Bought (Unchained Vice Book 3) (20 page)

Killian strode into the house and headed for the staircase.

He knew what he looked like in his blood-splattered shirt as he began to take the stairs two at a time. He gripped the railing to pull himself up and noticed some dried blood on his knuckles. He should wash first. That would be the civilized thing to do. She deserved more than swollen knuckles and sweat.

But fuck it.

He’d never hidden from her, never pretended. He’d always come as he was. And what he was, was raw.

He bound onto the landing, instinctively heading for Scar’s room. She would always be his north.

No.

Their room.

Unlike the house in Sydney, she’d settled in the main bedroom here, as if she’d known.

His strides were purposeful, as if guided by some magnetic line, because he wasn’t thinking anymore. Thinking had left the building.

He’d stepped out of the old farmhouse with one thing and only one thing on his mind—not the bloodlust he given into in the room. something entirely different. Something deeper.

Eager steps brought him quickly to the white-paneled double doors. He must’ve slammed them open because Scar dropped her book on the bed with a start.

“Killian.” She scrambled to her feet. “Oh my God, you’re hurt.”

She flung herself at him, frantic hands patting him down as tears started to fall. It took a moment for his rational brain to process what had happened. The blood.

“Shh, it’s not me, baby.” He pulled her against him and hugged her tightly. “It’s not my blood.” His voice was stronger as he tried to still her hands.

She grabbed his shirt white-knuckle tight. “I don’t like him here. The last time …” She couldn’t say it; she only cried harder.

The last time he’d been in the same room with Romeo, Killian had been shot.

He hooked his bent finger under her chin and made her look up. “This time’s different. Everything’s going to be different.”

He bent down, his lips brushing across the soft yield of her mouth.

Fuck.

He wanted to take his time, slowly savor, but he was too ravenous to taste her.

He crushed his mouth over hers. Hot and hungry, eating up her words, her breath, her essence.

Deep, hard kisses as she pushed up against him with an urgency to match his own. They were both short of breath when he finally drew back.

He hadn’t remembered how sweet she tasted. He thought he would; he thought he could never forget anything about her, but nothing lived up to the reality. Memory could never compete.

For a moment, his stomach plummeted, a sickening freefall for the time he’d lost. A pain ripped right through his chest.

“Stay with me?” Her hands were on his face.

He blinked then she was back in his world, vibrant and beautiful. And his.

“Fuck, I missed you.” His voice croaked with emotion.

She smiled as tears silently fell.

“Don’t cry. I don’t want to make you cry.” He showered her face with small, fevered kisses, repeating the words again and again, until she sobbed with happy relief.

He lifted her up and her legs wrapped around his waist. This time, it was her turn to kiss and taste his forehead, his nose, his cheeks.

He carried her into the bathroom because he had to get clean. Stepping into the shower, he turned on the taps.

Scar squealed as the cold water fell, and he turned, dropped her legs and trapped her against the wall to shield her.

Water beat down on him as he leaned in and nipped at her lips with distracting bites of love, catching and swallowing her groans as the rain on his back turned warm, turned
him
warm as it soaked deeper than his clothes. He didn’t care if he was drenched … he felt alive.

Killian bent lower, water splashing off him and onto Scar’s chest. He licked the drops running down her throat.

Pure. She tasted so pure.

The hunger inside him kicked. Wanting.

He unbuttoned his shirt, the wet fabric clinging as he peeled it off his skin. The rest would have to stay on, his hands wanted to be back on her. He didn’t know if he was ruining the boots, but at least they had grip.

As if she felt the same need to touch, Scar reached out for him, her hands sliding over muscles and slick skin. Nails scratched against the ridges of his abs. He hissed as his muscles clenched and nerves pulled.

Grabbing her wrists, Killian raised her hands and pinned them against the tiles, forcing Scar to slow down. He wanted to savor her before he drowned.

Minutes passed, their breath changing as the air mingled with steam as it rose.

Somewhere in that mist they joined. He could feel her—feel her as real as a touch, feel her chest rise as she drew air into her lungs, feel his body flex and respond.

She stared back with the same hunger, all heavy lids and parted lips.

Desire.

His cock throbbed, the beat of his heart no longer in his chest.

He let go of her hands and ripped her shirt, popping the buttons.

Fucking beautiful.

He traced trembling fingers along the cup of her bra. Her skin was so soft and smooth. Hooking the fabric with his thumbs, he pulled the bra cups aside and under her breasts.

