Mo pulled his gun free and clicked off the safety. “Let’s go.” Like an evil spirit, he dissolved into the tree line.
Grasshopper took off after him, leaving me to bring up the rear—like a rookie or some idiotic prospect.
The trees were watchdogs.
The shadows were death’s pockets to hide in.
We remained silent as we merged with the darkness, slinking stealthily through leaves and cobwebs.
Every step throbbed my head.
Every duck to avoid branches sent queasiness splashing through my skull.
Cleo was nearby and we were about to rescue her.
That was all the incentive I needed to do my fucking job as a Pure Corruption president and lover to my woman.
I’m stronger than a damn concussion.
However, the closer we got to the large wooden fence barricading Dagger Rose, the more I feared I might not be a help but a hindrance. Mo was right to put me at the back. My muscles trembled and the cold sweat of illness never let up. I could barely stomach the pain of walking, let alone running into battle and firing a loud gun.
Shit.
Moving past the glade where I’d brought Cleo, my fists tightened as I recalled her peering through the hole in the fence and witnessing her old home.
It hurt like hell that she couldn’t remember everything we’d shared, but at the same time, I was glad. Glad that she couldn’t recall the night we both lost everything.
My stomach convulsed as a rancid thought crusted my mind.
She’ll know.
She’ll remember what I did.
My father would’ve had ample time to tell her what happened. To show her the false statement and guild lies into truths.
Everything he said would reek of dishonesty—but one fact remained.
One undisputed fact that would make her hate me for eternity.
What I did was unforgivable.
I was the one who pulled the trigger.
I was the one to slaughter the two people she cared for most in this world.
How can she ever forgive me once she knows?
More pain morphed into my heart. I could barely place one foot in front of the other at the thought of her turning her back on me.
I truly would end up in hell if she cast me away.
Hopper and Mo appeared from the undergrowth, forming a wall in front of me like good footmen in war. Their large boots tiptoed, cracking twigs and scuffing falling leaves. Their bulk and the added weight of leather and denim didn’t exactly make a silent ambush.
Our jilted movements threaded with the buzz of night insects and occasional scurry of something in the bushes.
Time moved interminably slow as we made our way down and around, following the perimeter toward the main entrance where the rest of Pure Corruption had gathered.
The Pures were reliant.
I didn’t have to chase or remind. I didn’t have to second-guess or plan. The men knew what was expected and it got done.
“What the fuck?” Grasshopper muttered as we rounded the final corner.
I slammed to a halt, cursing my head as my bruised brains sloshed like chum. What the fuck was right.
“I don’t get it,” Mo grumbled, picking up the pace.
My heart thundered, panic dousing my blood as we closed the distance. Pure Corruption brothers stood congregated around the main entrance rather than hidden and preparing to attack. All but one had their backs to us, the emblem of our Club gleaming in silver thread in the darkness.
The man facing us, Matchsticks, rubbed a hand over his face before waving in acknowledgment. His huge feet flattened fallen bracken as he came forward. He was one of the tallest brothers in Pure Corruption—built like a mountain with a gut to match. Despite his size, his face was kind and unscarred, and his long hair made him seem as gentle as a puppy dog rather than vicious like a pit bull.
Something’s not right.
Fear whipped around like a hurricane inside me.
Craning my neck, I tried to see what the men were crowded around. Why do I smell smoke? Anxiety heightened. I hated the smell of burning after what’d happened.
It hurt like a bitch to arrange my face into question marks and authority. “What’s going on here?”
“Prez.” Matchsticks nodded in respect before straightening his shoulders as if preparing for bad news. His long hair did nothing to hide the beaded sweat on his brow. “We, eh—there’s been a development that we didn’t see coming.”
My eyes tightened, my vision ebbed. “You have precisely two seconds to spit it out.”
Grasshopper and Mo flanked me, pistols cocked and fingers on the trigger by their sides.
My attention darted to the Dagger Rose compound. The gates were wide open like teeth in a giant wooden skull, beckoning us into the belly of our enemies.
Matchsticks looked back at the compound. “I was one of the first here. Came as soon as I got the call from Hopper saying you were out fucking cold and your old lady had been stolen. I brought Bas and Coin, and we staked out the compound.”
My breathing climbed with every word.
“Nothing happened. We couldn’t see the girl, and nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. I swear on my life I didn’t look away in the two days we’ve been here, but somehow …”
I roared, “Somehow what?!”
Ah, fuck, my head.
“There was an explosion—about thirty minutes ago—and the front gates blew wide open. Our backup wasn’t here by that point, so we couldn’t make a move, ya know? Didn’t have the firepower to secure the scene and catch the fuckwit who did this. So the three of us waited. I got Bas to hide in one of the trees to act as sniper and Coin to wait in ambush if the entire Dagger brotherhood spilled out to dish us some cold justice. But then, well … nothing happened.”
My legs wobbled. It was all I could do to stay upright. “What do you mean nothing happened?”
Matchsticks grabbed the back of his neck, rubbing away his discomfort. He looked guilty as sin. “We gave it ten minutes—to see if they’d come out bullets blazing. But when they didn’t, we inched forward to survey the scene. And found it completely empty.”
