Knight (55 page)

But only one man wore the label declaring his legacy as president.

And he happened to be the most attractive man I ever saw.

Except he was the one who dealt with my freedom in the shadows of a heretical “church,” bargaining my safety in deals God couldn’t imagine and the Devil feared to claim.

Darkness shrouded Thorne, from the pitch of his leather to the blackness of his hair framing an expression that belonged only in the underworld of the night. He nodded toward my brothers.

“Any problems?” He spoke intentionally soft, though the words still roared through my head like the revving of a chasing engine.

“No,” Keep said.

“Were you followed?”

Brew shook his head. He didn’t say a thing. Either a form of respect or an untasted threat.

“Good.” Thorne nodded to the door. “Leave us.”

My brothers hesitated as long as they dared, but even Keep’s tensed muscles and Brew’s gruff exhale presumed too much within Thorne’s presence. They gave me three seconds—enough time for my gasped breath and an infinity of crashing heartbeats—as their apology. I didn’t know if they were cowards for leaving me or if they were smart to turn away so quickly. Thorne’s wrath was a worse consequence than the violation of their little sister.

Keep nudged me as he turned away. I ignored the touch. Thorne noticed.

“Close the door after you,” he said.

Brew swore, but Keep pushed him into the hall. The door scraped shut. The latch clicked.

I stilled. My chest weighed heavy with silenced songs and muted fear. I stared at Thorne, but I imagined more than just the man before me.

In Thorne, I saw the rushing pavement barreling toward my head.

The trail of smoke coiling from a recoiling gun.

A prince donning leathers and denim instead of a cape, searching for the princess who left her helmet at the patch-over gala.

A monster.

A devil.

A man who made my heart pound in terror and crash against my chest with the secrets I sang only in songs.

“Sit.”

It wasn’t a request. He didn’t stand or pull the chair out. He didn’t wave a friendly hand. Didn’t smile.

My refusal tasted so good on my tongue I decided to keep it clenched between my teeth. Better to let Thorne think he intimidated me than reveal the desperation simmering in my silence.

I slid across from him. Close enough to study the worn scratches on his vest, to sense the strength resting within his stretched-taut shirt, and to savor the baritone of his voice harmonizing in my thoughts.

The quiet broke me. I didn’t have the courage to stare him down, but I had more pride than to lower my head and allow his appraisal. The breathy whisper was not the pitch I wanted, but, cast upon his altar, it was fortunate I didn’t simply scream.

“What do you expect from me?”

Thorne’s gaze shifted over my body. “What are you offering?”

I swallowed. “Nothing.”

“What a bargain.”

“You wanted me here. I’m here.”

“And your brothers were very prompt.”

I savored a particularly harsh remark and tucked it deep within my chest. “They kicked my door in, packed my bags, and dragged me here.”

The twitching of his lip was a remnant of a smile that might have once been attractive—before the prison term and the violence, the responsibilities of the club and the retaliation that consumed his every desecrated breath.

“They always were loyal.”

“Right. After today, I’m not sure I would consider them my brothers.”

“We’ll see.”

The weight binding my chest only constricted my words in a hush of panic. I ignored his gaze.

“I’m not a whore,” I said.

Thorne leaned away, resting his arm on the edge of his chair. The leather cut rode stiff over his muscles.

“I didn’t call you a whore.”

“And forcing my brothers to
deliver
me to you?  In the middle of the night? Bringing me to your
bedroom
?”

“You can take your clothes off if you like. It’d make this conversation more interesting.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you stay dressed.” His eyes narrowed, a threat of chilled indifference. “I’m not going to fuck you.”

I flinched at the word, but I leapt at the sincerity in his voice.

“You aren’t?”

“Disappointed?”

“I—no.” I swallowed before my voice warbled into a new octave. “I don’t understand.”

“What’s there to understand?”

“You’re just...offering me protection?”

Thorne tapped his fingers next to the gun. “Are you refusing?”

“I don’t think I can.”

“You’d be right.”

“I’m not sure what my brothers told you—”

Thorne didn’t need to speak or move to interrupt me. The sting of his stare stole my words. “They told me everything I needed to hear. You need to be kept safe.”

