Knife's Property

O N E

Hello,

!!PLEASE READ!!

This is going to be a dark romance. I tend to write submissive women who love the H even though he's an, ahem, psychopath. The males in my stories tend to be possessive, controlling and have 0 apologies for their behaviour. There will be no character development for the males in terms of learning what they're doing is wrong and turning into a good guy. This is not that type of story.

The main characters know each other since childhood, he staked a claim and then waited until she was old enough to fully make her his kind of thing. 

The book may be triggering to some people, there will be some possibly upsetting submission scenes and violent scenes as well. If you would like to know when these appear or a more detailed trigger warning list, please message me and I will tell you when exactly they are.

I tend to browse my comment sections every now and again so please be nice and do not leak any spoilers, if you do then I will remove your comment. If anyone wants to know the ending, you can message me and I will tell you but I will not have it ruined in the comments. Also, please be respectful and do not be mean to anyone in the comments. I will also remove these comments. We're all just doing our best and wanting to kick back with a dark smutty romance.

The main characters in this book are most definitely in a toxic relationship. This is not a healthy relationship at all so please be aware of that while reading.

Now, I hope you enjoy the newer version of Strawberry.

happy reading my dears :)

My life has never been normal.

Some days I wished it was. Some days I just wanted to join the little clique of girls in the playground and giggle along with them about the cute boy next door who smiled at them or about the ice cream they got with their father, and he embarrassed them by hugging them in front of boys.

I used to want that so much it hurt. I would lie in my bed and curl into a ball and imagine that I was a small girl in a normal house with a white picket fence and freshly cut grass. I would pretend that I wasn't in a house that would sometimes hold questionable men and didn't have motorbikes lining the pavement outside. A house where men looked like the devil and had sin in their thoughts.

I lived in the clubhouse. Members had the option to live in the clubhouse or to live in a normal house. My dad loved the clubhouse, if the place went up in smoke, then he would be there to go down with it. He loved the club even more, sometimes I thought he loved it more than me.

My mother was out of the picture. She was not a nice woman; I don't have many memories of her but the ones I do have are not of her smiling or singing softly. No.

They're of her, face twisted in disgust and anger, pointing her finger at me about something. She's wearing different clothes in each one so I'm assuming they're different memories, but I can't be sure.

Most of my childhood is a blur, it's been blocked out and no matter how hard I try to remember anything to do with my mother, my brain draws a blank and I get a headache.

When we moved from New York to Tennesse, the differences were jarring. Not with the city but with the people. In New York, people were wary of my dad, stepping out of his way and crossing the street. In Tennesse, he was welcomed with open arms. The people here respected the club and knew that they were protected as long as the club was running, and they didn't cause any issues. They weren't as open when they did cause an issue and had to be dealt with though.

I have an older brother who looks up to my dad with nothing but respect. He copies his mannerisms, his reactions to events and even mimics his laugh sometimes. I used to think it was because he respected him so much that he wanted to be more like him.