Her flesh spilled free, still held and raised, nipples tight as he brushed the back of his fingers against the aroused flesh. A touch of love and wonder.

And then he noticed some blood still left on his hands.

Fuck.

He started to pull his hand away, but she grabbed it, a vicious grip of nails and desperation as she pulled his hand back and pushed his palm flat against her.

He didn’t know who shuddered harder at the electric touch. Her nipple poked against his hand, so hard it had to hurt. He lightly scratched his thumbnail over the sensitive point, and it ripped a groan from her throat.

The sound threatened to snap his leash.

“I’ve got to get clean.” He forced the words out, forced the restraint.

Hair and clothes plastered to her body, she looked up into his eyes. There was so much love there. So much of what he thought he’d never have. So much of what he’d been taught he didn’t deserve. But looking at her, he did …

“Baby, get undressed.” He reached for the soap.

Impatient, she stripped her clothes as he scrubbed.

Too long—it felt too long before he was backing her against the wall again. Too long before he was touching her again.

Leaning forward, he swirled his tongue, tracing the pale pink areola. She trembled. She trembled so beautifully, her limbs no longer under her control. She tasted like the purest thing he’d ever known. He licked her nipple again. Her fingers sank into his hair and pulled as he lapped a third time. Just that was enough to weaken her knees.

“Enough, Killian. I’m tired of waiting.”

Tired of playing nice.

He was aching to get inside her.

He wanted her fast. He wanted her slow. He wanted her in every way for every one of the nights he hadn’t let himself have her.

He bit the tender flesh.

Her half cry, half yelp vibrated down his spine.

This was how he wanted her.

Aching and needy.

He smiled.

Moving his attention from one breast to another, he scraped his teeth against the puckered flesh.

“Dammit.” Scar shoved him back against the tiles, her hands lashing out at his buckle and belt, frantic fingers fumbling as she tried to free his cock.

He laughed. He couldn’t help it.

Cheeks flushed, she snapped at him. “What the fuck are you waiting for?”

He laughed some more.

Finally she had his belt and zip undone. His cock exposed, straining toward her.

“You find what you’re looking for?” But the teasing drawl was rough.

She nodded, her lips moving but there was no sound in the ‘yes.’

So had he. In this woman, so had he.

A raw moan fell from his lips as he snapped her wrist and jerked her against him.

No more playing.

Hot, hungry mouths fed as if they knew what it was like to be starving. He grabbed her thighs, lifting her, and she wrapped her legs around his waist and then he was inside her. The heat of her pussy ten times hotter than the heat of her mouth, and he had to hold still for a moment as her muscles twitched around him.

He rested his forehead against her shoulder, panting as he struggled for control. When he could finally think straight again, he lifted his head. Scar grabbed his face between her hands.

“Please don’t let this be a dream.”

He lifted her slightly off his cock, her body clenching around him in protest before he slammed into her again.

Her sharp intake told him what he wanted to know, but he asked her anyway. “Can you feel that?”

She nodded.

“Then it’s not a dream.”

“Again. Do it again.”

His lips curled into a cruel smile as he slammed into her again. And again. And again.

When he stopped, she was panting. Her hips rocked as those erratic twinges in her sex jerked her whole body. A livewire ready to trip.

“Tell me you love me, baby.”

“I love you, you crazy fuck.” Her eyes shone with a fever of her own.

He laughed again. “Such a sweet fucking mouth.” He caught her lips, swallowing her groan as he fucked her again, hard, unrelenting, mindless.

It could have been her nails biting into his shoulder, or the way she bit his lip as she came, but his blood roared in his ears as his cock kicked and he came. Jesus, his hand was nothing like this; the heat and silk of her scrambled his brain. He chased the ecstasy, each thrust making his hips snap as if he couldn’t bury his cock deep enough, as if he’d never be too far inside of her.

A maddening throb as he continued to come, nerves so sensitive it hurt. He burrowed into her neck, drawing the scent of her in, riding the pain as he shot into her.

Next time, he’d take it slow. Next time, he’d make her come so sweetly she’d be purring his name.

Next time, he’d pour so much love into her, she would weep.

***

Jerricho’s body hummed as he looked around the deserted gym. Some free weights and bars, a treadmill, some Pilates tables. He didn’t know what he was looking for.

The angry buzz under his skin was barely contained. He needed to vent. Still in his jeans and T-shirt, too hyped to go and change, even though there was blood on them now. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything but doing damage.

