A Dark Place (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 5)

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  With his inked forearms embellished with his spiritual convictions, he catches me under the arms. “Nope, you aren’t going down, and I am not raping you. Not tonight.”

  “You’ve had to before,” I remind. “And you may again.”

  “Only because you told me to,” he defends. “You needed pain, and I provided.”

  “… Have you ever?”

  “Raped someone?” he asks as I vacantly stare at the shower wall. “No, I’ve threatened to a couple of times, but it’s not my thing. It’s a helluva threat, though. No man ever wants to think about his wife being assaulted. They buckle to my way of thinking damn quick.” His fingers glide over my slippery arms. “You better not be going back to your night with Iris when you made Goblin.”

  “I pushed too far,” I glower with horror, sobbing. “Because I was fucked up.”

  “Iris doesn’t think you hurt her, and neither do I.”

  “You accused me,” I whisper, breaking down in his arms. “You beat the fucking crap out of me, Cruz. You told me I raped her. You told me I was a junkie.”

  “And I didn’t mean either,” he whispers, gripping my guns and crying with me. “I said all of those things to get you back on the same page with me. I’d rather you were tempting that fate than being so stoically removed that I can’t get to you. I don’t know the guy I’ve been with since you went in that cell with that monster.”

  “I am the monster!” I bellow. “I am no better than him!”

  “You are better than him!” he roars. “You always have been, and I would rather you get lost than pretend to be something you’re not. You are not Cesario. And you are not Nico. You are mine.”

  “Make it stop, Cruz,” I agonize, begging for relief. “Make it stop! Turn off the voices inside my head telling me things I don’t want to hear anymore.”

  “I’m not sure I can send you back to Italy,” he remarks, holding me up. “You’re hurting hardcore. Between the injury to your hands, seeing Nicky, staying in Kaci’s loft, dealing with Iris, and my gift of Pharm, you’re too far gone.”

  It’s nice that he’s keeping an accounting of all the obstacles, but it’s none of those things.

  This is deeper—and so much darker.

  “Maybe that is just where I need to be.”

  His Ride

  With his head on my arm, I stroke his hair and spoon him. He’s calm and sleeping as I eye the bag of lactated Ringer’s and the empty syringe laced with benzos on the nightstand.

  Blame me.

  Things don’t always have to make sense.

  I would have lost my shit just after enduring one of his recent traumas. He’s dealing with too much, and his mental structure isn’t capable of this much overload. Too many unknown variables. Too many emotions are linked to the physical.

  I don’t blame Sal for being so out of sorts that he’s shutting down. It’s not weak to admit he needs an outlet; he’s not wrong to use me as the grounding mechanism.

  I fight years of abuse in his head and heart every fucking day. I fight the voices that make him less than the man I love.

  And I do it out of reverence. He is my sanctuary and my steeple pointing upwards to the heavens. He holds forgiveness in my sins. And I am not talking about the evils of loving another man, but the sacrifice of taking another’s life.

  With all the new promises freshly bundled in tiny blankets coming into our world, we’re thinking a lot about death—what it means and when it is deserved because we can’t have one without the other.

  There must be a balance.

  A risk exists in every reward, and a chance suggests that I may have opened Pandora’s box with one needle.

  But he’s scaring me.

  I am not ready to call Daddy Dom to come and save his beloved son. I need to prove that we can do this without his guidance because he won’t be sitting in the Swamp Shack with Iris and me. And therein lies the pulse, flowing vibrant red, quaking just under the skin.

  My phone lights up on the pillow. “Is he better?” she texts. “Or do I need to postpone?”

  With one finger, I peck out a response and hit send. “Go beautiful. I got him. I will be there as soon as I can be.”

  “I’ll be waiting. I love you, Deacon.”

  “I love you, Lotus.”

  I am the messenger, the repairman, and the nurse following specific orders of a supreme celestial being—an Angel guiding my Saint. Together, we shield the crusaders and surrender his soul to the shadows.

