Exiled (Anathema Book 2) (31 page)

“I
had to.”

“Promise
me you won’t go after Goliath. Stay with me. Run with me. I don’t want to lose
you.”

“Nothing’s
gonna happen. Not to me, not to you.” I cupped her chin. “I swear it.”

The
words forged a heat in both of us. Martini dropped her gaze as I pulled her
shirt over her head. Her arms moved stiff, but she didn’t cover herself.

The
bruises marked her back, thick and dark. Her creamy skin blushed, but the angry
violence stole the innocent flush and destroyed it under the evidence of
another man’s cruelty. A few cuts healed over her ribs. A streak of darkness
disappeared under her jeans.

A
handprint.

His
handprint.

Martini’s
whisper called to me before my mind descended into a primal rage and lost
itself within a broken thirst for blood.

“They’re
only bruises,” she said. “I’m still whole.”

“Never
should have happened.”

Martini
unhooked her bra. The material fell away. She reached for my hand, gently
lowering my palm over her heart, over a part of her so pure and soft the vile
markings didn’t destroy her beauty.

“You
can take away the pain.”

“I’m
the one dealing the pain, Darling.”

“And
I’ve only ever asked for pain.” Her simple admission nearly dropped me to my
knees. “Tonight, I only want you.”

“I’m
not strong enough to deny my urges.”

Martini’s
smile would tempt the second fall of man. “But I’m strong enough to enjoy
them.”

Too
many layers of clothing separated us. I stalked closer to her, and the devious
amusement sparked from her to me. She retreated to the bed, her eyes locked on
mine. I didn’t look away as I imagined every last impure and vicious thing I’d
do to her.

She
shivered and imagined it too.

The
war waged in my mind for so long, I forgot what conquest felt like, only the
struggle of repressing my need and denying my body the possession of another.
Martini crawled over the bed, waiting for me to unbuckle her jeans. The denim
molded to her curves, peeling over the smooth enticement of her legs. Inch by
inch, she was exposed to me, each stolen layer casting a wave of goose bumps
that tickled her skin and prickled the raspberry delight of her nipples. They
waited for my hands, my mouth, my teeth.

She
wore panties. I destroyed them, ripping the black cotton from her body in a fit
of impatience. She shuddered, lying on the bed to reveal everything she hid to
me.

She
wanted me to see.

I
didn’t have to move her. Her legs parted, and the soft caress of her thighs
promised me a delight I hadn’t the pleasure of claiming yet. She grinned, but
she didn’t hide. With other girls, I needed to bat away shy hands and untwist
crossed legs. They liked it, but they hid behind modesty and defiance.

Martini
offered, and my reward would make her scream my name so loud everyone in the
valley would know I was alive.

I
pulled her hips to the end of the bed and spread her legs over my shoulders.
The vulgarity of the act tortured my already hardened cock, and Martini’s soft
coo blinded me to everything but the soft wetness awaiting my tempted tongue.

Every
evil had assaulted her. Every nightmare had come true.

Tonight
it changed.

Tonight,
she belonged to me. For now and forever.

“Oh,
my God.”

Those
were the only words I’d let her say. No more excuses. No more teasing. No more
fear or apologies. Just gasped encouragement. Whispered astonishment. She
breathed a crippling passion that tasted of cream and melted both of us into the
pleasure of the other.

Each
stroke of my tongue lashed her. Every lap, every suckle of her willingly
offered slit tossed her against the bed. She gripped the blankets like I
threatened her and tensed as if she prepared for a blow that didn’t come.

“Never...”
She shuddered the words. “No one...”

“No
one ever tasted you?” My voice edged into a possessive warning that flexed her
hips under me.

“No.”

“
Why
?”

Martini
arched, begging for the return of my lips where she needed it most. “Wasn’t
about me.”

She
was in for a long fucking night.

“Darling,
watching you squirm is the reason I’m doing this.” I nipped her clit. She
bucked, but I pinned her against the bed. “I’m gonna eat you. I’m gonna fuck
you. And, by morning, you ain’t gonna be thinking about anything but me.”