He’d patched up the kidnapper. In case of concussion or complications, David had stayed to keep watch through the night. The paramedic bag was well equipped with everything he could need for basic medical care, except the pain medication, that was an inadequate supply of over-the-counter strength options to treat headaches instead of cracked cheekbones and amputations. Neither of those two facts came as a surprise.

Fuck Killian.

And fuck Scarlet.

I want you to stay.

He’d believed her. Believed she could be home.

He’d gone upstairs to confront them, but stopped when he’d heard them through the door. She didn’t need him; he didn’t belong.

Lost, he’d stumbled in here.

The gymnasium was in a dwelling separate from the main house and not what he needed, not far enough away. The only thing the gym was good enough for was rage.

A punching bag hung from a hook in the ceiling, illuminated by backlight as if it was calling his name.

He clenched his fists before slowly unfurling his fingers and stretching them. He could still feel pain in the injured hand.

It should heal. The therapist had told him. No promises, but, of course, he understood that. He knew that, as a doctor, a promise would never be made.

It should heal. Don’t do anything stupid, and it should heal.

The black of the punching bag gleaned as it beckoned.

Nothing.

He had nothing.

Not Scarlet.

Not his medicine. Not his freedom.

Polluted. All of it was polluted. He’d just swapped one master for another.

He paced the floor, each circle taking him closer to the bag.

Scarlet.

Under him, she felt like home.

Fuck it. He should have known better than to buy into it.

He should leave.

Now.

She didn’t need him.

They didn’t need him.

He didn’t belong.

He punched the bag and pain exploded up his hand into his arm.

Full fucking circle. Killian. Dado. Just the same.

He hit the bag again. And again. And again.

Each jolt of pain jarring his body like a man being beaten against the rocks. A siren’s call, there was always going to be a bloody end.

He threw mindless punches—hand aching—steady angry slams into the swinging leather. Dull thumps punctuated his heavy breathing. Sweat trickled down his back as he danced on his toes.

Years of Medicine screamed at him that he was going to break his hand. For the first time in his life, he didn’t give a shit.

Nothing mattered because it was all over, wasn’t it?

Scarlet woke with a start. The bed next to her was empty. A dream. It had just been a dream. Hot tears welled as reality washed over her. None of it had been real—the shower, making love in bed, falling asleep together.

Her heart wrenched at the loss, as if the absence of Killian from her bed was something new. A squeezing pressure made the ache swell and push against her ribcage, making it hard to breathe. She resisted the urge to gulp down the panic and blew out short, sharp breaths, her focus on the time display of the bedside clock—1:30 a.m.

Her heartbreak sat heavy in the dark quiet.

A muffled, broken noise sounded.

Except it didn’t come from her.

Her awareness grew out across the room.
There
. A sliver of light under the bathroom door. She slipped from the covers and padded naked toward the en suite.

She pushed open the door. Her body, or maybe it was the world, swayed as reality changed on her again.

Killian.

Sitting naked on the shower floor. A low mourning sound poured from him as he hugged his knees to his chest. Sorrow seeped from his pores, contaminating the room—maybe her dreams.

“Killian?”

He didn’t seem to hear.

Angry red welts ran up his arms, disappeared down across the glimpse of his chest. On his thigh, a long raw scratch glistened with beads of blood.

She closed her eyes, just for a second, just to block out the sight, just to try and reset the night with the sheer force of will.

Not a dream.

Real.

He still sat there huddled on the floor. She still stood on the threshold of the door. Right now, there was more than a room between them.

A room that looked ransacked, cabinets stood open and toiletries lay scattered. What had he been looking for?

She looked back at the wounds, blunt nails and determination.

Blades. He’d been looking for blades. The same as when his father had died. They’d been here before.

But this felt worse.

“Killian.” Croaked. Dammit, fear was stealing her voice. “Killian.”

He stirred.

Thank God.

She waited for him to look up at her, self-preservation keeping her rooted to the spot. He’d never hurt her, but she’d never seen him this wild and wounded …

Killian butted his head against the wall, the loud crack of bone against tile sickening.

He did it again.

And again.

Ramming his skull against the unforgiving wall as if he deserved the hurt.

Each thud reverberated in her bones, shaking loose her composure. Self-preservation be damned. She fell to her knees and scrambled to him.

“Killian.” She tugged his arm.

But he wasn’t listening; she wasn’t reaching him. None of this was working.

There was no air in the room; panic held her chest in a vice as it squeezed and bruised her thumping heart.

It hurt.

His pain hurt.

She grabbed his hand, fighting to uncurl the tight grip of his fingers. Her fingernails raked like claws, but he didn’t react.

