Exiled (Anathema Book 2) (16 page)

His
eyes darkened—primal and possessive. He stared with such intensity at my
slickening crest I should have been embarrassed for such willingness.

Instead,
my eyebrow perked.

I
could be punished for my excitement instead.

And
God, did I want to be punished.

I
wiggled my hips, slowly, still tangled in the legs caught at my knees. I bit my
lip as the heat flushed my cheeks and spread far lower.

“Hit
me,” I whispered.

Brew’s
hands left my hips. “What?”

“Hit
me.” I wiggled again. “Spank me.”

His
weight shifted on the bed. I listened for the clicking of his zipper. He didn’t
move.

“Come
on.” I smirked. I hid my face and gripped the blankets. “I know what you want,
Brew. I want it too.”

“You
think I’m gonna hit you?”

Now
wasn’t a time to play hard-to-get. I didn’t usually get off on humiliation, but
if he wanted me to beg for it, I’d beg. A man like Brew was worth whatever kink
he preferred.

“I
think you’ll put me in my place.” I widened my stance. The cool air teased
against my slit. “I think you want it rough. You want to make sure I understand
who’s in charge. And, believe me...” I resisted touching myself. Somehow. His
silence only made it worse. “I won’t fight you...unless you like that.”

This
time, the profanity wasn’t teasing. And it wasn’t sexy.

This
time, the harshness aimed for me.

“Jesus
Christ, what the
fuck
is wrong with you.”

Every
part of me that superheated under his touch froze and cramped. I panicked as he
rose from the bed, still swearing. My jeans bunched, and I flopped ungracefully
onto my side as I turned to face him. I feared I’d be sick.

I
didn’t recognize Brew. He paced to prevent his rage from erupting. A summoned
strength flexed his muscles. His lust and temper boiled too close to the
surface. I shifted away, struggling to cover what I thought he had wanted to
see.

The
hatred scarring his features chilled the room, but not enough to obscure the heated
shame coloring my cheeks and the rest of my body. I breathed out a confused
sigh.

“Brew—what...?”

“You
just told me your boyfriend will
kill
you if you go home.”

I
frowned. “I don’t love him—”

Brew
interrupted me with a snarl. “You get beat on, tossed around, forced into
godknowswhat.” He pitched the bag with the bus ticket off the bed and into the
mirror. It shattered against something hard and metal.

A
gun fell from the pocket.

A
gift for when he sent me home?

My
stomach heaved. He gave me a weapon to protect myself.

He
just armed the woman who had to be his killer.

“Brew,
calm down!” I said. “Please.”

“You
want me to
hit
you?” He didn’t need to slap me. His words struck harder
than anything he might have delivered in our passion. “You want me to fucking
beat
you while I hold you down and fuck the everloving shit out of you?”

Two
minutes ago, nothing sounded better. Now, I regretted each crazed beat of my
fluttering heart.

“Jesus,
Martini. You’re abused by this motherfucker, and you’re asking me to do the
same damned thing!” He turned away. “You didn’t deny that part of you. You
didn’t even try to escape. What the hell is wrong with you?”

It
was a question I never asked myself, and one I never wanted to face. My stomach
heaved, but I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of seeing me rattled.

All
the talk of trust—wasted.

My
attempts to get him to help me—a joke.

The
one miserable talent I learned to keep myself out of trouble and ahead of the
game—flipped and used on me.

He
mind-fucked me, manipulated me, and humiliated me.

And
for what?

I
wasn’t about to find out. I grabbed the tattered pieces of my shirt and slipped
from the bed, jamming my jeans over my thighs and salvaging what shred of pride
I might have retained if I hadn’t walked past him to hide in the bathroom.

The
door slammed behind me, but I crumbled before the vanity. I didn’t know what
I’d find if I looked in the mirror. No one I would have recognized. Or maybe
the same goddamned woman who stared at me every night, asking the same fucking
questions Brew bled from me.

Whatever
I thought I’d get from Brew, whatever pleasure I hoped I’d earn from the grip
of his hand against my throat or the sting of his hand against my ass, was exactly
what got me into trouble in the first place. The worst part was that I knew it.

And
the sickest part was that I actually
did
trust Brew. He wouldn’t hurt
me. He wouldn’t push too far or take more than I gave. I thought that, for
once, I could get what I wanted without hurting myself.

He
was right—about everything. I was trapped in my own cycle of violence. I
seduced trouble and denied the consequences.

It
ended now. No more mistakes. No more dangerous men and dangerous bedrooms.

Brew
used me, humiliated me, and tried to destroy my pride. And it might have
worked, but I didn’t fall apart that easily. Not anymore.

I
was done with him and every other menace in my life. Goliath could find a new
girl to beat, Sacrilege could bail themselves out, and Brew…

I
wished I didn’t care about him.

It
was just another mistake I had to fix.

And
I wasn’t about to make another one.

The
first time I deserved to die, Thorne didn’t pull the trigger.

The
second time felt worse.

I
opened my goddamned mouth and did more damage to Martini than if I cracked her
head off the wall and kicked her around the room.