“You
don’t have to do this. I’m ready for you. I’ve been since I first met you,
Brew.”

“I
know.” I dragged her body to my lips. “That’s why I’m going to enjoy every
goddamned inch of you.”

She
arched as my tongue laced against her. Her cry choked in surprise. She reached
for me.

None
of that.

I
gripped her wrist and pinned it across her stomach. Her body convulsed again,
weighed heavy by the pressure of my hold and the frantic, fighting spasms
forcing her into a delirium before I even took what I needed from her.

And
that was fine.

That
was what I wanted.

No
woman was ever worth so much attention. No one deserved the flick of my tongue
or the promise of my pleasure. No one responded so attentively, so desperately,
to just the tease of my lips against her folds or the thrust of my finger into a
tightness that belonged to me. I owned her, and her every haunted memory of
pain and heartache would crumble in the presence of my ultimate protection.

She
begged me. So many women had before, but only she whispered my name so sweetly.
Only Martini
asked
with more than just their words. Her body quivered
and shook, wetted and clenched. She didn’t fight against the hold of my hands. She
moved with mine, accepting my embrace, begging for nothing more than to feel
the entirety of my weight against her.

“Brew—”
She couldn’t breathe. The pleasure stole her voice and wrapped her tighter than
any bindings. I knew how to loosen them. Pity I wouldn’t. “Please.”

“Please,
what?” The interruption to my feast was unwelcomed. “Want me, Darling?”

“God
damn, more than anything.”

“You
sure?”

“You
really are cruel.”

My
turn to smirk. “I think I’m being pretty damn generous.”

Her
silver eyes dilated, staring, but unable to focus against the twisting of my
fingers deep inside her tight core, a softness she offered but I had yet to
fully take.

I
would claim it tonight. The way a man was meant to claim a woman.

“So
good it hurts,” she whispered.

She
didn’t apologize for wanting that pain. She hadn’t felt my hand slap her ass or
the grip of my hands in her hair. I could do it. I could punish her and ravish
her and bring her to the brink only to kick her over the edge and laugh as she
clawed from her own besotted anguish.

But
I didn’t need to.

Submission
wasn’t forged with the swipe of a hand.

And
authority wasn’t an urge born in blood and polluted by a last name.

Dominance
was a man tasting his woman, drowning in her pleasure, and growling for air as
her legs pushed back and his need overwhelmed them both.

Martini
stiffened as I climbed over her. Not out of fear. Not because of any pain from
her injuries. Her gaze asked to touch me. Her fingers gripped over my biceps,
tracing the thick lines of warning ink that should have told her to run before
I devoured everything she was and conquered her for my own.

“Christ,
Brew,” she whispered. “I think I’m in love with you.”

I
positioned over her, my cock poised within a part of her begging for capture.

“I
don’t just think it.” I thrust in her waiting, aching, burning slit with a
single stroke, taking what she offered and earning the rest with her gasped
surprise. “I know I love you.”

Martini
exploded. I held on to survive her heat, the tightness, the enveloping serenity
of a woman abandoning her thoughts, fears, and memories to a moment of pure,
uncompromising pleasure. In that point of her sweet surrender, I lost myself in
the same gift. Nothing existed but her. No danger. No exile. No secrets.

Just
her.

Just
the tension shredding her in bliss. Just the entire uncompromising length of my
cock imbedding her with guaranteed security. She cried out.

Her
body peaked, but I grabbed her before she crashed to reality. Martini clutched
me, offering everything I wanted in exchange for the ultimate protection from
her own confusion. That I couldn’t give. She deserved every rise, every
tightening, every torn orgasm that only melded her deeper within my hold. And
I’d be the bastard she’d curse and love—the one who earned her surrender and
rewarded her for such bravery.

She
was mine.

Body
and soul.

Heart
and mind.

Once,
my lust existed only to take what women willed and enjoy the fever of their
flesh like a drug.

Now?
I didn’t take. Martini gave. Willingly. Unabashedly. Completely.

No
drug compared to the squeeze of her heat or the secret cry of my name.