Mo shook his head, playing with the cocking action on his pistol. “Empty? Well how do you explain the vanishing act of over forty Daggers when you were right fucking there?”
My blood pressure rose. My skull threatened to crack at any moment.
Matchstick pointed to the clustered bikers. Their leather-jacketed torsos blocked whatever they were so fascinated with.
Was that smoke in the center?
They’re gathered around a damn bonfire?
Matchsticks motioned us closer to his brothers. We followed. My hands clenched around my gun.
Matchsticks said, “We’ve done a full recon. The compound is deserted. All the vehicles are gone. Documents have been shredded; houses locked up tight. We followed the tire marks to a back exit they’d made in the north perimeter.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, stumbling a little over tree roots. “So, you’re saying Rubix and the rest of his fucking Club have pulled a runner and you didn’t catch them?”
This can’t be happening.
My temper morphed into something fire-breathing and mortally dangerous.
Matchsticks looked away, unable to keep eye contact. “She’s here, Prez.”
Every muscle instantly locked. My mind filled with horrible images. Blood. Torture. Pain.
If they touched her, I’ll do so much worse than kill them.
“They left her for you.” Matchsticks waved at the gaping entrance. “Just in there. We didn’t move her. Didn’t want to touch her, just in case …”
Mo shot forward, but I was faster.
Even with a goddamn concussion, I still outran them and shoved men out of my way. I bowled through their ranks, growling like a damn beast.
Brothers stepped aside, letting me charge through the gates of Dagger Rose and slam to a halt at the sc
ene.
The second my feet hit Dagger ground, I suffered a fleeting feeling of homecoming.
Then it was gone, replaced with heavy hatred soaking into my bones.
This place.
This madness.
This was where evil began.
This is hell.
True to form, the scene before me was worse than I could’ve ever imagined.
Cleo!
My lungs stuck together as I took in the message my father had left. I wanted to collapse to my knees. I wanted to tear out my fucking heart.
Goddammit, Cleo.
She lay naked like a human sacrifice. Curled up on her side, her legs tucked into her chest, she looked like a fallen angel—a vision of purity damaged by so much wrong.
Lying on her right, her scars and burns were hidden, displaying the mosaic colors of ink on her left. My eyes trailed from the tip of her toes to her shoulders, taking in the vibrant tattoo and intricate clues etched into her skin.
I knew the design by heart, but most of it was obscured by …
I swallowed bile.
Blood.
Her porcelain pale skin was smeared in rusty red. Splashes on her arms and legs; huge puddles patterned her face, throat, and chest.
“Cleo!” I bellowed, ignoring the screech in my skull.
Was it her blood? She didn’t look alive. Her vibrant red hair fanned out in the churned dirt, matted and clumped with yet more awful rust.
I moved to go to her, rushing toward the excruciating heat. The rest of the scene came into view. I was so consumed with making sure she was alive, my broken mind had blocked out what surrounded her.
It was the past all over again.
The terror.
The helplessness.
Fire.
“Somebody get a fucking extinguisher!”
Mo darted past me. “On it!”
Why the fuck did no one get one before?
My father had wanted to send me a message.
He’d fucking succeeded.
My woman lay unconscious in a ring of blazing fire. Even though she was naked, she was dressed in the same orange flames that’d transformed her when she was barely fourteen. Flicking flames and licks of shadows danced over her like a spell or voodoo.
The circle of fire had been conjured by a seasoned pyrotechnic. The flames were high and black smoke filled my nose, caging her in and barricading us.
My knees locked against the sudden wave of ferocity and sickening horror.
“Why did no one move her, for fuck’s sake?”
The fire wasn’t hurting her. The flames danced more like friend than foe—protecting the girl already marked by their power. But I hated the orange glow on her skin. I hated the patterns they cast as if every second they sucked more of her soul into the underworld.
“Get me a mattress, a door—anything to make a pathway.” I was done waiting. I’d walk through the fire if I had to. I had to get her now.
Matchsticks disappeared, grabbing two men to help him. The sound of a window smashing and a door being kicked overrode the crackling of the flames. Grasshopper returned first, proving once again why he was my most trusted friend and VP.
Between him and Matchsticks, they dragged a double mattress.
I moved to help, but my head held me hostage. There was no way I could lift something so awkward and cumbersome and remain standing with the pressure in my skull.
Instead, I waited for the men to drag the mattress into position. With a sharp push, they tipped it over so the large spring-covered bed smothered the fire and opened a gate.
Stepping onto the mattress, I braced myself.
Cleo moaned.
Fuck this.
I leapt.
In stolen Converse sneakers and too-tight sweatpants, I threw myself through the gap of hissing heat and slammed to a stop beside Cleo’s bloody form. The mattress singed and charred, the flames doing their utmost to devour their new enemy.
I didn’t have long before it ignited and locked us both in here.
Mo returned with a fire extinguisher.
Looking at the men from this side was surreal—as if I were already in hell and permitted one last glimpse of life.
“Shit, Prez. You could’ve waited another few seconds for us to kill the fire!”
