Craving Control (Black Shamrocks MC Book 6)

by Kylie Hillman

  The day I caused her pain, and it fed my monster’s appetite.

  The day I discovered she loved another man, and I decided to destroy her.

  The day I tried to kill her, yet the thought of living without her made me cry.

  The day I shattered her soul by breaking her body, mind, and spirit.

  The day I came back to steal her, and she ended up breaking me.

  The day I underestimated her, and she finally pulled the trigger.

  The day I admitted I couldn’t keep hurting her, and I died to set her free.

  Today.

  THE END

  Thank you so much for reading Craving Control, a Black Shamrocks MC Companion Story. I hope you will consider leaving a review on your retailer of choice. Now, flip the page for a sneak peek of Seizing Control, Black Shamrocks MC Book One.

  PROLOGUE

  Lainey

  “When something bad happens, you have three choices. You can let it define you, let it destroy you, or you can let it strengthen you.” ~Unknown~

  This has been my motto for the past four years. I was certain I’d proven to myself, and anyone who mattered, that I’d let my past strengthen me, not destroy me. I’d survived every woman's worst nightmare and I was still standing. I was chasing my dreams, my family was thriving, and so was my relationship. As far as I was concerned, I exemplified the positive essence of the saying.

  Unfortunately, everything I thought I’d overcome was about to rear its ugly head. He refused to stay in the past where he belonged. He was determined to conquer me and keep me for himself—to control me, alienate me from my loved ones, and force me to submit to his will. His latest attack was going to prove his most lethal, and he was going to teach me that, even though he hadn't destroyed me in the past, he had absolutely defined me.

  ONE

  Lainey

  Cutting the engine, I breathe a deep sigh of relief as I lay my head back on the headrest. Organised chaos is the only way to describe the situation at work today. I love my job, but I’m bone tired. My back hurts from sitting most of the day, and I have a throbbing headache from spending too much time reading obscure briefs and debating vague angles.

  Grabbing my phone to text Mik that I’m home, I find thirteen missed calls from him and four messages telling me to wait at the office until he gets there. Just my luck. I forgot to turn my ringer back on. He’s not going to be happy about my lack of communication. I’m going to hear all about it when he gets home.

  In my defence, I switched my phone to vibrate to minimise interruptions during my back-to-back meetings this afternoon. Namely his interruptions, since my headstrong man doesn’t respect the rules of traditional workplaces. He calls and texts multiple times a day, even when I’ve told him I’ll be too busy to talk.

  The thought of the overreaction I’m going to face when he gets home brings a cheeky grin to my face. The phrase “Control Freak” was coined to describe my fiancé. I can hear his low, gruff voice already, lecturing me for not waiting for him and not returning his calls; for putting my phone on vibrate in the first place. Then I’ll be lectured for leaving work without an escort, and for taking what he deems “unnecessary risks” with my safety.

  I completely understand where his protectiveness comes from, although it does grate at my need for independence at times. Because I understand Mik’s need for strict safety precautions—having barely survived what happened when I was eighteen—I don’t often step outside his carefully constructed lines on purpose. Not listening this time is purely due to forgetfulness and exhaustion. It’s unfortunate, but it’ll end up being worth it since every lecture he gives me ends with us tangled around each other in bed. My stomach tightens with delighted anticipation of how this evening is going to end.

  Buzzz.

  Buzzz.

  I'm jolted from my thoughts by my flashing and vibrating phone. I decline the call in favour of sending a text, not wanting to deal with the beginning of his tirade over the phone. Mik is much more receptive to my feminine manipulations in person.

  ME: Already home. Just saw your messages. Sorry xx

  A reply flashes on my screen less than a minute later.

  MIK: OMW.

  His abruptness leads me to think that he’s texting me as he rides his Harley. I can picture him weaving in and out of traffic in his rush to get to me. Shaking my head at the dangerous habit I’ve been unable to get him to break, I pull my keys from the ignition. The chronic worrier always returns my texts and calls straight-away. He’ll always drop whatever he’s doing to be with me, should he feel the slightest inclination that I might need him. Gratitude fills me that, four years after he saved me, he’s still as protective as ever.