I
held her close, rocked my strength over the petite curves of a woman built for
just this pleasure. Her fingers dug into the thick muscle of my arms. She
couldn’t get a hold, but that didn’t matter. She wasn’t going anywhere. Not
now. Not when my skin burned, my vision blurred, and every raging thought in my
head roared with a primitive, mounting urge to take her as my own and mark her as
mine.

Martini
tensed as I did, her eyes widened as she realized her time for begging and
cooing, arching and demanding was done. She welcomed me, submitted under me,
and brought her hips up.

I
buried myself completely within her and came so fast and hard she cried out
against the thickening of my cock. A shared pleasure consumed our bodies in an
endless, remorseless, destructive bliss.

I
emptied inside her—revealing myself in a split second of utter abandonment. My
guilt, my fear, my shame, my love.

I
stole from her the nightmares that marked her skin, and she accepted my truth.

The
shame of exile faded. The guilt shadowing Rose’s past slipped away. My father’s
life and death didn’t bloody my hands—not now that I held something more
precious than vengeance within my grasp. Martini gave into me, and I fell so
fucking hard for her I didn’t know if I saved her or if her devotion was the
one shred of hope that pulled me from the abyssal sorrow.

I
didn’t part from her. She wouldn’t have let me. Tears stained her cheeks, but
her kiss promised nothing had been hurt or damaged, only renewed with our
promise.

She
held onto me. Tight. Nothing was going to separate us again.

My
second chance became my third. This time, I wasn’t letting go.

I
woke naked and safe and in the arms of a man who encompassed every danger,
pain, and element of the 1% that threatened me.

And
I never felt more protected.

Brew’s
strong arm wrapped over my waist, cradling the whipped and bruised parts of me
against his strength. He hadn’t said anything about the injuries. He stopped
apologizing.

One
night spent under him, offering my body, granting him the peace and forgiveness
he tortured himself to earn, and he was a new man. The heavy weight of his
guilt cracked away, and the shell of remorse that hid him from the world fell
with it.

The
Brew who took me had no trace of Noir within him. The shielded rage, unbridled
passion, and absolved soul forged a man of confidence who claimed me for his
own.

The
first mounting was for me.

The
second—when he pinned my arms over my head, bit at my neck, and pistoned in and
out of me with reckless lust—was for him.

And
the third?

I
stirred against the blankets, tied within the twisted covers and tossed
pillows. His arm snaked over me, gripping my waist, cupping my breasts, and,
finally resting the full weight of his palm over the base of my throat.

His
hand covered the tattoo of a monster’s name.

A
monster that had no more right to my body than a regretted tattoo and fading
ink.

Brew
didn’t say a word, but his hardness prepared for me everything he expected.

And,
God, did I want to give it.

The
pressure tensed at my throat. I purred into his grip and arched to offer my
hips. He growled a compliment as his cock slipped within me, hard and thick. I
wetted for him, and the slickness of our passion still lingered deep inside me.
With Goliath, I couldn’t wait for a shower, to cleanse the filth so I’d recover
the parts of me not bruised by his cruelty.

With
Brew?

My
silken heat blended with the excitement of his passion. He left me warm and
slick and promised much more than the two eruptions which claimed my core.

I
welcomed his entire length with a groan. His hand tightened on my throat, his
other seizing my hips. I swallowed, reflectively gripping as he controlled
everything about me—my pleasure, my pain, even my breath.

But
I trusted him, and he didn’t betray that gift. He held me in comfort and
authority as his thickness explored me, waking my body with shivers and earning
my obedience with a steady hand at my throat.

“Morning,
Darling,” he whispered in my ear.

I whimpered
as his other hand tickled down over my hip and gripped the softness filling
with him. His fingers circled over my slit, flicking tiny attentions over the
most sensitive part of me.

“Brew—”

His
motions weren’t gentle. He thrust with every claim to my body and rewarded me
with the gifted pleasure of loving devotion. His instinct to grab and oppress
and rut might have terrified me. The power of his grasp around my throat was
familiar—too many nightmares of Goliath’s crushing grip blacking me out while
he stole his release from my limp body.

