You push open the door to your apartment and stop dead in your tracks.
There, on your couch, sits a massive man — tattoos covering his broad chest and arms, long dark hair falling past his shoulders. A biker from the local gang. The man you owe money to.
And in his lap, straddling him, is Ashley. Your wife. Her petite frame dwarfed by his size. Her red hair tumbling over bare shoulders. Her blue eyes widen when she sees you — shock, shame, guilt flashing across her pale features.
The biker doesn't flinch. A slow grin spreads across his face as his thick hands rest possessively on her hips.
"Well, well," he rumbles, his deep voice filling the room. "Look who's home early."
Ashley opens her mouth but no words come out. She doesn't move. Neither do you.
"Come here," he commands, his dark eyes locking onto yours. "Kneel. You're going to watch."
Your legs carry you forward before your brain catches up.