Walking The Line (Satan's Knights Prospect Trilogy Book 3)

by Janine Infante Bosco

  I love my brother.

  I’d fucking die for him.

  If he was in trouble, I’d break through locked doors to rescue him.

  Swallowing, I drop my hand away from the doorknob.

  I’d even leave his girlfriend crying in her room because if I open that door, I’m going to cross the line. I’m going to kiss her. I’m going to touch her. I’m going to fucking show her what’s inside of me.

  All that ugly.

  And I’m going to take too.

  Bottle all that beauty so when I’m in hell, I got a good fucking memory to hang on to.

  I step away from the door and walk towards my bedroom. Blood drips from my knuckles as I make my way to my bed. Dropping my ass onto the edge of the mattress, I flex my fingers. The pain soars and I grind my teeth. I repeat this motion, over and over until I can’t feel my hand. Carrie’s sobs die and I welcome the quiet as I lay down, on top of the quilt. Staring at the ceiling, I start to pray.

  For me.

  For her.

  For Frankie.

  Thou shall not covet thy neighbor’s wife.

  -Twelve-

  Carina

  It’s amazing what happens to a person when they have a moment of clarity when their hormones stop raging and they realize they picked a fight with the wrong person.

  I should never have marched into that bathroom as mad as I was, but Frankie wasn’t here, and I needed to project my frustrations on someone. Obviously, that made Nico an easy target, something he didn’t deserve. He didn’t ask to be part of this mess. He did nothing to contribute to the disaster—that’s all mine and Frankie’s doing. Nico is just an innocent bystander sent in to do damage control.

  I knew I was wrong the second I stepped foot into my bedroom and that’s why I broke down into a fit of tears. Picture being in the eye of a storm, the wind pulls you in all these different directions, trying to rip you apart but there’s one thing anchoring you. One thing saving you from being washed away by the storm.

  Nico is my anchor.

  Like Frankie needs to keep busy to remain sane, I need Nico to remain strong.

  I need his company.

  His friendship.

  His wit.

  His kindness when he doesn’t always realize he gives it.

  But most of all, I need his thoughtfulness. The little acts he does that wouldn’t be a big deal to most people but are the best part of my days. All that combined is an unexpected comfort that pushes me forward daily.

  The thought of losing that because I threw a hormonal temper tantrum is paralyzing. We can’t go back to being two strangers standing on the edge of an overpass, praying to find the light at the end of the tunnel.

  I won’t allow it.

  Pulling my bedroom door open, I pad down the hallway barefoot. I reach his bedroom and it’s really no surprise his door is open. However, the room is pitch black. I take a step inside and spot his large frame sprawled across his sheets.

  Taking in a deep breath, I respect his wishes and knock on the door. He doesn’t respond, nor does he move. My throat tightens and I knock again, this time calling his name as I do.

  “Nico.”

  Nothing.

  I move further into the room, towards his bed. As I near the side, the moonlight shines through the window and his face comes into view. My body goes still, and a harsh breath fills my lungs as I stare at him. From his eyes shut tight to the rise and fall of his bare chest, he’s beautiful in a tragic sort of way.

  That thought shakes me to my core, so much so, that it feels like a fist has been wrapped around my heart. I shouldn’t think of him like this. I shouldn’t feel something in the pit of my stomach when I look at him.

  I shouldn’t.

  Stupid hormones.

  Yep, I’m blaming everything on them.

  My mood swings.

  My thoughts.

  World hunger.

  Poverty.

  Every damn thing I can’t control.

  A little voice inside my head tells me to let him sleep, leave his room and don’t turn back.

  Run, Carrie, run.

  But like you can’t run from a storm, you can’t run from a crash either. Sometimes we’re drawn to the things we know are wrong, the things that have the power to morally destroy us. It’s those things that leave us in ruins that teach us life’s most important lessons.

