Warlord (Anathema Book 1) (21 page)

Instead, I
closed my eyes and breathed in the wild, leather scent of the man promising his
protection and delivering me deeper into Hell.

And I felt safe.

Exorcist might
have spared my life, but I was in trouble.

Big trouble.

I didn’t have a
patch to shield me—just two over-protective brothers and a man who dreamt about
murder while cradling me close to his chest throughout the night.

Thorne and my
brothers thought Exorcist wanted to kill me. And they were probably right. One
sleepless night, a constant shiver despite Thorne’s heavy arm over my waist,
and reliving the most frightening moments of life offered me enough perspective.

Exorcist would kill
me even if I delivered the money and retrieved the drugs. His words spawned
lies, and his intentions desecrated Anathema in betrayal. If I did as he said,
my brothers and Thorne would live a little longer, but I wasn’t an idiot. I wasn’t
useful to Ex. A psychopath like him wouldn’t trade my life for an acoustic
cover of
Janie’s Got A Gun
.

That only gave
me a few days to work out a plan.

I wasn’t just in
trouble.

I was fucked.

And I had
absolutely no one to help me.

I slid out of
bed before Thorne woke and tried to drown my headache in another shower. My leg
stopped bleeding, but the cut still pulsed, raw and sore. I tangled my thigh in
a fresh bandage and hid in the bathroom until Thorne’s phone rang. He swore,
called for me to follow, and stalked downstairs to the bar. The door slammed
behind him.

Now was the time
to run. I tossed my bag on the bed and stared at the contents. A pair of jeans.
Couple shirts. Nothing that would get me far, but it would afford me a few days
head start. I didn’t own a passport. Dad never allowed it. But Anathema’s
territory didn’t expand through the entire United States. Once I was outside
their chapters, beyond where anyone recognized me, I’d start a new life. A real
life.

A life my
brothers never offered me.

A life they
never even tried to provide.

Brew and Keep thought
of nothing but the club. When I needed them the most, they let me suffer. It
was their fault I was kidnapped. Their fault I was hurt. Their fault Exorcist
used me to betray the club they loved more than their own flesh and blood.

And it was their
fault for everything Dad did to me.

I tugged the
zipper on the bag closed and shouldered it.

Why was I
considering helping them when Keep injected death into his veins and Brew
idolized Dad, even when he
had
to see,
had
to know something was
wrong?

The bag fell to
the ground, and the words tumbled from my lips.

“Why didn’t they
know?”

And why was
Thorne the one who almost figured it out?

I ignored the
pain clustered in my chest. The stinging bursts weren’t from any bruising. Just
twenty-one years of heartache and suffering, self-loathing and too much self-pity.
Enough blood spilled without losing all the men of my family to sin, addiction,
and vengeance.

The thought of abandoning
Keep and Brew struck me like a hand to the throat.

The thought of
something bad happening to Thorne stole my breath like someone squeezed until
my vision flared bright.

I followed the
shouting and warm scent of delivered Chinese downstairs. Thorne drank his
breakfast in a quick shot, but he swore and pitched the empty glass across the
room. It shattered against the wall. Scotch and Gold didn’t flinch. Keep sent a
prospect to clean up the glass. Brew was the only one who looked up when I came
down the stairs. I ignored him.

“Knight wants
his fucking
bike
back?” Thorne didn’t shout into the phone. I didn’t
know who had the power to check his temper, but I had a suspicion she had
blonde hair, a chest barely contained by her corset, and every last member of
the MC caught within her web. “You think I give a damn what that bastard
wants?”

Scotch waved him
down, stabbing his chopsticks in the container of fried rice. “It’s more than a
bike, Thorne. They’re sending Knight to talk.”

Thorne sneered. “That
bike is Rose’s goddamned
war-prize
. They want to talk? Tell them to send
over Bounty’s scarred fucking head on a pike or the next time we
talk
I’m going to carve out my demands on his face.”

“Bounty ain’t got
nothing to do with this,” Scotch said.

“Bounty and I
have a score to settle. Rose’s got more bruises than I can count and a cut on her
thigh that almost gave her a Brazilian.”

Brew’s voice
grunted like he spent most of the night in a bottle of whiskey. “What the fuck
are you doing that close to her thigh?”

Thorne didn’t
answer. Keep and Brew looked to me. I had nothing to say to them, not now, but
my face warmed anyway. I shut my mouth and grabbed the pint of Chinese out of
Brew’s hand. General Tso’s. Wasn’t like he ever ordered anything else. He
frowned, but he abandoned his meal and reached for a container of fried
dumplings instead.

Thorne hadn’t
put a shirt on yet, and I tried not to watch as every muscle in his chest
tensed in thinly veiled rage. The tattooed bands lashing his pecks couldn’t
contain his wrath.

“Why the fuck
are you involved, Lyn?” His hand squeezed the phone until it cracked.

He didn’t like
the answer. Neither did the rest of the club. Keep poured him another drink,
though this time he passed it over in a plastic cup.

“Jesus Christ. Fine.
We’ll be over. You have a gun?” Lyn must have hung up on him. He pocketed the phone.
“Stupid question.”

“So now what?”
Keep bummed a cigarette from Scotch. The circles below his eyes looked more
like bruises than exhaustion, and his thin cheeks clung to his bones. A shell
of my handsome brother. “Ex wants a meet?”

“Wants to
explain
what happened.” Thorne’s smile put his drink on the rocks. “They’re willing to
forgive Rose for stealing Luke’s bike
if
she brings it back.”

