by Marata Eros
Guts churning, I carefully scoop her off the bed and against my side.
“Stop,” she says as tears roll down her face.
“Why?”
“Hurts.”
“How about I don't give a shit?” I hike my eyebrows.
Her gorgeous golden eyes, shot through with vivid green, look into mine steadily. “Then please kill me. Don't let that other man do anything to me. Just kill me and take Calem to the police. Please.”
I feel my frown. Now she's got me thinking. Kill her? I don't think so. Protect the kid—well, hell yes. That's a given.
“I might throw up again or pass out. At least, that's how it usually goes.”
My face swivels to hers, and we stare at each other for a frozen moment.
I can tell immediately from her regretful expression that she didn't mean to say that particular comment and would do anything to take it back. In a quiet, slow voice, I ask, “How it usually goes?”
Finally, she nods. “It's not my first time.”
Who the fuck has beat her up like this before?
Arlington shakes her head, then dumps it against my chest. Protectiveness surges through my body.
Fuck.
It's just how most men are hardwired: not to hurt women. It goes against everything for this particular man.
And lots of others. Except maybe Storm.
I'm in so much fucking trouble here.
“Dizzy,” she whispers.
Right. “Okay, we'll shuffle to the bathroom.”
I take a step, more or less hauling her beside me.
Then she just collapses.
I catch her, and she screams in pain as some part of me makes contact with her rib.
Fuck this. Bending, I put an arm behind her knees and her back then stand. Her head rolls to my bicep.
Thank God for working out. She seems to weigh nothing because I work my ass off to be strong.
And... because she's just that tiny.
I gaze down at her.
God damn, am I in a world of hurt.
Walking through the door of the bathroom, I'm really glad I spent the money in here, because I wanted a place all my own after sharing the main floor with every new patch-in who came along.
The bathroom is a mini-oasis, with a large standalone clawfoot tub, a walk-in shower, and a double-sink vanity topped with quartz. It was an extravagance not typical for a basement, but looking at fifty just around the corner, I thought it was a long time in coming.
I take Arlington to the sink and hold her weight, gradually sliding her down to the vanity top.
Gripping it with small hands—deadly hands—she says, “I think I can brush my teeth.”
My eyes flick to a new toothbrush wrapped in cellophane.
“Toothbrush is right there.”
“Thanks,” she whispers, tearing off the plastic. She goes about brushing her teeth, fingers white with tension as though she's holding herself up against the counter.
Might be.
I can tell by the way she watches me she would rather die than ask for my help. Arlington swishes her mouth out with water from a cup and spills it down the drain. I hear her gulping at least two glasses of water before carefully setting it on the vanity. Our eyes meet in the mirror, and I see her thinking through her options.
Doesn't take her long to work out that she's too hurt to fight me, no matter what her skills.
Using her hands, she turns her body to face mine.
I stand, legs planted wide, arms crossed, and stare her down.
She holds her body stiff, because clearly her rib's injured and she doesn't want to move. Solid logic.
“I've got to use the bathroom.”
Right. “Have at it.” I swing a palm at the toilet. A fancy low-flow toilet with a smooth look that hides plumbing and a flusher gizmo on top of the toilet tank stands a short distance from the vanity.
Arlington's embarrassment is obvious. A dull sweep of red color rises on her high cheekbones, making her eyes glitter like citrine gems.
Hell of a lot better than that sickly pale look she had earlier. Was starting to worry me.
Which is a problem in and of itself.
Her eyes travel the five feet to the toilet. The blush intensifies. “I don't think I can use it,” she looks down, “without your help.”
Oh.
I walk over there and wrap my arm around her waist. She stifles a groan, and I loosen my grip slightly.
“Just get me there. Maybe I can lower myself down.”
It's easy to get her over there. I lift the lid and step back.
“Can you not look at least?”
I nod, but my eyes move to the mirror to make sure she doesn't rush me from behind.
She doesn’t.