There
, the fleshy mound below his thumb.

She sank her teeth into his skin and bit down with all her might, not caring if he hurt her as he struggled to get free.

Pain.

He wanted pain.

He was in that dark place where the only way out was through the pain.

She bit harder, teeth aching as she fought to bring him back, to ground him.

The force as Killian shoved her sent her skidding back across the tiles.

He’d ripped his hand free.

She sat there, chest heaving, as he looked at her. No, he looked
through
her, his eyes too full of emotion, too busy bleeding his sorrow.

“Killian.” She could hear the tinge of hysteria. “You’re scaring me.”

***

Pain. So bright, it brought clarity. Killian blinked as Scar’s face swam into focus.

For a moment, he couldn’t remember where he was, what he was doing.

Cold. He was cold, the night air prickling sensitive skin as his head hurt and his palm throbbed, but none of it mattered because, for the moment, everything was still.

His head. His soul. Quiet.

And there was Scar, sitting in front of him like some kind of fucking beacon for a lost man.

Oh, Jesus, it was all coming back.

He grabbed her and yanked her against him.

The feel of her … the warm living feel of her. She soothed his raw skin, warmed his bones. She filled him up. Ten months he’d been running on empty and she filled him up.

“I fucked up, Scar.” He pulled her closer, as if the confession would chase her away. “I’m so sorry I fucked up.”

“What happened? Talk to me.”

What the fuck had he been doing?

What had he been chasing?

It was right here. Redemption was right here.

Not in the farmhouse with Romeo. Not in his fist taking revenge.

Here.

Her.

After he’d fucked away the lust, after he’d watched her fall asleep, after he’d opened up and let her back in, awareness had flooded him.

“I was late.” The words ripped him up, salt from unshed tears burned his eyes. “You almost died because I was late.” Thirty-two fucking minutes—a lifetime.

He’d left the hospital after they’d taken the bullet out of his chest and had gone straight back to work, back to the gym, back to normal. He’d never spoken about those minutes.
Couldn’t
speak about those minutes.

He’d almost lost her.

Scar shook her head. “No. You rescued me. You always do. The rest is just semantics.”

Her fingers combed through his hair as she soothed him and, for a moment, his courage faltered. He didn’t want to tell her the worst. Didn’t want to admit being a coward.

Because it wasn’t just about vengeance.

It wasn’t just about making up for how he’d failed. He’d fed off convenient truths instead of facing his fear.

He’d almost lost her … then he’d almost pushed her away.

He’d locked her out for ten months and just about handed her gift wrapped to another man.

“You shouldn’t love me. I don’t deserve you to love me.”

“No. No. Don’t you ever say that.” She caught his face in her hands and made him look at her. “Through thick and thin. That’s what you promised me.” Fresh tears started to fall. “I keep my promises too; you’re not the only one.”

“I shut you out. You almost died and it killed me. I couldn’t live through that again. Don’t you see? I punished you because I hated how I felt.”

Her face crumbled.

“I didn’t want to feel you, Scar. It was easier to be numb.”

She broke down, shuddered against him in heaving sobs.

“Sorry.” He kissed the top of her head. “God, I’m so sorry.” He kissed her again, small gentling kisses because words would never be enough.

They sat there crumpled together while he slowly rocked them, crooning his apologies for the unforgivable.

It hurt.

But not like almost losing Scar. Not like dying.

Eventually, she settled, their labored breathing the only sound filling the room.

“Killian.” She sounded small and wounded.

He had done that. He cradled her to his chest as if he couldn’t bear to apply any sense of force that could hurt her more.

“I want to move on.”

His heart stalled, stumbling just before it started racing. What if she left him for Black? Why would she stay now that she knew the truth?

“I want a clean slate. Leave this all behind.”

His lungs couldn’t fill; there was only the beating of his heart, only the pain of it racing to burst. Could he let her go?

“You have to do what you need to do with Romeo, but I can’t take another ten months of this. Every day you do this, you keep something between us. I don’t want anything between us anymore.” She twisted in his arms to look at him. “Please, you’re not a monster. You have to let go.”

Relief flooded through his body and unlocked his limbs. He wanted to correct her, wanted to tell her the man who’d punished her was a monster and she was wrong.

“You have to promise me, Killian.”

She was worth any price; he’d just been paying the wrong one. Choked up, he nodded.

“No.” She held his gaze. “I need you to say it.”

He cleared his throat “I promise.”

Maybe it was that easy to get out of hell.