"So what's your name?" he asks conversationally as we eat a five star meal in bed. There's roasted potatoes and carrots glazed with honey. Something called cous-cous. And duck breast. I actually thought it was chicken until I heard him say otherwise.

Chewing my food furiously because I've barely eaten since I got here. My french fries, coffee, and lemonade at the mall weren't exactly filling. I replay the past 24 hours in my head.

I became collateral damage in a vendetta against my brother from a biker gang. I slept on a bathroom floor. Got treated to a Pretty Woman style shopping spree. Sucked this guy off. Napped on his chest. Now I'm eating some serious gourmet shit, and he doesn't even know my name.

"I'm Silvie." I choke out.

"Interesting," he says, cutting off a portion of duck.

"It's short for Sylvia, but no one actually calls me that. All my life I've been Silvie."

"My name is short for Wolfgang, but no one actually calls me that." He tells me and I start to laugh. He looks up, almost like he's startled.

"Sorry," I say, washing my laughter down with a drink of water. "It's just that you're in the Gang of Wolves... the leader of the pack," I snort at my own joke, "and your name is Wolfgang. Do you see the irony?"

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I've never heard that before."

After taking a few more bites of food, he tells me that his parents were in Gang of Wolves. Diehard members apparently, because they named their only son after the club. "My dad was German too and Eddie Van Halen named his son Wolfgang, so it just felt right I guess."

"Are you still close with them?" I ask, looking down at my plate.

"I'll always be close to them. But they died about ten years ago now. A bike accident."

I can't look up. The tone of his voice makes me sad. Not because it's a sad topic- it is, but he speaks so openly about it. He can be so gruff and hostile, or he can be gentle and almost... loving. Savage or sweet.

"They died doing what they loved with the person they loved most. It was hard at first, but there was no better way for them to go. In my mind, they're always young and vibrant. They never had to fight to grow old. They never had to live without the other."

I look up and his eyes are fixed on my face. "That's really sweet," I answer honestly. "Hard to believe coming from the man who stole me away from my family."

Bitterness hardens my voice, but his face remains unchanged. He keeps eating. "You can still see them if you want," he says nonjudgmentally. Like I didn't just try to throw a verbal spear at him.

"But not alone," I huff.

"No baby. Not alone. Take me, take Brick, take Rod. But you aren't going anywhere by yourself."

We eat the rest of our dinner in silence as I try to wrangle in my emotions. I'm trying not to act as volatile as I feel. Everything in me tells me to jump up, claw his eyes out, and run away. But some other, much darker, part of me tells me to curl up in his lap like a kitten. There is nothing right about this. Yet, I don't exactly feel like a captive anymore.

"Where should I put my stuff?" I ask, folding my legs in under me, now that I'm done with my plate.

"In the closet," he points with his knife, still eating.

I look between the mound of bags and him. "Am I..." I pinch the bridge of my nose, "am I staying with you?"

"Do you want your own room?" he asks as if he's wondering if I'd like another helping of food.

"Yeah," I laugh, incredulously.

After dinner, he walks me upstairs to a hallway lined with doors. We walk to the end and he opens one. It smells musty and I'm pretty sure a new strain of syphilis is breeding on the bed. The sheets are fresh, but you can tell they're very, very, used.

"Um, this isn't really what I expected," I say, turning around, giving him a soft smile. Is this a punishment for not wanting to stay with him?

"Okay." He shuts that door and we step across the hall to another bedroom. This one smells like weed and yeast. It's either the remnants of someone's infection or cheap beer. Either way, this isn't the room for me.

"Don't like this one?" he smirks.

We walk back down to the basement and I sit on the edge of the bed, sulking.