  “What do you mean he is freaking out?” She yelled on the phone, “How bad is he?”

  “It’s bad enough that he isn’t feeling anything.”

  “Give him a hit of pain.”

  “We aren’t close enough for that to be effective,” I replied, almost embarrassed. “I tried to get him out of it in Houston. Nothing is working.”

  “Drug his ass,” she suggested. “Put him to sleep for a while. He’s probably exhausted. Let him get some rest and reboot.”

  “You want me to…”

  “Yes, Deacon! Do it,” she pleaded. “Please, as his wife, I am begging you to shut him down.”

  Carefully, I slip my arm out from under his head and get out of bed. Walking around to the other side, I remove the line without disturbing him.

  I’m in love with the mess of a man. He’s up and down, addicted and sober, crazy and sane, angry and gentle. He is all of those things and so much more.

  And I love every fucking minute with him.

  I bend down and kiss his cheek. “I love you, Lucas.” He moans and moves. “Sleep well, sweet prince.”

  “Dark…thank…you.”

  “You’re welcome, sweet dark prince.”

  “Bed,” he mumbles. “Now—ala.”

  There’s my boy.

  “What are you doing?” I yell as he sprints upstairs. “You have a flight in two hours for Italy!”

  Grinning like the devil, he tosses his shirt at me. “Come and get it, biker boy!”

  “I put your ass to sleep, and now you’re a horny bastard?”

  He rips open his jeans, flicks a brow, and taunts. I cannot help but stare at the prize package tucked in the denim. Damn. Just damn. He’s hard, pursuing me, and I’ve never been more delighted. “You know you want this dick.”

  “You have no idea,” I affirm, climbing the stairs. “But you’re going to have to move your flight.”

  “I don’t fucking care,” he says as I reach the top, and he twists his tongue into my mouth. “I’ll be late. Thomas can wait; my cock can’t,” he exaggerates as I blush, smirking. “Stop adulting and be bad with me for one hour.”

  He rubs over my erection and undoes the zipper. Spitting on his hand, he strokes my shaft good a few times. “Fuck…”

  Leashing my cock with his hand, he walks back to the bedroom. With his sexiest bedroom eyes, he prods, “Follow me. Love me. Come with me.”

  “I fucking love your ass, Raniero.”

  “I am aware, Cruz.”

  “And I am so scared that you’re going to lose your shit over there,” I admit as we turn into the bedroom. “What if I am not there to pick you up?”

  “You will be there as soon as you can be.”

  “Do you honestly believe that?”

  “I do,” he announces, showing off his ring. The swelling finally went down enough that he could get it back on. Maybe something so trivial…something so substantial…triggered his landslide. “For better or worse.”

  71

  The Sway of One Lotus

  His Ride

  With the windows open, we drop our clothes to the floor in the late afternoon sun. We’re standing naked, about a foot apart, and staring at one another.

  “I don’t want to do this without you. None of it. Not life. Not Iris. Not the baby. And maybe that makes me a terrible human being, but you are the one who holds me up.”

  I smile and glance at the floor. My eyes drift over his body like a peaceful ocean wave lapping at the shore. I st
art at his feet and move up, enlivened by the sight of his muscular legs with pronounced definition and precise ink. Calves and thighs strong enough to kill a man. Bold enough to break a man.

  Me.

  In two.

  Pieces.

  “You are the better part of me,” I whisper, biting my lip and holding back tears. “And that is never going to change.”

  With a serious tone, he asks, “Do you know what scares me?”

  “Becoming like him.”

  “I try…” His voice hitches. “I try imagining what that must have been like for everyone else being programmed by his ways—being inflicted by his pain. We all knew the reality. And it wasn’t about being involved in the mafia. God knows, I understand the violence that can bring. This was more substantial than anything I can put to words. He has no soul or any sense of right or wrong.”