In fact, Arlington can't make it. She tries three times, and on the third, she yelps.
I turn, and her soft black pants are to her knees. I'm looking at the prettiest pussy I've seen in a decade.
I get an instant boner.
Fuck me. I dip my head, looking away. But that dark-auburn patch of curls topping a perfectly smooth slit won’t leave the dark recesses of my brain.
“I can’t. I’m sorry.” Her hand is at her ribs, her breathing labored.
Swiftly, I stride over there and take her hips. Naked hips. Skin smooth and silky.
Fucking dick nods in excitement. Good Christ.
Her small hands rise, gripping my shoulders. “Lower me.”
I gulp hard. Feels like I just swallowed a bowling ball.
“Ouch!” Her hands slide to my chest.
My heartbeats start a rapid machine-gun-fire sequence, my mouth going dryer than a popcorn fart.
“I think you have to be down lower, to get me, to make sure you don't hurt me.”
Hurt her more, she means. Find it interesting she doesn't say it.
I kneel in front of her.
My eyes are staring at her most intimate part. Her hands bite into the flesh of my shoulders. The scent of her pussy, the soft organic wonderful smell, fills my nose, and I have an almost insane compulsion to go down on her.
This woman sells children to pedophiles.
That thought helps, and I pull back into myself. Gripping her hips, I lower her to the seat, and our eyes meet.
Tears of shame scald her face, and I would be an idiot not to recognize the embarrassment there.
I stand and take a couple of steps back.
A stream of urine releases from her body, and she shudders in relief.
I turn away just enough to give her the illusion of privacy and to hide my expression of lust.
Things are getting fucked up in a hurry. That’s the thing about life—a person can’t predict shit.
Like wanting to have sex with a woman you've set your mind to torture.
Chapter 9
Candice
My rib feels like a shard of broken glass diving for a lung with every breath. As a matter of fact, that could be happening.
Every movement is agony.
That could be because he has me cuffed to the bed, my arms extended high and behind me. There's no way to ease the pain. I'm just a lump of burning agony. Worst of all, my muscles are seized. If I could just relax, I think the rib injury would take a more or less backseat to the immediate future.
We're on a first-name basis now.
Me and Viper.
I went pee and had some water. Got to wash the puke taste out of my mouth. Twice.
Now, I'm lying in bed, and he's watching me.
“Mister!” Calem calls from the top of the narrow, steep staircase.
Viper pivots toward the child's voice.
He probably forgot about Calem. A stab of panic lances me. I can't protect him. I can't protect me.
“Yeah!” he yells up the stairs, giving me a final look before turning his broad back on me.
A breath slips out, and I sag. I don't have to feign bravery. I just have to get him somewhere that I can exploit and get o
ut of here. I take in his tall, muscular figure and feel despair trying to take over.
I can't let the emotion gain a foothold. I must get Calem out of here and to Puck.
He would kill all these guys if he knew the shape I’m in.
The wheels of my mind turn over the weapons I have at my disposal. I'm not dumb enough to not realize that Viper likes what he saw during our little toilet trip. Like every other red-blooded male, he got a load of the goods and wants a taste.
Figures, I think, mildly disgusted. But he didn't touch me inappropriately. His eyes did.
Hmmm. Difficult to follow through with hurting a woman you want to fuck.
I can use that.
Viper is halfway up the stairs when I spy Calem's little legs. “Where's Miss Candi?” he asks quietly.
“She's down here sleeping. We'll let you see her when she wakes up.”
“Okay,” Calem answers, but he sounds unconvinced.
Thank God. I don't want him seeing me bound and hurt. It'll shake what little stability he has right to the core.
“Hungry, partner?”
“Yeah,” he answers with wary slowness.
Viper trudges up the stairs, clearly intending to rustle up some grub.
I don't know what time it is. My eyes hunt for food, proof of food, or anything. Nothing. The place is so new, there isn't even a clock. It's disorienting.