  It’s unusual not to have Mik, or one of the enforcers, pulling into my driveway right behind me. I normally have an escort to and from work each day and I wonder what was so important that none of them were able to be here with me.

  Summoning the energy to get out of my car, I pull my oversized work bag out behind me and wander to the mailbox. Pulling out the envelopes and flipping through them, I find that all but one is addressed to Mikhail Kennedy—as always, his detested given name makes me laugh. One single piece of mail isn't addressed to either of us. The plain white envelope is unsealed. Tipping the contents into my palm unearths a USB with Lainey scrawled on it in black lettering. As I'm contemplating it with growing unease, a white work van pulls across my driveway.

  “Hey, miss, are you ready for us?” The big man in the passenger seat yells at me, leaning out the window.

  “What do you mean?” I reply, walking toward the van, my thin heels clicking on our concrete driveway. I slip the USB and Mik’s mail into my bag and sling it over my shoulder. A sliver of foreboding runs through my mind, manifesting as an icy shiver that flows through my body. I carefully edge my right hand into my bag and wrap my fingers around the butt of my handgun. My illegal, unlicenced handgun.

  Stopping a few metres from the van and cocking an eyebrow, I wait for a response to my question. Almost unconsciously, my thumb begins to play with my engagement ring, a nervous habit I've developed since Mik slid the ring on my finger just over a year ago.

  The man in the driver’s seat starts speaking, but I can’t hear him. He’s gesturing toward a piece of paper in his hand. Considering signage for a plumbing business decorates the side of the van, I decide they must have the wrong address. Giving myself a mental shake for being suspicious of nothing, I pull my hand from my bag and walk to the passenger window.

  “I didn’t book a plumber.”

  “We know.” the driver sneers, a sinister smirk crossing his face.

  My heart lurches at his tone, chills running down my spine, and I turn to run. Two steps are all I manage before the van’s side door bursts open and two men leap out, each latching onto my arms, and dragging me kicking and screaming into the van. They slam the door shut as the van drives off at high speed, wheels squealing.

  Screaming at the top of my lungs, I fight for my freedom with all I have. I manage to kick one of my attackers in the face before I feel a sharp pinch in my arm. Twisting around, I see an empty syringe sticking out of my bicep. That can't be good. My head grows fuzzy and my eyesight starts to dim. In the developing drug-induced darkness, I vaguely hear a man whining.

  “Fucking bitch made my nose bleed. Fuck.”

  Turning to search for the source of the comment, I’m hit in the temple with sickening force, and left with no choice but to embrace the beckoning darkness.

  *

  Blinking slowly because the light hurts my eyes, I lift my head to see if I can determine where I am. I vaguely remember being carried out of the van, and then being thrown onto a bed before I lost consciousness again. It didn't feel as if I was out for long in the van, so I hope I’m close to home. Feeling slightly better at that thought, I try to make sense of my situation. Everything is muddled in my head from whatever I was injected with.

  Forcing myself to keep my eyes
open despite the pain shooting through my temple, I discover that I’m in a large bedroom. A man’s bedroom, by the look of the dark bedding I’m lying on. Male clothes lay over the foot of the bed, and the smell of cologne lingers in the air. The cologne smells familiar to my addled brain, causing my stomach to churn.

  My strange reaction to the scent disturbs me, but before I can examine why, the bedroom door opens and in strides a large, muscular man with a shaved head and black tribal tattoos covering his arms. He glares at me, hatred shining from his hard eyes. Gathering as much energy as I can muster, I glare back. I can tell he’s the piece of work I kicked in the face, the dried blood on the front of his shirt and bruising setting in under his eyes giving that fact away. I make a point of grinning at him, lifting my eyebrows in amusement as I slowly drag my gaze over his face and blatantly examine the damage I inflicted.

  “I see you’ve finally finished with your beauty sleep,” he snaps, advancing on me. “You looked pretty fuckable lying there moaning away like a bitch in heat—”

  “You touch me, and I'll have you killed,” I cut him off. I'm not bluffing. I know plenty of people who can dispose of anyone I ask them to. “Where am I? What the hell do you want with me?”

