Exiled (Anathema Book 2) (9 page)

His
arms tensed around me, thick with muscles and striped with angry ink and
intimidating words. If he had been injured, he hid the wounds well. His body
fed on the danger, fueled itself on the blood of his enemies, and demanded
satisfaction from the softness I always offered a man like him.

My
eyes fluttered, focusing not on the rigid line of his jaw, the hard features of
his face, or the intensity of his stare. I studied his shoulder’s injury.

Beneath
the blood and grime lurked something more beautiful than a horrible scar.

A
bright, crimson flower curled on a vine around the wound. It was a lovely
design with elegant calligraphy etched beneath the blossom. The tattoo was so
gentle and loving it had no place on a biker’s body, let alone protecting the
remnants of his attempted murder.

He
closed in on me, and I fell still. I suffocated over my breath, and, just
before his lips grazed mine, I whispered the only question dominating me more
than his heavy hand.

“Who’s
Rose?”

The
grip tightened over my throat, and I sucked in a useless breath. Whatever heat
had passed rent into a sudden, icy chill that sliced my veins with cold and
impaled me with his fury.

I
dared to speak the name tattooed into his flesh.

He
moved faster than I anticipated. The hand left my throat, but he swore and stood.
The gun slammed into his holster, but his abrupt movement shattered us both. I
recoiled in pure instinct—lessons learned when I was grabbed too many times by
a violent man lurking over the bed. But Goliath was usually drunk and high, not
losing blood and concussed.

But
the crested guilt wove over Noir’s features. He rubbed his face. The momentary
insanity cleared, replaced with utter remorse. He spoke first.

“Sorry.”
His voice sounded like he swallowed most of the road.

I
edged away, bloodied washcloth in hand. “You were…hurt.”

“So
you stripped me?”

My
usual tricks lost most of their charm. I hoped he was too woozy to notice.

“Never
played doctor before?”

He
didn’t answer, but his breathing shuddered in a suppressed agony. I gestured to
the bed.

“Let
me help. You should get cleaned up.”

“I’ll
take a shower.”

“You
won’t make it through a shower,” I said. “Sit down before you pass out.”

He
considered it, but the order went over about as well as a bullet to his other
shoulder. He reached for his shirt before the pain ripped over him once more. He
slammed a hand against the bedside lamp and apologized again when I flinched.
He pushed from the wall and nearly fell over. I steadied his arm before he did
something stupid.

“Like
it or not, you’re my ride out of here.” I rung out the washcloth and applied it
to his shoulder before he batted me away. “I can’t have you passing out if more
of those guys come looking for us.”

“They
won’t.”

“Are
you sure?”

“They
aren’t from around here. They don’t have reinforcements.” He tensed as the
washcloth rubbed over a cut on his back. “Yet.”

I swallowed
as his muscles flexed. “Who are they?”

“Don’t
worry about it,” he said.

“What
do they want?”

“I
said don’t worry about it.”

“But—”

He
glared. “It doesn’t concern you.”

“They
shot at my face, so I think it might.”

“Want
me to finish the job?”

It
was the second time the flash of anger within him fizzled out. A man as
powerful as him should have roared, whipped out the gun, and fired a round into
the bathroom mirror. Now, he let his stillness intimidate. It worked, but he
wasn’t the same man who earned the ink and scars. Whatever changed him only
greyed his hair and forged the edge in his voice.

I
rested on the bed beside him. The washcloth bound in my hands. He watched me.
His remorse rippled from him like lacing frost.

It
all worked to my advantage. I touched my neck and winced even as the memory of
his hold stirred me in places that had no business getting excited. His breath
released in every apology he couldn’t give.

“Sorry,”
I said. “I’m just scared.”

“I
know.”

“I’ve
never been shot at.”

“Wish
I could say the same.”

I
attempted another brush of his arm. This time he let me. I gently scrubbed the
dirt from his shoulder, cleaning the area around the flower tattoo without mentioning
the ink.

“What’s
your name?” I asked.

“Noir.”

I
dunked the cloth in the warm water again and clucked my tongue at him.

“Your
real name?”

He
hesitated. “Brice.”