“So you’re...my bodyguard?”

“Unless you’d rather be my prisoner?”

I shook my head.

“Then we’ve come to an understanding.”

“No, we haven’t. I don’t know why I need protecting. Or why you have to do it. Or why I’m even at Pixie.”

“I stay at Pixie,” Thorne said. “And you’re here because you’re staying with me.”

“Where?”

He gestured over the room.

“Here?”

He nodded.

My gaze graced his most ominous piece of furniture. “There’s only one bed here.”

Thorne grinned.

“I told you I’m not a whore.”

He didn’t look away from me. “You could sleep in the bar with all the other men tonight, but I don’t think you’d get much rest out there either. You’ve grown up...
Bud
.”

Goddamn it. I pushed away from the table, but his voice thickened with unrepentant command.

“We’re not done. Sit down.”

The chair recaptured me. I wondered if Thorne needed ropes and chains to restrain someone, or if he’d bend their own will to strap them down.

He hadn’t threatened me, hadn’t even raised his voice. But Thorne ruled as though everything he touched, everything he wanted, anyone he saw, belonged to him. And it wasn’t stage presence. Even my best performances of my own original material would be lost within his rule.

I didn’t need a patch to harbor my demons. My own scarred monster burrowed within me. Doubt. Uncertainty. Submission. It was far easier to surrender to an authority like his than it was to admit the shame of admiration I felt in his shadow.

His power enthralled me. I
envied
it. And, like everything anathema, offering myself to his will would lose me to the very hells of the world.

He studied me. He wasn’t old—only mid-thirties. His hair hadn’t even started to gray like Brew’s. He let it grow long, though his thick jaw cleared of even the faintest stubble. Meticulous with a blade. I didn’t wonder where he learned the steady hand.

“What do you want from me?” I asked.

“I was going to ask the same question.”

“Because you’re so magnanimous?”

“I live to serve,” Thorne shrugged. The rise of his broad shoulders only made him appear larger. “What is it that you want most?  If you’re a good girl, I might make it happen.”

“I want to go home.”

“No.”

“You can’t just keep me here.”

“I already am.” He offered me a heavy moment of silence while he surveyed the table. “Seems pretty damn easy actually.”

I wished his voice hadn’t carried the insult so smoothly. It layered on me, sticky.

“This is exactly what I mean,” I said. “I want to go home. I want to leave this place. I want to be rid of this godforsaken MC.”

Thorne laughed. “Why?  Anathema has been good to you.”

“Like hell.”

“You’re still breathing. That’s a perk of this godforsaken club.”

“And the only reason I might be in danger is because of
your
feud with The Coup.”

“Danger exists everywhere.” Thorne’s amusement preached a secret he hadn’t yet revealed. “Consider us...firefighters. We don’t blame the fire. It’s just our job to put it out.”

“This is not like firefighting, and you know it.”

“Enlighten me.”

“This club ruins the life of everyone it touches. My mother is dead because of the runs you organized, Keep is following in her footsteps, and Brew’s been in jail
three
times now. I didn’t even meet him until I was four years old.”

Thorne nodded. “And your father?”

I swallowed before the bile rose into my throat. “Jail too.”

“Don’t blame your family’s troubles on Anathema.”

“What family?” I asked. “The club took my family.”

“You have two brothers who love you enough to see you protected.”

“Is that what this is?  A demonstration of their
love
?”

“I haven’t smacked that smart mouth of yours yet. Consider that a demonstration of their respect.” Thorne’s jaw tensed as I adopted the silence he so desired. “Anathema hasn’t stolen your brothers. The drugs did though.”

I looked away.

“Keep’s in trouble,” he said.

I shrugged. “I guess.”

“He was clean before.”

“Probably because he couldn’t afford to kill himself.”

“And he can afford it now?”

“If Anathema’s dealing, he’s sampling the merchandise.”

“We aren’t dealing. Or supplying,” Thorne said. “And his preferred brand isn’t cheap.”

“Whatever he’s doing, he’s not...as bad as he was a few years ago. If I wanted a guitar when I was fifteen, he’d never have parted with the money.”

