moves. That body is so sculpted, so perfect in every way as all his muscles work in harmony. It’s music in motion, a song I could bear having on endless repeat.

What I’d give to make him my boyfriend, and not the man staring at me through the glass.

“You getting out, or what?” Gunter asks from the other side of my window.

I nod, reaching for the handle as he backs away to let me open the door. All eyes remain on me as I stand, pulling my bag out behind me. “I’m tired. I think I’ll head straight to the shower.”

“Wait up, remember?” Gunter instructs, watching me like a hawk as I make my way indoors.

Taking a final look at the three of them, I close the door behind me and sink to the floor in the dark. I wallow in a crumpled mess, feeling defeated at the starting line as I stare out at the slip of light spilling from the kitchen. What the fuck was I thinking when I started sleeping with Gunter? I’m no idiot; I knew he was the jealous type. Possessive shouldn’t then come as a surprise.

The rumble of his Dodge disturbs the quiet of the house as the car rolls out of the driveway. I drag my languid body to stand, dumping my tote behind the sofa before I make my way down the hallway to our bedroom. Throwing my hand around the doorframe as I pass, I flick the bathroom light on, spilling yellow hues across the carpet and lighting the remainder of my path.

Everything hurts: my legs, my chest, and my fucking heart. I’m tired of this game, frustrated at the lack of progress. The moment Eddie gave away that he knew about my past, I latched on to that with frantic fingers, hoping he’d uncover the truth. But as time passed and Hank left us alone and unguided, I slowly uncovered the truth about Eddie—that he’d never do a single thing to benefit somebody other than himself without there being a kickback in the long run.

I don’t offer any returns, and therefore he’s never going to help me.

I deluded myself with the idea that I could find a way to extort the information from him, blackmail him. But years have passed and the road to travel just keeps growing and fucking growing. The end is so far away that success seems impossible. But it’s all I have left to hold on to; the alternative is certain death for my soul. I can’t bring myself to admit that my crazy plan might have been just that—crazy. I can’t bring myself to admit that I’ve already failed, and that every day from here on out is some sort of living hell. I’ve buried myself too deep.

I don’t bother turning the light on in our room, choosing to flop on my back on the bed in the dark and stare up at the pale shadows cast over the ceiling. What happened to the iron will I had, pushing me towards my goal? Where did that stubborn drive go? What took it away?

A six-foot skinhead did.

Without anybody to love, to care for, or desire, life with Gunter was so much more straightforward. I was a girl with a mission, an objective, and nothing would distract me from that. But meeting Bronson changed everything because for once in my cold, shut-off adulthood, I felt something. And now I don’t know if what I’ve been doing—lying amongst the snakes—has been worth it. I feel like a stupid girl playing pretend, a stupid girl who’s bound to get hurt.

What if Eddie never tells me why Harris killed my parents? What if I never find out what it was they did that led a friendly assassin to their door? What then? What reason do I have to get up in the morning? I’ve made this stupid mission my life, to the point where I don’t have a life.

Outside of Gunter, anyway.

Is the risk worth the reward anymore? Maybe I should just go; jump out that fucking window tonight and beg Bronson to take me away from this. Perhaps it’s time to cut my losses, admit I failed, that I never had a chance at winning, and start again.

Perhaps it’s time to remember who the real Ryan is.

Dragging my sorry ass from the bed, I head over and smack the light switch on, bathing our room in the stark white light of the central bulb. My feet scuff the carpet, hesitant to carry me across to the wardrobe. I throw the doors open, staring in at the mess of clothes. If I’m going to have a chance at breaking free tonight I need Gunter sated and unsuspicious. I have to do the thing I loathe most and give him that favor.

Shaking, and fighting the quiver of my chin, I reach out and tug my dresses to the side to reveal the damn outfit he wants me to wear. My stomach sinks as I pull the hanger off the rail and bring the ensemble out into the light. My chest is tight, my lungs starving for enough air while I carry the damn outfit to the bed so I can lay it out. The design is impeccable, the tailoring something to behold. I can see as I spread it out why Gunter paid so much for this genuine collector’s item.

Regardless of how beautifully classic the style is, I could never stomach wearing it. Somehow I managed to hide the damn clothing before he realized, stashing it away for two clear months before he asked me why he’d never seen me in it.

Because I feel her evil in me when the fabric touches my skin. Wearing the dress makes me every part the narrow-minded assholes they are, and I’m not one of them. I refuse to be a damn Nazi. I live with two of them, but that’s as far as my involvement in their racist exercises goes.

I run my fingers over the fabric, a chill spreading over my skin as I flatten the gray ensemble made for and worn by Ilse Koch, wife of SS member Karl Koch. I Googled her after Gunter gave me the gift. He was so damn excited about it, telling me the elaborate story of how long he’d been searching for something so ‘special’ for me. All I’d been able to do was stare at what I was reading, vowing never to wear the damn thing.

Ilse Koch was notorious for having the Jews who came in to her husband’s concentration camp skinned, and taking the segments of flesh with intricate tattoos on them in order to create book covers and lampshades from the tanned hide. Although it was never proven to be true, it was instrumental in her trial, which tells me it’s real enough.