But
memories faded in the sanctuary of Brew’s arms. I’d banish them forever. He’d
destroy my fears, and I’d rebuild my life in his embrace.

The
grip on my throat flexed as my pleasure peaked in a sudden, sharp, and
taken
bliss.

“What
are you thinking?” Brew’s wicked chuckle wanted me to beg and plead, to offer
my gratitude and demand more of his touch. “Tell me, Martini.”

He
expected me to say I loved him.

I
did, but it wasn’t what he needed to hear. He grew, his hardness reaching
deeper in me as his breath turned ragged. His fingers wove over my clit,
forcing me to rise with him, seizing a pleasure he so easily created. I
stiffened as he did, bucked, and crashed into the pleasured oblivion that
heralded the first jet of his warmth within me.

I
whispered, but he felt the words. His hands tightened as the declaration
nestled us in the delicious need and contented heat.

“I
trust you, Brew.”

He
shuddered again, delivering more of his searing promise. I wrapped my hand over
the strength clutching at my throat. It threatened and worshiped and took and
loved all in the same motion. I leaned against his chest as we crested. His
kisses massaged my neck and shoulders until I fell asleep.

I
hadn’t drifted for long. His cock still hardened when the shouting from
downstairs carried from the bar to the suites. Brew rolled from me, buckling
his pants and seizing a weapon before I blinked away the confusion and mourned
the loss of his cock.

I
pushed the hair from my eyes as he slammed a new clip into his gun.

“Brew?”
I squinted at the clock on the wall. “What—”

The
monster bellowed from downstairs.

“
Martini
!”

Goose
bumps prickled over me, each a jagged spike that punished for the swell of fear
invading my mind. He terrified me, and his presence was a scar that would take
more than Brew’s promises to fade.

“Goliath.”
I lurched from the bed. “How the hell did he find us?”

“One
fucking guess.” Brew swore. “My father waved fifty grand under his nose. Stay
here.”

“You
aren’t going down there.”

“
Martini,
get your ass down here before I blow this junkie’s head off!
”

Goliath’s
roar curdled everything inside me. Brew gritted his teeth.

“Get
dressed. I’ll take care of this.”

“Brew—”

“He’s
got my brother.” The gun tensed in his hand. “Stay quiet. Hide.”

Like
hell.

Brew
slunk into the hall. I donned one of his shirts and tugged on my jeans.

I
wasn’t letting him go alone. And I wasn’t letting him face that bastard without
me.

The
brief taste of freedom and my complete and utter devotion to Brew fueled my
courage. Goliath stole and hurt and threw his bulk around to pummel me into
behaving the way he wanted. He got off on my injuries, and he branded me as an
object to own and destroy.

Brew
wasn’t the only one with a score to settle.

I
ripped through his bag. A bowie knife buried beneath jeans and box of ammo. I
shoved the blade into my pocket and tucked my shirt over it. The only way this
was ending was when one of us bled.

And
this time, it wouldn’t be me.

The
scarf tied over my neck. Not fashionable. Not pretty. Just functional, hiding
the ugliest part of my past with a silken tie. I wore it like a gang bandana,
flashing a color that would enrage Goliath when he saw how I denied his
presence upon my flesh.

I
tip-toed down the hall and perched at the top of Pixie’s steps. The scene was
familiar—a pub drenched in the testosterone and violence of the MC. Goliath’s
bulk filled the bar, the shadow of his rage spilling into every corner. He waved
a gun like a second cock and expected Anathema to shrink in the same respect he
earned from Sacrilege.

Only
this time he wasn’t home. The men here wouldn’t cower to a beast like him. And
I wasn’t about to let him push them around.

Goliath’s
gun aimed at Keep, but Brew’s brother either hadn’t fully woken yet, or the
drugs from the night before hadn’t let him sleep. He sunk into a barstool as he
faced the angry end of a gun held by a stranger. The yawn pissed off Goliath.
Keep couldn’t have cared less.