“But he has enough to spend now?”

My sigh tore through my chest like I expelled razor blades. “Look. I gave the money back, okay?  Ask Keep what
brand
he wants to waste it on. I won’t take blood money and I won’t watch my brother kill himself.”

“What’s Brew think?”

“He told me to keep the money and guitar.”

Thorne’s laugh was unexpected. “You and this fucking music.”

I matched his cold smirk. “You and this fucking club.”

“Careful.”

I crossed my arms. “Why am I even here?  My brothers could have watched over me. What do you want with me?”

“What if I said I wanted the company?”

“I’d find that hard to believe.”

“Why?”

“You looked cozy enough with that blonde. She wouldn’t let you get lonely.”

“Lyn?” Thorne winked. “She’s not the cuddling type. She owns Sorceress. You know it?”

“My brothers have mentioned it.”

Thorne watched me squirm. “You wanna go?”

Now I blushed. “No thanks.”

“You sure?  You could use a little fun.”

“Not that kind of fun.”

He leaned back, studying me once more. “Your dad always wanted you up on stage.”

My heart thudded to stone then shattered into dust in my chest. I hesitated, but the silence rang louder than even the most untimely cymbal crash.

“He...” I sucked in a breath. “He thought I’d end up dancing.”

I left it unsaid that it was what he
hoped
for me. Thorne perked an eyebrow.

“Dad didn’t like me going into music.”

“But you did anyway.” His voice rumbled, the quiet before the gravel peel out and race. “Rebellious, aren’t you?”

“I’m good at what I do. Nothing is going to stop me from succeeding.” I met his gaze, enduring the threat of steel in his eyes. “I’m going to my gig on Friday.”

He shook his head. “I’m not your brothers, sweetheart. You want a favor, you better be willing to offer me more than that fucking pout.”

“I’m not sleeping with you.”

“What a shame.”

I stood. “I will be playing this gig.”

“The club is in Ex’s territory. It’s dangerous.”

“This is my
career
.”

“Don’t have much of a career without a guitar,” he laughed.

“I’ll figure something out.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to figure it out before the next gig.”

“There won’t be another gig if I don’t play this one.”

“And there won’t be much music if you’re gutted in the middle of the street.”

I wished I hadn’t flinched. He saw it. I felt it. And part of me realized he was right. I hated that part of me most of all. And yet I let it happen. I let my brothers take me. I let a stranger dictate where I sat and when I could speak. And I was about to let a man who preferred blood to ballads and retribution over rhythm destroy the very dream that offered me an escape from the insanity of Anathema.

I didn’t need their brand of help. And I didn’t want Thorne’s sadistic charity. My family might have suffered through incarcerations and addictions, vengeance and artificial brotherhood, but I’d be damned if I’d share the same fate.

That life ended now.

Fury blurred my vision. I turned, but Thorne rose before I made it to the door. I reached for the knob. His hand slammed against the frame above my head.

“I didn’t say you could leave.”

No strumming of a guitar, beating of a drum, or raging of a thrash metal line matched the rawness of his voice, a baritone of authority that rumbled over my skin and tempted me into trembles. The banded ink coiling from his middle finger and up his arm streaked his skin with a rage of darkness. As if the thick muscles hadn’t stolen enough of my breath, the threat of the ink, just the power radiating from the black, eroded my resistance. Many men were tattooed, but the designs meant nothing beyond their imagined sentimentalities.

Thorne’s tattoos marked him. Claimed him. Blackened his blood until the branding of Anathema raced through his veins.

I didn’t turn to face him. I doubted he wanted me to move. His heat framed my body, layering me in his presence, his very scent. Leather. Salt. Shadows and pain.

I slowed my breathing, as if he sensed the fluttering of air pitched within my throat. I debated staying silent. I braced to call for help.

“You want to go to your little performance?” His words rocked me with each syllable, and I fought the urge to collapse under the weight of his intention. “Then start obeying me.”

“And if I don’t?”

The answer came suddenly. Harshly. The slap to my backside cracked the silence of the room.

I spun around, protecting my bottom more than my crimson face. Thorne captured me, his palms flat against the door on either side of my arms.