  “Nico,” I call again, my hand slowly reaching out to touch his. His body jolts in the darkness and he twists his head away from me.

  Run, Carrie, run.

  I lean over the bed, squeezing his hand. A groan erupts from the back of his throat, causing me to freeze. Then, in the dark of night, he turns his head and though I can’t see them, I know his brown eyes find mine.

  I feel them.

  Burning.

  Aching.

  Begging.

  Run, Carrie, run.

  Swallowing, I reach with my free hand to flick the light perched on top of his nightstand.

  “Don’t.”

  A single word.

  One command.

  A plea.

  Don’t cross the line.

  I flip the switch and blink as the blinding light filters through the room. My vision clears and my eyes find his face, but he doesn’t meet my gaze. He’s focusing on our joined hands. I squeeze and he flinches, his jaw rigid.

  I look down and a gasp slips past my lips as I take in his swollen hand and bloody knuckles.

  “Oh my God,” I croak, lifting my head.

  Our eyes lock.

  Run, Carrie, run.

  “What happened?’ I whisper.

  “You.”

  A single word.

  Eyes burning.

  Aching.

  Begging.

  -Thirteen-

  Nico

  Even after the tears have dried and all that’s left are swollen, red-rimmed, glassy eyes, she’s still the prettiest crier I’ve ever seen.

  “Me,” she murmurs.

  I look down at our hands, noting how tiny hers look compared to mine and yet…it fits.

  She fucking fits perfectly.

  How is it possible to feel so much pain and so much fucking warmth in a single touch? Shaking my head, I try to tug my hand free from hers, but she gently moves her hand to my wrist, holding it steady.

  “Let go.”

  “No.”

  “Carrie.”

  “You’re hurt.”

  Yeah, I am and it’s not my fucking hand that kills.

  It’s looking at her.

  It’s feeling her.

  It’s knowing all I gotta do is give her hand one tug and she’ll tumble onto my bed, into my arms.

  That fucking hurts.

  “Please,” she whispers.

  “Please, what?”

  “I…I’m…,” her voice trails as her tongue slides over her lower lip. I can’t suppress the groan and when she hears it, her eyes flicker with awareness.

  She knows.

  She fucking knows she’s ruining me and she’s still standing there, touching me.

  Taunting and tempting me.

  “Let me clean your hand.”

  “My hand is fine,” I clip.

  Her eyes go from soft to hard in a flash and her grip on my wrist tightens as she lifts it so I can see. I don’t look. I can’t. My eyes are fucking glued to her face.

  That fucking beautiful face.

  “Your knuckles are split wide open and your hand looks twice the size of the other one. What if it’s broken?”

  Well, shit, I didn’t think of that.

  “My hand is fine,” I repeat, clenching my teeth.

  Her nostrils flare as she clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth and releases my wrist. My hand drops to the mattress with a plop and I flinch as the pain sears from my knuckles to my wrist.

  “Frankie and I had a fight.”

  “I don’t give a fuck.”

  “We had a fight and then I fought with you
.”

  “I said, I don’t give a fuck.”

  “I think you do.”

  Refusing to engage in this, not trusting myself, I sit up and lean my back against the headboard. I’m about to swing my legs over the side and get the fuck out of here, maybe take myself for a goddamn x-ray because I think she might be right about the broken hand thing, but she’s in my way.

  “Can you move so I can get out of bed?”

  “Did you hurt your hand because you fought with me?”

  For fuck's sake, she doesn’t stop. If my hand wasn’t throbbing, I’d move her myself. At least then I’d have a valid excuse to touch her.

  “I cried tonight.”

  My eyes move back to the ceiling and this time I send up a different kind of prayer.

  Kill me.

  Strike me fucking dead.

  Please.

  “The funny thing is, I wasn’t crying because I had a fight with Frankie.”

  “Shut up, Carrie.”

  “I was crying because I fought with you, Nico.”

  And there it is.

  The point of no return.