How
often did shit like this happen to him?

“Where
the hell is Noir?” Goliath spat on Pixie’s floor. That insulted Keep more than
the gun pointed in his face.

“Who?”

“Noir.”

Keep’s
eyes might have rimmed red with drugs, and his body faded too lean in the grip
of the addiction, but his smile might have charmed the gun from Goliath’s hand.

That
was, if he hadn’t spoken first.

“The
fuck are you talking about?” Keep said. “Get your limp dick out of my goddamned
bar before I shove that piece so far up your ass I’ll have to flick your
fucking ears to take the safety off.”

“You
know what I’m here for.” Goliath didn’t take his eyes from Keep. He screamed my
name again, raising the gun as Keep leaned against the bar.

“You
want a goddamned Martini?” Keep jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Nine dollars.
Gin or vodka, hotshot?”

“I’ll
fucking shoot that smart ass mouth if don’t tell me where the hell Noir is.”

“Ain’t
no one named Noir here.” Keep didn’t blink. “You better jerk that gun off
somewhere else.”

“Brew-
fucking
-Darnell.
Where is he?”

“Dead.”

“Bullshit.
I saw him with my own eyes.”

Keep
crossed himself—backward, but close enough. “Then it’s a goddamned miracle.
Risen from the grave just to give it to your girl all night while the rest of
us are trying to sleep. Someone call the fucking Vatican.”

The
gun pressed into Keep’s forehead.

Brew
stepped from the shadows, his weapon raised and jammed into the base of
Goliath’s skull.

“Lay
off of him.”

“Oh!”
Keep nodded. “
That
Brew-fucking-Darnell. Yeah,
that
Brew was
behind you the whole time.”

 Goliath
gritted his teeth. I gripped the stair banister. A bullet to his head wasn’t
enough to drop the raging beast. A man like Goliath never used his brain before.
All that mattered was the violence surging in his veins.

A mix
of rage and brutality curled his lips. He wasn’t on any drugs tonight. His
addiction to me fed his insanity.

He’d
claw his bloodied carcass across the country if it meant wrapping a gnarled hand
over my ankle and dragging me to hell.

“Gotta
say, bro, you got a bad habit of mixing Anathema with your shit anymore,” Keep
said. “We’re still recovering from your last shootout.”

“Yeah.
I know.”

Keep
nodded. “We all have our vices.”

“This
one will end quick.”

“Where
the fuck is Martini?” Goliath sneered. “I’ll crack your fucking skull, you son
of a bitch.”

“You
don’t get to say her name anymore.”

The
monster snorted. “I’ll say her name all I goddamned please. I’ll scream it as
I’m fucking the shit out of her over your motherfucking corpse.”

“
Charming
.”
Keep clapped his hands on his thighs and stood. Goliath’s gun raised, but
Brew’s warning grunt stalled his finger. “Need any help with this?”

“Nah.”
Brew said. “Goliath and I got a lot to discuss, man to man.”

“The
warehouse is empty.”

“Perfect.”

My
heart pounded as Brew drove the gun against Goliath’s skull. No way he’d let
Brew march him to his death. Goliath spun to attack, but Keep got him first,
driving his fist into his gut. The monster howled, but the layers of muscle and
fat protected him from collapsing. Keep sneered.

“You
hurt that girl.” His growl matched Brew’s aggression bite for bite. “You’re
fucking with the wrong brothers if you think we’re gonna let you get away with
that shit. Not after what we’ve been through.”

Brew
jerked him forward. Keep cracked his knuckles.

Maybe
this would be it? They’d haul Goliath away. Do the dirty work. Bloody their
fists and take out their guilt on a bastard more like their father than either
of them.

I
wouldn’t have to worry. I wouldn’t have to figure out a way to fight him off
myself.

It’d
be over.

And
I’d be free.

Pixie’s
door swung open.

The
ache in my chest blistered into such panicked pain I thought the gun took me
out.

Rose
stormed into the bar, shouting for Brew and demanding answers as she entered
the clubhouse. She froze as Goliath grinned.