  I bravely extend my hand. “I will be your compass. I will point you North and not let your path diverge. We’re going up, baby. Up to the heavens. We ain’t going down. Don’t for one-second think we’re cursed to eternal damnation because of this. At the core of it all—this is about who you are, the man you want to be, and if I thought you didn’t love me…if I thought you didn’t want or need me, I would walk out that door right now and never look back.”

  “You’re naked, Cruz.”

  I close my eyes and grin before shaking my head. “You know what I mean.”

  “Though this is New Orleans and stranger things have happened than a hot blonde guy walking down Bourbon Street buck ass naked.”

  “Yes,” I acknowledge, smiling with my lips held tight. “I don’t want to put you on that plane.”

  “I’m going to kill some people.”

  “Who will you kill, Sal?”

  “People who shouldn’t exist,” he says as I nod. He scratches at his goatee. “I’ll ask myself, what would Saint do?”

  “Saint would go on a murderous rampage!” I grin ear to ear. “And then I would demand you suck my cock, and it would somehow absolve it all.”

  “Is Kit right? Are we bad guys with a moral compass?”

  “I don’t think I am bad,” I mutter, shifting glances from the painting to the window. “I don’t want men like Cesario Raniero and Javier Diaz forgiven for their crimes. They need to be eliminated, and I will serve the punishment. I am the executioner, the reaper, and the rogue hidden in your shadows. And if that makes me the bad guy, then I guess…I’ll be your bad boy.”

  “Be my bad boy, Cruz,” he effortlessly demands. “And suck my cock, Saint.”

  The Butterfly

  “Do you have everything?” she asks in the hotel room. “Passport, cash, lip balm?”

  In my oversized black sunglasses and hat, I reply, “Yes, Amber. I have everything I need.”

  “The plan is to send you with Navarro to just south of Matamoros. You will change hands multiple times.”

  “When do I know it’s time to get out?”

  “Woman’s intuition,” she reassures, gripping my hands. “Follow it. Trust it. Don’t ignore it. If you have to get out, call me. I will initiate a plan to extract you. Gabe will meet you outside of Mexico City.”

  “We’re driving straight through?”

  “Yep, no stops for Mama. You ain’t got time for sightseeing, sweetheart. Get in. Work your magic on Muerte. Get the fuck out.”

  With a nervous smile, I ask, “Does this bastard never leave Mexico?”

  “The last time he left Mexico was in 1990.”

  “The year Sal was born,” I mutter, feeling a wave of nausea, as I toss my hat and sunglasses to her. “Oh, God…”

  “Iris!” she yells as I run to the bathroom and throw up. Her hand is on my back, rubbing slowly with one hand, as she turns the water on and dampens a cloth with the other.

  Bent over the toilet, I mumble, “Two hands doing different things.”

  “Two hands need not be synced.” With a maternal tone, she advises, “One hand to hit the button. And another to open the door. One hand to undo your blouse. And another stroking his cock. Use both hands.”

  “I have to find the rhythm in all of this mess,” I say, looking into her eyes. “Your child with Deacon would have blue eyes.”

  “I’m not having a child with Deacon,” she maintains. “We are coworkers having an affair.”

  I lean in close and whisper, “You should cavort often with him. He looks good on you.”

  “I might when all is said and done,” she giggles. “But I need you in Navarro’s car.”

  “If I wasn’t pregnant, he could’ve brought his bike.”

  “You should not trust boys on bikes,” she informs, continuing her tidbits of wisdom. She’s become some sort of older sister, dear friend, attendant in waiting, really good at eating pussy girl, and every time I need her for anything, she always comes running to my side. She is the most present of any of the former Unholy. She is pandering for her position, making her plight through the wife, but I don’t mind. She can use me, and I will use her. “They’ll break your heart every time.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Her mouth opens and closes several times. “There is a meeting that is going to happen in the Middle East soon.”

  “And you are going for Sal?”

  “I am,” she confirms. “He’ll be there.”

  “And what is the plan?”

  “To kill Dale Archer in Dubai.”

  I take a deep breath and spit up again. “He’s going to kill you.”