  When patience dies, and self-control flies out the fucking window.

  “I don’t know what’s happening between us,” she whispers. “All I know is that I’ve never felt this way before and it’s scary and it feels really wrong, but even when I try to stop it when I tell myself it’s the hormones that are making me feel these things, I can’t because deep down I know that isn’t true. I need you, Nico. Not because I have no one else or nowhere to go…I’d still choose to be here with you, burning pizza and watching Chicago P.D.”

  Christ.

  She releases a heavy sigh and lifts her hands to her face, covering her mouth. My first thought is she regrets what she’s just confessed, but then her hands drop back to her sides and she continues.

  “I know that makes me a horrible person because I love—”

  I stop her before she says the next word.

  “Don’t say it,” I order hoarsely. I swallow, forcing the lump in my throat down and clench my jaw before I continue, “You don’t give me all of that and then remind me why I can’t pull you into this bed with me, take that mouth of yours and find out if you taste as sweet as you look.”

  Shock wears on her pretty features for about a second before her eyes grow dark.

  “Please don’t be mad at me,” she pleads, her lower lip quivering as she speaks.

  I wonder if she means that for me or if it’s a plea to God.

  Maybe it’s meant for Frankie.

  She closes her eyes and a lone tear slides from the corner of one of them. I don’t give myself a chance to think, I just react as I lean forward and lift my good hand, thumbing away the tear. My hand stills on her cheek and those hypnotic eyes of hers open wide. They mirror mine, not in color, but in what they convey.

  Burning.

  Aching.

  Begging.

  My fingers slide down her cheek.

  So fucking perfect.

  My thumb grazes her lip.

  So fucking soft.

  My fingers move to the side, a gentle touch to her ear before they slide into her hair. Cupping the back of her head, I hold my breath and search her eyes.

  Burning

  Aching.

  Begging.

  I’m not sure if I lean into her or if I subconsciously pull her closer, either way, her hands land on my shoulders and she braces herself as her forehead touches mine.

  Nose to nose.

  Eyes still burning.

  Aching.

  Begging.

  “I’m losing my mind,” I whisper. “Every fucking day and every goddamn night when I see you change into this shirt and these pants.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be, I’m not because those clothes you’re wearing aren’t his, Green Eyes, they’re mine.”

  Shock filters through those green orbs and I swear to Christ, my dick twitches at the sight. Her fingers curl into my shoulders enticing a growl from the back of my throat.

  “My shirt,” I mutter as I jerk her head back and lower my mouth to her neck. My lips press against the soft flesh, parting slightly.

  “My pants,” I murmur against her throat.

  Closing my mouth, I suck on her neck. Her nails dig into my shoulders and the sweetest moan I ever heard fills my ears. My lips part again, and my tongue takes a lap over the spot where I sucked.

  “All mine,” I whisper.

  “Nico…”

  Lifting my finger to her lips, I silence her. I bite through the pain in my bad hand and raise it to the neckline of the tee. My fingers curl around the crew neck and I pull. Her grip on my shoulders slips and she falls onto me. I lean my head back and my arms snake around her as I spread my legs, and she falls between them. Her head lifts off my chest and my hold tightens around her as she stares up at me from beneath the fringe of her lashes.

  I feel her belly press against me, and I close my eyes.

  The spell is broken.

  Reality settles in or maybe it’s my conscious resurfacing.

  “We can’t do this, Carrie,” I murmur, opening my eyes. She doesn’t say anything at first, but after a moment passes, she nods.

  “I know.”

  Neither of us sound very convincing and need a reminder of why, so the words that come next are words not of choice, but rather words of survival.

  “Say what you were going to say before I stopped you.”

  Understanding flickers in her eyes and she swallows.

  “I love him,” she croaks.

  Inhaling a sharp breath, I nod. Then I press a kiss to her forehead and sanction every bit of strength in my body. I roll her off my body and get out of the bed. She stares at me with a lost expression on her face and I back away from the bed.