Brew grunted. “Want
her to wash it too?”

Gold fished in
his lunch for another piece of baby corn. He coated it in duck sauce and spoke
with a sticky mouth-full. “Are we going?”

“They’re going
to fuck with Lyn and Sorceress whether we’re there or not. I’m not leaving her
unprotected. Not after last night.”

“This will be a
bloodbath,” Brew said. “You sure you want to do this?”

Thorne stared at
the bar for a long moment before nodding. “We give the bike back, I send a
message to Ex that Rose is off the table, we establish a boundary, and we stay
alive another day.”

“Ex doesn’t want
to talk,” Brew said. “He wants land. Territory. A reason to destroy Anathema.”

Keep grimaced. “And
the easiest way is to squeeze Lyn until we make a mistake. We need that cash. So
does Ex. We have to be there. Show of muscle.”

Thorne searched
my brothers—stared them both down until the silence wore at me and my stomach
tightened like the frets of a guitar. For as ravenous as I was, the chicken turned
to thick ash in my mouth. I swallowed, reluctantly.

“We’re going.” Thorne
finally said, watching Keep’s reaction with a frown. He faced me, and I
hesitantly met his gaze. “And you’re coming with me.”

I nodded, though
I doubted I’d make it to Sorceress before my dread suffocated me in madness. For
as much as I wanted to warn Thorne, for as desperately as I wanted to fight
him, to disobey, to run away, I knew saying
anything
would damn Anathema.
A word from me was as dangerous as Exorcist raising a gun to their mouth.

I hid my
trembling hands in curled fists and wished for the days when a failed audition
and a couple teenagers running out on the diner’s bill was my only concern.

God, I needed to
play my guitar. Any guitar. Any music.

Anything to get
my mind out of Pixie and into a hard-fought melody.

 “You okay?”

I didn’t look up
from the table as Keep passed me a can of pop and a cup brimming with ice and
fancy umbrellas stuffed around the rim. Brew watched from the bar. I pushed the
glass back and wished my voice hadn’t trembled too much to tell them to fuck
off.

“Fine. Excuse me.
I have a bike to wash.”

Gold laughed,
but Brew’s profanity cut it short. I took my stolen lunch and resolved to eat
it in my room. Thorne’s room. My cheeks flushed even though I hadn’t spoken my
confusion aloud. I needed more than some fried rice and shower to screw my head
on right. An hour with a guitar and a nap might have done me well.

A do-over of the
previous night’s freak out might have helped more.

The MC knew why
I fumed at my brothers. But I couldn’t look at Thorne either. Mercifully, he
let me have my space. He collected me only once the sun set and it was time to
walk right into the trap I knew Exorcist created for us. He didn’t say anything
about my freak out, just tossed me a helmet.

“You feel like
driving Luke’s bike up?”

My nails tapped
over the helmet. “How do I get back?”

“Ride with me.”

“I...I wouldn’t
like that.”

“I’ll keep you
safe.”

“I don’t like
bikes.”

“So?”

I sighed. “If
you want me to trust you—”

“I didn’t say
anything about trust.” Thorne’s stare hardened. “Fight me if you want. Get
pissed if you want. I don’t care what you think. I’m keeping you alive.”

“Sometimes you
can be an ass.”

“I’m just saving
yours, sweetheart.”

I hated that he
was right, but I didn’t belong on the back of a stolen bike. Even with Thorne
offering his protection, I’d take five hundred miles of open road over the
danger tucked inside the neon lights, curtained halls, and rock-star
extravagance of Sorceress.

We left Luke’s
bike in the far corner of the lot, far from Anathema’s rides and the prospects that
guarded them. My brothers crowded me. I escaped from the bike while they were
still parking. They called my name, but I hurried and followed Thorne into the
waiting den of debauchery.

I didn’t know
what I expected, but Sorceress wasn’t a one-way ride to hell. Instead, the
pumping R&B, polished stage, and shining gold poles shared equal floor
space with cushy leather chairs, a cherry-wood bar, and a special VIP section. I
imagined what waited behind beaded curtains and the armed guard wearing an
Anathema vest.

No drunken thugs
lunged themselves at the lone brunette rocking her hips to a song with too much
bass but plenty of teasing rhythm. I ignored the dancing in favor of the
equipment behind the entertainment. A drum kit. Amps stashed in the corner of
the stage. I glanced up. Beyond the disco ball, the room was wired for music.

Interesting.

Thorne pointed
my brothers, Gold, and Scotch to the floor. The few genuine patrons fled as Anathema
descended on the tables. The dancing girl groaned as they escaped. She answered
Keep’s request with both middle fingers, clawed the pink feather boa from the
ground, and stormed backstage.

“Unless you plan
on dancing, keep moving.” Thorne whispered. “After that show last night, I’d love
a private dance.”

His hand crushed
mine, but I kept quiet. I feared what I might have said. A comment like that
deserved a slap. Instead, I imagined his threat made reality—his stare, the
feel of his hands against my thighs, the taste of his lips.

The taste of
other parts of him.

I endured the
shame of throwing myself at a near-perfect stranger. Even if he saved my life, even
if he listened with perfect attentiveness to my set, I had no right to offer
what I nearly gave him.

So what was with
my regret?

The promise in
his voice, the playful threat, and the unrivaled challenge of his desire warmed
me into a halo of pink. His strength pulled me through the club. The muscles
under the black tee shirt strained, and the scarred demon on his cut sneered
with the same violence and passion of Thorne’s touch, kiss, and caress.