Wrong
again. I arched my eyebrow. The cut stopped bleeding, and I surveyed him for more
damage. Plenty existed, but he had nothing left for me to clean with the washcloth.

“Not
that name.” I tapped his wrist. The scrawled
Anathema
drew the ink into
his veins. “Your
real
name.”

He
didn’t answer. I frowned and plopped the cloth into the bucket.

“I’m
Olivia,” I said. “The guys call me Martini. I bartend. They thought they were
clever.”

“Gin
or vodka?”

I
hadn’t expected that question, but I liked it. The answer came easy.

“Vodka,
of course.”

“Gin
is traditional,” he said.

“Gin
is awful.”

He
snorted. “You’re drinking the wrong gin.”

“It’s
all
the wrong gin.”

“Olive
and dirty?”

“Yep.”

He
nodded. Amused. He liked the nickname, understood it far too well. I wondered…

“
Noir
?”
The word played on my lips. I always liked a classy drink. “
Pinot
?”

If
he was impressed he didn’t show it. But he was still talking to me, so I’d
thank the lucky stars I found a guy who could shoot a gun, keep his cool in a high-speed
chase, and discuss the finer points of vintage wines.

“Yeah.”

“I
didn’t take you for a wine drinker.”

“Maker.”

That
either. My eyebrow perked again, only this time it was genuine.

“That’s
a talent.”

“Just
a hobby. Wines, beers. Started when I was a kid.”

“You
home-brewed when you were a kid?”

He
shrugged. “Easier than a fake ID.”

“Maybe.”

He
met my gaze and dropped the guarded threat that shadowed him since we left
Sacrilege. His voice shivered me in all the right places. I had earned his
trust.

“Name’s
Brew,” he said.

The
victory tasted better than any wine. “Hello, Brew.”

Martini
wasn’t Rose.

I
didn’t care how many times I had to think it. Denial was a strong drug, and I
needed another hit.

Martini
scrubbed the cuts over my chest hard enough to scrape off the healthy skin. She
laughed off her own bruises with a shrug. Her bravery was an act, and she
lapped up the spotlight.

It
wasn’t the first time I nearly killed an innocent girl. It also wasn’t the
first time an innocent girl had to clean my wounds after a fight. When Rose
begged Thorne to spare my life, she wasn’t doing me any favors. The fearless
president of Anathema didn’t have the courage to blow the traitor’s brains out
while she watched. I didn’t have the balls to break her heart and do it myself.
She let me live. Now another woman was in danger.

But
Martini wasn’t Rose.

Rose
did her best to find trouble, tried to fix things without asking for help, and nearly
burned in the fires she started.

Martini
stumbled into her trouble, but her winks, smirks, and confidence mini-skirted most
of the dangers. But a flirty flash of leg meant nothing to Temple MC.

I
bit a profanity as she drifted too close to my healing shoulder. She wouldn’t
clean up all of me. Not without shoving the cloth in my head and lighting it on
fire.

“Thanks.”
I didn’t mean it. I pushed her toward the bed. “Get some sleep.”

Martini
eyed the bed. The silver in her eyes turned promising. I didn’t smack hard
enough against the road to punish myself for the poisonous thoughts that boiled
my blood.

Martini
was a tiny thing. Petite. Slim. Delicate. When the pain woke me in a monstrous
fury, I pinned her under me without any effort. She hadn’t tried to fight
either. She didn’t scream or tense or beat at my chest.

She
went still. Docile. Like a damned offering, warm and sweet for my taking.

I
trapped the prettiest damn creature I ever saw within my rage. I gripped her by
her throat, forced her into the mattress, and wound my legs between hers in the
most aggressive, dominating, and intimidating posture.

It
was how my father taught me to treat the gash I fucked, and it worked. I got
whatever I wanted from women. They needed me as much as my cock hardened for
them. I wasn’t gentle. I wasn’t caring. I fucked, and they welcomed whatever
pleasure they got out of being pushed down and used.

Sex
was an extension of strength. Life was a struggle, and the best arena to
dominate those weaker than me existed in the bedroom.

And
I had liked it.