  “I’m not doing it,” she says, gripping onto me. “Salvatore is…”

  “He’s an assassin.”

  “I’ve seen it,” she mutters. “He put Virginia Archer in the grave, and he is determined to take out her son for his grievances.”

  “He told you this?” I ask as she nods. “And will you be there to catch his fall?”

  “I will be there for whatever he needs.”

  “If you fuck my husband, whore,” I warn, taking the cloth from her hands. “You best make it worth his cum.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Do not fuck him over.”

  “I’ve learned my lesson, Lotus,” she reassures. “I will be a good girl.”

  “You do this, and I will make sure Deacon Cruz knows exactly how much I love you.”

  The Master

  The wind shifts, blowing a heavy current through the bedroom and elevating the sheer curtains high into the air.

  I need wind.

  I want to soar.

  My fist clenches into his long locks as I buck and moan. His mouth glides over the hardened ridge with devout conviction. Our past actions no longer define us but clear a new path, navigating through treacherous terrain.

  Everything matters more. Means more. Demands more. There are children—our babies—at stake and wagered on the line in the sand.

  Don’t cross it, fucker.

  I won’t threaten, not even once.

  There won’t be a warning shot like the drop emanating from the tip of my dick into his mouth. His eyes close, savoring my essence.

  I’ve wandered around the planet for over a decade, trying to demystify the power, greed, and incomprehensibility in another’s actions. I’ve reckoned my losses and won battles with a graceful decorum. I am not an asshole of an opponent.

  One must lose.

  There can only be one victor.

  And the fates bestowed a gift in Victor’s son. I should’ve recognized the parallels. I would’ve been here a decade ago.

  In my journey, I wanted to know when the moment would hit. When would I become what I feared? When would I be free? And when would I be me?

  The twenties are the hardest and worst of times. I’m ready to bid them farewell. I’m looking at the crossover to thirty, and fatherhood awaits right around the bend, up ahead, and always hanging on the left.

  I cannot fail this time.

  No matter what else is going down or what shrapnel is rebounding off of my skin and leaving burn
s, I must isolate and focus on the one.

  My hand slips to the nape of his neck, and under my palm, I feel the chain of his belonging. This man is mine. This man, with his mouth nursing on my dick like my milk is the only thing that can cease his hunger.

  I must feed him.

  I expected a party, champagne, and a frivolous celebration when I took my throne. I expected waves of congratulations and flowers and cigars.

  I didn’t know my moment of realization would arrive in the wreckage of a home, with a Saint gulping every ounce of what I had to give as a man down his throat.

  “I’m going to come, Cruz.”

  His right hand skims over my hip and abs. I reach for him and latch onto his hands like they are the only thing that can save me from the storm.

  He needs me; I need him.

  “Stop,” I yelp, backing away as he pants with a sheen of perspiration. “Not like this.”

  “Get on the bed and spread your fucking thighs, Capo.”

  His words cause a slight upturn from the corner of my mouth as I do as I am told. Not because I am beneath him, but because he wants what is best for me.

  “You’re the only one who gets this.”

  “I better be,” he growls, kneeling on the bed. The mattress wobbles with his weight bearing down upon it. He’s crawling to me. He’s servicing me. “Or my hands will drip red.”

  His Ride

  I prop my wrists upon his knees and take a deep breath. We’re making rounds of love with every kiss, every touch becoming more monumental than the one before. We’re building, arching up, to reach the heavens because we won’t ever have the gift of coalescing our elements to breed and skyrocket home. Our ticket up is in the intimate bond of this love.

  A love so right that it could never be wrong.

  We cannot share everything, but we can come damn close.

  My fingers brush over his cheek as I linger over his flesh. We’re not truly here, like this. We’re somewhere else, a million miles away. We’re captured in the cortex and held by the physical being’s confines, but that isn’t who we are. The ink on my skin is a reflection of my heart and mind. And this body should be the same, but it isn’t.