  Lashing out at him with my legs, I land a good kick to his stomach. He grunts but doesn’t slow his stride toward me. Ignoring my shouted questions, he slaps my legs down. Grabbing me by the arm, he hauls me off the bed, shaking me when I continue to struggle. My feet barely touch the ground as he towers over my five-foot eleven frame, even with the added height of my heels.

  This guy is massive, and regret fills me when he glowers down at me in rage. It’s going to hurt if he decides to turn violent. Silently, he drags me out of the room, down an expensively decorated hallway, and into an open plan living area.

  “Is he here yet?” he barks to the other three men in the room.

  They’re all equally as big and scary looking as the guy holding me. I didn't get a good look at the time, but I’m pretty sure they’re the other guys from the van. “She’s really starting to piss me off.”

  “He’ll be here in ten. We've got plenty of time to teach her a quick lesson, Duke,” the black-haired guy sitting by himself at the breakfast bar announces to the bastard holding me. His gaze travels from the top of my long blonde hair and down my face, coming to rest on my chest, which is heaving from the exertion of trying to keep on my feet during my trip from the bedroom.

  “Good idea.” Duke sneers down at me, his intent written all over his face. His grip on my arms tightens. My stomach drops and my adrenaline spikes. Backing me up against the closest wall, he rips open my satin dress shirt, exposing my blue lace bra. I instinctively struggle, albeit sluggishly because my head is still foggy, but he pins my hands above my head by holding both my wrists in one of his big paws. Groping my covered breasts without finesse, he squeezes and pinches. I’m about to knee him when one of the men sitting on the couch jumps up and pulls Duke off me.

  “If you value your fucked-up life, you won’t touch her. We’re here to snatch and deliver, not for fun,” the man states.

  Duke lets go of me as he’s yanked backward by the man speaking. Once I have enough space, I rear back and punch him in the face before kneeing him in the balls. My ample self-defence skills are rising to the surface, the residual fog from the sedative they injected into me clearing somewhat. My attack on his family jewels makes him drop to one knee. His attempts to rise to his full height are hampered by the guy holding him. Even so, he still manages to backhand me across the face, my head jerking to the side from the impact. Pain shoots through my cheek and lip, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. My face throbs, but I ignore it, choosing to make a run for the front door. Thank God, I'm able to run in heels, my movements sure and balanced, despite the lasting effects of whatever the hell they drugged me with earlier.

  Finally shaking off the guy who pulled him off me, Duke, grabs me around the waist, successfully foiling my escape. When he pulls me back against him, I throw my head back and strike him in the chin. He bellows but doesn’t loosen his hold on me.

  In the chaos, the other men rise to their feet and pull their guns. I vaguely register the weapons as they’re trained on me, concentrating instead on my struggle with Duke. I land a couple of good punches to his face and another knee to his groin. He hits me. The blows are hard enough to stun, even as I use every ounce of my defensive fight training to avoid them. I’m left reeling when I mistime my ducking and weaving. It glances off my temple, and I feel my legs turn to jelly, seconds before an unexpected, booming shout from one of the other men fills the room. Duke uses my wavering concentration to his advantage, seizing me from behind and pulling me to his chest. Using his arms to pin mine to my sides, he slides a clammy hand into my bra and kneads my breast.

  “Stop fucking touching her,” the guy, who pulled Duke off me initially orders him once more. His serious, almost professional expression matches the take-no-prisoner’s persona he presents with his crew cut, cargo pants, and khaki T-shirt. He looks like a mercenary. Pushing Duke away from me and grabbing me by the top of my arm, he squeezes tight when I resist.

  “Duke, fuck off over there and stay the fuck away from her. I won’t tell you again.” He points at the couch. Duke stares at me, intense loathing in his eyes, before he limps off and collapses on the lounge. “Cain, take her back to the bedroom and watch her.”