Christ.
I couldn’t even look at Martini. Whether it was instinct, lust, or just pure
aggression, I hadn’t stopped when my vision cleared and I realized the
wide-eyed blonde wiggled beneath my hold.

Her
fear excited me.

Except
the press of her hips against mine, the gentle surrender of her body, and the
coy haze of her smile was one-hundred-and-fifty-one-proof trouble that didn’t
just get me drunk. It smashed me over the head with the bottle.

She
gave in to me.

And
I would have taken it.

In
another life, another time, another family, I would have leapt upon her. Even
if my arm had snapped the fuck off at the shoulder, I’d have taken her. Broken
her. The girl had nothing on my strength, no way to escape, and every reason
for me to smack that little ass if she dared to protest.

And
it made me sick. Everything inside me shriveled and dusted away with the
brimstone that awaited me when my luck ran out.

I
acted just like
him
.

The
rage burned me. I hadn’t treated women like him though. I still gave them a
choice. I waited for their consent. I took, but only because they wanted it.
Only because they
needed
it. Only because they understood and desired
the same animalistic rutting I did.

Rose
didn’t have that choice.

And
my father didn’t fucking care.

I’d
slice my own throat before I let the blood we shared heat like that again. The
instinct was always there, waiting for the chance to strike. I choked Martini
without realizing the fragile creature was trying to help me. I hardened
because she couldn’t fight back.

The
gun should have turned on me.

Martini
emptied the bucket in the sink. She washed away more of my blood than water.

“You
should sleep,” she said. “I’ll be okay.”

“I’ll
take the chair.”

“How
chivalrous.” Her hand teased over her throat, but her amusement forgave me. I
manhandled her, and she offered to flip me for the bed with a quarter she found
in her pocket.

The
girl was more dangerous than Temple MC.

A
police siren wailed in the distance. She flinched and double-checked the lock
on the door.

“Can
we be adults about this?” She sat on the edge of the bed with an inviting arch
to her eyebrow. “I won’t try anything if you won’t.”

Easier
said than done when my every instinct was to shove her into the bed, rip away
her clothes, and earn the whimpered breath wrung out from my strength.

But
my head felt like it cracked on the concrete only to cobble together with a hammer
and rusted nails. I blinked, but two of her now gestured for me to come to bed.
Just another fucking fantasy that’d get me in trouble. But my chest ached, and
my nose decided to bleed.

Fuck
it.

I
collapsed on the bed. Martini got under the covers. I might have promised to
traffic her to a violent MC, but I was still a gentleman. I gave her the
blanket, especially since I blistered in the heat of her memory under me. She
seared like the sun, and I didn’t deserve that brightness. I didn’t deserve
that excitement. I didn’t deserve to lie in bed next to such a gorgeous woman
who nearly died because of me.

“Who
were those men, Brew?” Her whisper made the darkness darker with just the
mention of my name. She didn’t give up when I ignored her. That was good.
Neither would they.

“Temple
MC.”

“They
aren’t from around here.”

“No.”
The thought disturbed us both. “They aren’t.”

“Then
why are they here?”

I
didn’t have to guess. They looked for proximity to the lake. Border-hopping was
easier with calmer waters and looser law enforcement. Better weather, less
people, smaller municipalities with fewer funds to chase the drug deals. The
region was a prime target for Temple.

“Same
thing everyone’s doing here,” I said. “Looking for work.”

“They
shot at us.”

“Yeah.”

“And
they didn’t hesitate.” She twisted to lean on her side and faced me. “They knew
you.”

“Looks
that way.”

“Why?”

“You
ask a lot of questions.”

“Someone
has to.”

I
adjusted the rock of a pillow behind my head. My shoulder roared in pain. It
needed a bed of ice and a handful of the drugs slipping across the lake, not
conversation. “You ask questions, you get hurt.”

“I
think I might get hurt either way.”

She
pulled the pin on a grenade she didn’t know she carried. If she were lucky, the
few cuts she got would be the last marks on her perfect skin.

“I
won’t let anything happen.”

“I
believe you.”