  One step.

  Two.

  Another.

  “Nico…”

  “It’s all good. I’m going to…” my voice fades as I lose my will to speak. I lift my bad hand and point to it with my good one. “I’m going to take care of this.”

  She shoots up in the bed, ushering back until she’s flush with the headboard. Panic floods her features, and she begins shaking her head violently.

  “Wait. No. You can’t…things can’t change between us. Nico, please…I know it’s selfish, and I promise you, I hate myself—”

  She’s fucking breaking me.

  Tearing me straight the fuck apart.

  “I’m not leaving, Carrie, but I need a minute.”

  I need a fucking year.

  On another planet.

  She breathes a sigh of relief but doesn’t move. Instead she settles into my bed and lays her hands on her stomach. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t want to upset her and tell her to leave, but I just sucked on her fucking neck and reminded her why we can’t take this any further. I need her to leave, but her eyes…those fucking eyes are going to be my damnation because they tell me she needs to stay, and my body and soul seem to be trained to do whatever it is she needs.

  “Do you want me to help you clean the cuts? I saw an ace bandage under the bathroom sink, I can wrap your hand for you.”

  Fuck no.

  Let the thing fall off.

  I can live without a hand.

  “I’m good. So, you’re gonna stay here, then?”

  In my bed.

  “Is that okay?”

  Eyes aching and begging.

  Fuck my life.

  “We can watch an episode of Chicago P.D.”

  Her fucking nipples are harder than the peaks of glaciers and she wants to watch television in my bed. Either she’s fucking crazy, or this is Hell.

  “Please, I just…I need to know it’s not going to be weird between us. We can go downstairs if you’re more comfortable.”

  That’s the best idea she’s had and yet, like a fucking a clown, I shake my head.

  “It’
s fine,” I croak. “I’ll be back, okay? You want anything? Water? Crackers?”

  Perhaps a fucking lobotomy?

  If we’re lucky, we’ll get two for the price of one.

  “Just my best friend.”

  Fuck, those might be the sweetest words she’s ever said to me.

  They’re also the ones that cut the deepest.

  “Season three, episode two. Pull it up.”

  A smile spreads across her face as she reaches for the remote on my nightstand. I turn and leave the room. If I wasn’t already down a hand, I’d drop my fist into another wall. Instead, I make my way towards the bathroom. I collect my thoughts, or at least I try to. It doesn’t work, so I give up and glance down at my hand. The thing is mangled. I bet my dick it’s broke but leaving Carrie to drag my ass to the hospital isn’t in the cards, so I clean it up and wrap the bandage around it.

  After my hand is wrapped, I muster up enough nerve to go back to my bedroom. I freeze in the doorway, finding Carrie fast asleep in my bed. The smart thing to do would be to go downstairs and sleep on the couch.

  Guess who is dumber than a bag of rocks? This guy right here.

  I turn the light out, climb into my bed and lay still as a statue. Then I turn to her, tell myself I may never get another chance and drape my arm around her. She curls into my body and I press a kiss to the top of her head.

  She fits.

  She fucking fits perfectly.

  “I think I need you too, Green Eyes.”

  -Fourteen-

  Nico

  There will be a one-way ticket to Hell waiting for me when I take my final breath, fate sealed it the moment I woke up with Carrie in my arms. I hadn’t touched her, not the way I wanted to. Not even close.

  I didn’t kiss her either.

  But I sure as fuck got a taste of her and this morning, my dick liked having her round ass nestled against it. It gave new meaning to the term morning wood and before I fucking devoured her; I dragged my ass out of that bed like it was on fire.

  Another second and it would’ve been.

  I threw my clothes on and got the fuck out of the house. I didn’t even bother to shower because I didn’t trust myself not to wrap my hand around my dick. The last thing I needed was to be jerking off to Carrie. I’d fucking groan her name, and she’d know what the fuck I was doing.