I
got hard pinning her down. I attacked her, ripped her clothes, and tossed her
onto her knees like a damned whore. I was only seconds from burying myself
balls deep in her, and I didn’t even check to make sure I wasn’t terrifying
her.

I
wasn’t just a monster.

I
was a fucking idiot.

I
had a beautiful woman—the most beautiful woman I had ever fucking seen—bent
over a bed, wiggling her perfect ass, begging for everything my cock could give
her and more, and I ruined it.

I
ruined
her
.

She
mewed as she had clawed at my arms. Her silvered eyes widened with desire. She
was the sexiest woman I had ever touched, and, to make it worse, she had
wanted
me.

All
of me. My cock. My strength. My power as I drove her into the mattress again
and again. I would have erupted inside her with a victorious thrust so hard she
would have remembered it every fucking time she tried to sit the next day.

She
gave herself to me.
Submitted
to me. Like she trusted me whether we sped
away from firefights or while holding my hand exploring a murder scene.

Martini
wasn’t afraid of me.

But
goddamned if I wasn’t afraid of her.

Martini
didn’t hide her submission, but she picked risky guys and even riskier
situations. A crush on one of the bad boys in her town trapped her with a
psychopath who scarred his name into her perfect skin. She hopped into the
wrong beds and suffered the consequences.

And
that’s why she liked me.

I
had hoped she thought I was someone who could protect her, keep her safe, and
not leave her sobbing in a bathroom. But I wasn’t stupid.

The
bike. The jacket. The ink. That was only part of what got her off. She saw what
I tried to hide.

The
evil festering in my blood brimmed to the surface. I was dark, and my nature
might have enticed someone looking for danger. She didn’t know the truth. I was
my father’s son.

Blade
Darnell tossed his women around too. Bent them over and rode them like a
fucking Harley in the middle of Anathema’s clubhouse while Rose tried to study
in the bar’s offices, hands plugged in her ears and doors locked to hide from
the drunken bikers.

I
never knew I had locked the wrong door.

Bad
blood created more bad blood. I wasn’t the sexy dominant lover Martini read in
some whip and paddle book. I never forced a woman to bed before, but that
didn’t mean I ever gave a fuck and respected one. I used them and showed them
off as someone cute to throw on my bike and share with my club.

Martini
was at her most vulnerable, and I insulted her. I made her think everything she
did and everything she liked was her own perversion.

I
made her believe it was
her
fault Goliath beat on her.

I hurt
us both because I couldn’t stand the truth.

My
father deserved to die. Every sick and twisted sin he committed revealed to me
like a punch to the gut. When Thorne’s bullet hit the ground instead of my
head, I earned a second chance to bring my father to Anathema’s brand of
justice. I swore then I would never become him.

And
my first temptation, I failed.

I’d
never trust myself around Martini. Giving in to her would break me. Taking her
the way she needed me to take her would infect us with the same poison that
made my father the demon he was.

Exile
wasn’t enough to prevent that corruption.

Martini’s
bus left in the morning. It wasn’t a glamorous trip, but a greyhound rode
smoother than a hearse. I’d throw her on, bribe the driver a grand to make sure
she stayed in her seat until Pittsburgh, and hope she’d have the common sense
to let her cousin shelter her while I lured Temple away from yet another woman
I hurt.

I
had nowhere to go and nothing to drink. But getting drunk wouldn’t fix what I
said to Martini. It wouldn’t get rid of my hard-on, and it wouldn’t protect us
for when Temple or Kingdom finally paid the right people and started looking in
the right places for us. I had to get out of the room.

The
hotel was in the middle of nowhere surrounded by more interstate than genuine
business. I stalked outside, hunkering down in the shadows like a mangy dog.
Probably where I belonged. I watched the parking lot and studied the vehicles
parked under the flickering lights.

I
wasn’t a good man, but protecting Martini wasn’t about being good or wicked—it
was about doing what was right. A cold shower and a few harsh words was a
better fate than what could have happened to her.

My
phone vibrated in my vest. I glanced at the screen.

Keep.

The
night kept getting worse. I doubted my brother had anything good to report, but
at least he was conscious enough to dial the phone. I answered with a grunt.

“What,
Keep?”

The
hesitant, hitched breath wasn’t my brother. No one in the family was ever that
gentle.

The
night hit rock bottom, dug around a little, then waited for a rainstorm to
muddy up its grave.

“Brew?”
Rose was the blade to my wrist, the noose around my neck, and the bullet to my
head. My hand curled over the phone.

If
I crushed it, I wouldn’t have to say hello.

If
I yelled at her, I wouldn’t have to tell her how goddamned relieved I was to
hear her voice.

“What
the hell are you doing calling me?” My words bit harsher than I meant, but I
never learned how to hold a normal conversation with her. “Why do you have
Keep’s phone?”

“I
took it. It was the only way to get you to answer.”

“Where
the hell are you?”

“Pixie.”

“Alone?”

I
hated that her tone shifted from sweet and hopeful to the same dark and jaded
edge that the Darnells perfected. She huffed.