A second was too long!
Didn’t they understand a second was fucking purgatory when Cleo was hurt?
Slamming to my knees beside her, I touched her cheek. “Buttercup?”
She didn’t move.
Her skin was slippery with blood and sweat, and hot—terribly hot.
The gushing sound of foam faded into the distance as Mo attacked the fire like a veteran. He barked commands at his brothers, rallying them into throwing buckets of dirt and any other debris they could find to kill the flames.
I blocked them out. I didn’t care.
My whole world was in front of me. And she wouldn’t wake up.
“Cleo … open your eyes for me. Please.”
Brushing her hair back, I inspected her quickly. My hands shook as I searched for the wound causing so much blood. Nothing on her neck, chest, rib cage … her skin was covered but there wasn’t a single puncture or slice. My hands trailed down her side, rolling her gently onto her back. I convinced myself it was to ensure once and for all that she wasn’t bleeding out, but in reality … I had to check.
I had to know if my father had raped her.
Clenching my jaw, I traced the muscles in her stomach down and down. Following her hip bone, I glanced between her legs.
There were no bruises, no blood … but that didn’t necessarily mean …
Fuck, please don’t let them have hurt her that way.
I could fix her physical injuries. I would make it my life’s work to ensure she was cured and untarnished in every way possible, but rape … that I couldn’t cure. That might ruin her. That would ruin me.
And I would never be able to undo the pain inside.
Unable to withstand her silence any longer, I cupped her face. My headache increased, migrating to throb behind my eyes and in my ears.
I shook her gently. “Cleo, I need you to wake up.”
Nothing.
My eyes fell to a tintype photograph peeking out from beneath her shoulder.
What the—
My heart stopped beating as I picked it up.
The picture was of all of us. Cleo’s parents, my parents, and my brother. I remembered that evening. Hot and muggy—the entire Club had come together to celebrate a windfall. At the time, I’d had no idea how they’d earned. Thorn Price wasn’t into skin trades or guns, but he wasn’t averse to drugs. I guessed now cocaine had been the explanation in the sudden accumulated wealth.
It’d been a great evening of laughter, fun, and a secretive kiss on my cheek from a bold Buttercup.
I froze.
The image wasn’t just a memory, but another fucking message.
Flipping the photograph over, I recognized my father’s scratchy scrawl instantly.
Arthur,
This is just the beginning. You thought you were untouchable, that you could outplay me. You thought you could keep her hidden. I’ve been one step ahead of your useless fucking plans the entire time.
You can take her home, but she’ll never be safe.
Not until you’re dead.
Then I’ll make her mine and give her the life she was always destined for.
Queen of my motherfucking Club, not yours.
Until the day of your death, son.
My throat closed over with anger so violent, I struggled to breathe. I hated to admit it, but I’d underestimated my father. I’d been too arrogant thinking I could wipe him out at my convenience without worrying if he had the same agenda.
I hadn’t waged war.
We both had.
Like father like son.
Grasshopper suddenly crouched beside me. Foam stuck to his mohawk from the fire extinguisher, face blackened
with soot. The flames were no match and existed no more.
Without a word, Hopper read the message. “Well, shit. Fucking bastard is more resourceful than we thought.”
I nodded, scrunching the photograph in my fist. I didn’t want to look at the image again. He’d just ruined any happy memories I had left.
“I want him dead, Hopper. I want it so fucking bad.” Looking down at Cleo, I couldn’t breathe at the thought of my father winning and taking her as his prize.
I will never let that happen.
“He’s already a corpse, dude.” Grasshopper rested his hand on my shoulder, his blue eyes landing on Cleo. “Ambulance is on its way. Thirty minutes.”
Glancing up, I noticed Mo loitering. “Get me a damn blanket.”
“Right.” Mo touched his temple in a halfhearted salute and took off into the house that’d been ransacked for its mattress.
Pressing my thumbs into my eye sockets, I wished I could pop the pressure in my head. Just lance the shit and let the pain trickle out somehow.
Keep it together a little longer.
Dropping my shaky hand, I cupped Cleo’s cheek. “Thirty minutes is too long.”
Cleo moved minutely, sending my heart racing. Her lips parted as a breathy moan escaped. Her forehead furrowed either in pain or nightmares.
Fuck this.
I couldn’t sit here and do nothing. “Where’s that damn blanket?” I muttered.
Almost as if he’d heard me, Mo appeared and tossed me a bundled up black duvet.
Crouching over Cleo, I gathered her shoulders and did my best to wrap her and hide her nakedness. Once I’d covered her front, I draped the rest over her sides and tucked it tightly beneath her. I hated the finished effect—she looked as if she were dressed in a shroud ready for a funeral pyre.
Standing upright, I towered over her. The next part would kill me. I needed to pick her up.
Don’t do this.
I ignored my inner voice. It was my job—my right—to be the one to carry her away from here. Screw my head, fuck my concussion. I would battle through the pain because sure as shit no other man was touching her.
Ducking, I scooped my arms beneath her neck and knees and inhaled hard.
“Kill, you sure about—”
Sin & Suffer Page 7
