The next morning, I wake up in an empty bed. Sometimes it still startles me when I realize where I am. It's like when you're a kid and you wake up at a friend's house, expecting to be in your own bed.

There's a panicking feeling that comes with it, but it subsides quickly. I try to focus on the positives. Like this morning, I'm thankful that this bed is so fucking comfortable. I'm also thankful for the coffee I can smell down the hall in Chef's kitchen.

Flicking through the closet, I have more outfits to choose from than I've ever had. It's a little overwhelming actually. I pull out a purple cotton maxi dress and gather my hair up into a bun. It's gonna be hot today... like it is everyday.

Strolling into the kitchen, Chef is the first person I speak to. He talks to me like he's unaware of what happened. I don't know if he's pretending, or if he really doesn't know, but either way I'm glad he doesn't bring it up.

Word usually travels fast around the compound. I don't know exactly what happened last night, but I can add two and two together pretty easily. You'd think we were in high school the way that people talk.

Chef asks me if I want an omelette. No. "Pancakes?" No.

"Just coffee for now," I say pleasantly. Turning to leave, I stop suddenly and hot coffee sloshes over the edge of my white mug.

Logo stands at the end of the hallway, looking sullen with a black eye.

"Are you-" I step forward, "are you okay?"

"Fucking hell, I'm sorry about last night," he says, ignoring his own face.

Straightening my spine, I take a sip from my cup. "I'm fine," I say, because I really am fine. Last night was awful. But I had my pity party, now it's time to move on. Men are men. It's not a justification- what he did wasn't okay, but I'm not going to spill any more tears over what he tried to do. After the first few times someone forces themself on you, it becomes easier to cope.

"Did that happen in the fight last night?" I ask, trying to glean more information.

"Nah, fresh from this morning," he sweeps his hand over his eye.

This morning? "What happened this morning?"

Logo shrugs. He's not supposed to say. If you aren't in the know, you don't get to be privy to club business.

Brushing past him, I look for the one person who I know will tell me. With a soft knock, I step into Wulf's office. Brick looks up from his phone and then looks over to the desk.

He barely looks up from his laptop. I cough and step further inside. When we're in our room...our room? His room, my room, the space we share- I don't know. When we're alone together he feels different.

Out here, in the club, in the office- it feels different. He's the President. Hard, cold, stiff. Unfeeling.

One thing I've learned is that you can read his eyes. They're dark and expressive. His face might be carved from stone, but his eyes tell stories. Right now, they're telling me he's pissed.