“I’m
in the office, but Thorne’s out at the bar. With Scotch. And Gold.”

She
rolled her eyes. I heard it in her voice, waiting for me to accuse her of being
a smartass for naming all the men in the bar.

“Reaper
came in a while ago, but he left with Ace and Tanner. A couple of girls from
Sorceress came down too—Molly and Porsche. Delivering money for Lyn’s
security...”

“I
get it. Why the hell are you calling me?”

“Because
you haven’t answered any of my texts or emails.”

“I
told you I was on the road, Bud.”

I
knew she’d flinch at the nickname, but after twenty-one years, it was a hard
habit to break. Especially since it was my handle for her. But Dad happened to
use it too. Back then, I didn’t understand why she hated it.

Now
I got it.

Still,
Bud was a hell of a lot better than anything Thorne called her. The jackass
tone when he teased his
sweetheart
. She melted for it.

“So
you can’t even
text
?” She said.

“A
lot of shit is going on here. I can’t talk now.”

“Fine.”
Her voice hardened. “Never mind.”

Jesus
Christ
. The mistakes piled up. Taking jobs for beheaded MCs, trafficking
women, giving Rose my goddamned phone number.

“What
do you want?”

I
imagined she straightened up and lifted her chin. She often pretended she could
scratch with more than kitten claws and a tiny hiss. That’s why I loved her.
She didn’t fit with Anathema.

“Why
did half of Anathema escort me to my classes today?”

“What?”
I spared her a smile. “You don’t like the star treatment?”

She
didn’t buy it. “Last semester, Thorne met my English lit professor. On the
final, I forgot to answer an entire essay question on the back of the exam. I
still got an A+.”

“You
always were the brains in the family.”

“I’d
like to earn my grades, not have them beaten out of the department.”

I
thought I taught her that lesson. “You gotta take the breaks you can get, Bud.”

She
huffed. “Keep is hanging around me again.”

“What
do you mean
again
.”

“Come
on, Brew. You aren’t the only brother I had a hard time reaching.”

I’d
beat Keep’s ass if the drugs didn’t kill him first. I stayed silent. She
expected it.

“I’m
going to my classes with escorts, Keep has his eye on me when he’s not high, and
now Thorne is scheduling a meeting with
Knight
.”

“Rose,
don’t worry about it.”

“What’s
happening? It’s starting to look like...” She hesitated. My blood ran cold at
just the slightest tremor in her voice. “Like when Ex was alive.”

“Ain’t
nothing gonna hurt you, Bud. I can’t do much, but I can promise you that.”

“But—”

“I
got it under control. You just focus on your music and your classes, got me?”

“Um—”
Her hand covered the phone while she whispered a conversation with someone
else. She returned with an apology. “Wait. He wants to talk to you.”

The
phone shifted. I doubted Keep would have anything useful to say—if he was even
in a condition to talk. I held back my profanity.

“You
finally decided to take care of her?”

The
grunt from the other end was not my brother.

“I’ve
been taking real good care of Rose. I don’t like that tone of yours.”

Of
all the psychopathic bastards in the club, Rose handed the phone to Thorne. My
jaw clenched so hard it popped.

“The
hell do you want?” I said.

He
sounded just as dangerous three thousand miles away. “Why are you calling half
my club?”

I
snorted. “Rose called
me
. Maybe if you get her under control, you
wouldn’t be playing phone tag with a dead man.”

“I
got her a plan with unlimited minutes. International calls include Hell. Or
Pittsburgh. Same place.”

“This
got a point?”

Thorne’s
voice hardened like the clicking of a safety off a gun. “I got Temple buzzing
around the area, spreading some damning rumors. The men are starting to talk,
wondering what the hell has got Temple so aggravated.”

“Rose
says you got a meeting with Knight. Ask Luke what’s going on.”

“No
need. I got you. From what I remember, you were pretty cozy with Temple.”

“I’m
taking care of it.”

“You
better.” He wasn’t playing, even with Rose telling him to back off. “We got
enough shit over here with the Coup. I can’t handle a war with Temple, not
after your deal fell apart. They’re pointing their guns at Anathema.”

I
hated myself for thinking it. The words soured on my tongue. “They still got my
father whispering in their ear. They won’t move on Anathema. Not while Blade is
still the rightful VP.”

“And
how much longer will he get to wear that patch?”

My
words cut deeper than his. “Not much longer now.”

“Good,”
Thorne said. “I’ll give your sister a kiss for you.”

“Son
of a bitch—”

The
call ended. Just what I fucking needed. Rose upset, and Thorne doing damage
control the same way he always did—blood for blood.

I
couldn’t do shit about Temple, not while I hid halfway across the country, and
not while Knight still made deals with them without Anathema. Taking out three
of Temple’s members on the road was the cost of doing business. It’d piss them
off, but the men all understood the daily danger.

But
killing Blade Darnell? A man who controlled Anathema and The Coup and promised
a lifetime of territory and money to Temple? That was an inconvenience worthy
of vengeance.