  He shouts this at the smart mouth from the breakfast bar before he turns his back to huddle with the man he was sitting next to when we entered. Cain salutes the order, winking at me like we're about to share a private joke. I shudder under his lust-filled perusal.

  “No problem, Stu.” The mercenary-looking man now has a name. I mentally catalogue all of them. It’ll come in handy later, I’m certain.

  The two who’ve huddled are talking in hushed tones, ignoring the rest of us. They appear to be the leaders of this group, so I assume this house belongs to one of them. My first thought when I look at them is that they have military backgrounds, their upright bearing and haircuts a good indication. Either military or MC. They wouldn’t look out of place in a cut either.

  My lingering confusion is bugging me. I can’t work out why they’ve abducted me and who this guy is that they're waiting to arrive. The only thing I know for sure—if this has something to do with my Dad’s MC—he’s going to go apeshit on their asses. It’s a cardinal rule that women and children are not involved in Club conflicts.

  Cain saunters over and grabs me by my sore arm, dragging me away from a glowering Duke. I return Duke’s glare through narrowed eyes as I'm pulled passed him and down the hall, sending a prayer to the universe that his balls hurt for at least a week. We’re nearly at the end of the hallway and out of sight of the living area when Cain slaps his hand over my mouth, pushing me against the wall. My head hits the drywall with a sickening thud, and he presses his leg between my thighs. I scream, minimal sound escaping around his hand.

  He licks the side of my face as we wrestle for control of my arms. Overpowering me after a short scuffle, he grabs my wrists and secures them above my head with one of his hands. I try to bring my hands back down so that I can defend myself, but Cain’s too strong. Using the leg he has wedged between my thighs, he lifts me up the wall, and spreads my legs with his hips. He moves between them and presses his denim-clad erection against me. My skirt rides up, exposing my lace-covered core. Feeling his hardness against me through my thin panties, I attempt to squirm away. I can’t stand the feeling of him pressed against me, so I kick him in the back of his thighs with my heels. He doesn’t budge.

  “Stop fighting me, bitch. I don’t give a fuck what Stu says. You’re too hot to hand over without tasting,” he tells me, his mouth to my ear.

  Ignoring him, I yell against his hand because I know he isn’t supposed to touch me. It achieves nothing, the sound too muffled to carry down the long hallway. He releases my mouth only to punch me hard in the face for disobe
ying. My head bounces off the wall again, shooting stars bursting through my vision. Fear that I’m going to pass out from the impact overcomes me as he roughly grabs my breasts and grinds himself against me. The world dims. Cain breathes heavily in excitement. He tastes of stale coffee as he forces his tongue into my mouth. I cringe at his invasion, despair winding its way through me like a snake that’s squeezing my internal organs.

  When his hold on my hands loosens as his groping gains enthusiasm, I wrench them from his slackening grip and lash out at him. My wild swing misses because Cain is pulled off me and thrown to the floor. I hit the ground with a thump from the unexpected loss of his weight holding me against the wall.

  I watch in a daze as a large man with dark brown hair pounds on Cain. Hope rises within me, dulling the panic that’s been threatening to choke me since I woke in this strange house, as I realise that I might about to be rescued. It dies seconds later when nobody comes to investigate the growing commotion.

  Wriggling my skirt back down my hips, I sag to the floor, clasping the pieces of my top together. My mind races matched in intensity by the trembling that’s overcome my body. Blood runs down my chin from Cain’s hit, my lip throbbing in time with my frenetic pulse. There’s nowhere for me to run because they’re blocking the hallway, and this scares me almost as much as Cain’s attack.

  Abruptly, the man stops beating Cain. Without acknowledging me, he lifts my attacker by his shirt and drags him down the hallway. A shard of fear pierces my chest as I watch him pull Cain’s prone body away with minimal effort.

  “Get this piece of scum out of my house. The rest of you can go as well. This part of the job is done. Stu will be in touch to organise the next phase.” His commanding voice sends chills through me—he’s the other guy they were waiting for. The puppet master behind my abduction. “Find someone to replace him. If I see him again, I'll kill him for touching her. She's mine.”