That
was stupid. I made promises I’d never keep, but false hope tasted better than
lying, and I was tired of the tang of blood on my tongue. The longer she stayed
with me, the more danger she was in. Temple wasn’t my only problem. If one
rural deputy with more donuts than brains put out an APB on my name,
Brew
Darnell
would rise from the dead and enter the crosshairs of Anathema,
Temple, and The Coup.

And
they’d target Rose.

Thorne
could explain why he hadn’t killed me, but Anathema still hadn’t healed from
the last schism. The war ended when Thorne took out The Coup’s self-appointed
president—a monster who kidnapped and hurt Rose. The false-president was tossed
in the river, but that didn’t mean his second-in-command wouldn’t leap at the
chance to unify both Anathema and The Coup under his banner. Knight was too
smart for the club, but played both sides.

Kill
off Thorne, claim Anathema for his own, and offer my ass to Temple in
retribution.

Clusterfuck
didn’t begin to describe it. The world was a constant bloodbath with no
life-preservers. We grabbed whatever unfortunate fucker happened to swim too
near us and dunked them under to keep ourselves afloat. It wasn’t personal. It
wasn’t business.

It
was just survival.

And
it was hell.

Martini
fell asleep before I did. She rolled closer to me, her body stretched out, arms
over her head, knees bent and jabbing me in the side. I didn’t move her. Didn’t
touch her. Not even when a lock of impossibly blonde hair grazed over her cheek
and hid her beauty.

I
wouldn’t leave my fingerprints on her. Bloody. Dirty. Greasy with the constant wear
of the road.

I
had five thousand dollars in my vest.

I was
owed another couple grand for transporting her safely.

Kingdom
MC choked the region, wringing out every last cent from meth and whores. They
made their money, but always spent more. Ten grand could buy Martini time.
Maybe not protect her forever, but at least keep her safe for a few days. I’d
give them everything to my name if it prevented someone else from grabbing her
throat and pinning her against a cheap mattress in the darkness of an
unfamiliar room.

It
took ten grand to let me sleep peacefully for the first time in three months,
and it was worth every penny.

But
when I woke, Martini wasn’t in the bed.

I
opened my eyes, listening to her whisper from the bathroom. Her words weren’t
the gentle promises a woman offered her lover. The floor creaked as she paced.

I
eased from the bed. Every ache of my bones reminded me I was closer to forty
than thirty. But my arm was still attached at the shoulder, and my grip didn’t
fail around my gun. I’d survive, but I wasn’t sure Martini would.

“Baby,”
she whispered. “I’m sorry. There was an accident.”

She
apologized for getting hurt. Her voice softened, meek and timid with just the
right amount of respect that soothed the asshole screaming over the phone. It
was a fake voice. She was used to dodging a right-hook with pretty glances and
compliments.

“Yeah,
I should have called. I meant to, baby, I did. But my head just got all fuzzy.”

A
real man wouldn’t have needed an explanation. The word
accident
stilled
hearts, and anyone deserving Martini’s sweetness would have cracked his own skull
to trade places with her.

Goliath
roared so loud I heard the snapping threat echo against the walls.

“Baby—listen
to me. Baby, I swear—”

She
sighed and slammed a hand against the sink.

“I
told you! We got into an accident. I’m
hurt
, Goliath. I had to find a
hotel. I just woke up, baby. I called you as soon as I could see straight.”

Damn.
The behemoth had a point. Kingdom expected her last night, but no one had
called. I pulled my phone. I missed another text, though it wasn’t from Kingdom
with a threat to slice off my balls for not delivering Martini.

The
message hurt just the same.

Are
u ok? Txt me back. I miss you! <3 Rose

“Baby,
no, don’t come here.” Martini hardened, the gentle coo lost in a brief panic.
“I’m okay now. I’ll get up there today. I promise.”

The
silence stilled her. The wall thudded. Not her hand. This time, it was her
whole body. She collapsed against the bathroom door. Her voice lowered.

The
words weren’t her own. Hollow and lost and so full of utter fear that I nearly
ripped the door from the hinges to make sure the bastard hadn’t made her cry.
“Don’t come get me. I won’t let you down. I promise.”