I'm hungry too. That tells me at least six hours have gone by. I need fuel. Carbs.
My eyes shut. Freedom. I need that most of all.
After a good half hour, Viper reappears, and we go back to staring at each other.
He's a clean-cut guy. Doesn't have some of the obvious signs of being MC. He's tall but not overly—maybe five feet eleven. His temples are beginning to silver, but he looks great for his age. It's apparent he works out regularly.
And Viper hits like he's done it before. Hence the finesse sufficient enough not to really hurt me. I know he could have done some damage.
I can still feel the sting of the slap on my face. Just another lovely wound to add to the others.
“Storm will be stopping by first thing tomorrow morning. Got the kid fed and in bed.”
“Storm?” I croak. My throat is parched, but I don't ask for water.
“He's the guy you clocked in the dick.”
Oh. Him.
Great, just great.
Viper's eyes run over my expression. “It doesn't have to be this way. If I never had to touch you in violence again, it'd make me happy.” His eyes are sincere. I've had enough life experience and been on the job long enough to know a liar. “Tell me why you were trying to give this kid up. We know about the kiddie pervs.”
I close my eyes for a moment, unsurprised. When I open them, his expectant gaze is latched on to my face. “I can't,” I answer in a low voice. “And there's a damn good reason.”
Our gazes stay locked.
“I will let Storm at you. I won't like it, but we need to know who's behind this, Arlington. Nobody comes into Road Kill territory and shits where we eat and sleep. Not happening.”
I knew this. I also know what their goal is with me. Squeeze the middleman—in this case, the middlewoman—to find out who's running the shots and get at the source of the cancer that's metastasizing in their territory.
Chaos doesn't mind shitting where they live, I think with resignation. That's how we were able to set up our sting. We're so close to the head of this trafficking ring and taking down their house of cards.
So close.
I needed to do this final handoff. It was personal and a delicate balancing act to make everything appear to have gone through. The ringleader of the flesh trafficking wanted this specific boy. He was to meet with Puck personally.
Finally, we were closing in.
We still have time to make the rendezvous tomorrow. Puck does.
My mind trips over itself with thoughts of how to manipulate my current mess to our advantage.
“He'll kill me,” I say in reply to finding out Storm is coming tomorrow.
“Maybe,” Viper agrees, eyes hooded.
My gaze goes up the stairs. The child's welfare must be the priority. Maybe we'll lose the perp, but he's not going to have Calem Oscar if I can help it. “Please take Calem to the police.”
Viper walks over to where I'm lying down, his eyes running down my body. He cups my waist with his hands, fingers almost meeting around it. I don't think I'm that small, but his hands are that large.
“What rib?” he inquires softly. His fingers splay, and the ring finger of his left hand brushes over the tender rib.
I flinch at the barest contact. Can't help it.
Viper's face doesn't change, but his eyes tighten, fingers gentle on my side.
“Gonna take your top off.”
There goes Jimmy Buffet. And my dignity. “Raping me won't get me to talk.” I'm disappointed. I thought all this torture and rape plan might be beneath him.
The young red-headed guy, I believe—but Viper seemed a little bit too refined for all that. I'd gotten a lot from him. That he was old-school, mannered, ex-military, and organized. He would have to be, running a MC as efficiently as I'd heard Road Kill was managed.
He chuckles. “I don't have to rape women.” His eyes are steady on my face, his hands warming my bare skin. “I'd never do that anyway.”
A tear trickles out my eye as I shift to one side. Viper rolls up the shirt until it's at my bound wrists. He leaves it there.
I put on an all-lace ivory bra because it happened to be the one on top of all the others. It's not practical like my tie-dye T-shirt that rests on the handcuff linkage or the athletic pants. A fluke of choosing.
His fingers trail down my arms, which are bound high above me. Calloused from whatever work he does, they leave an erotic trail in their wake before stopping beside my breasts.
This process of his featherlight touch on my skin is a form of torture: being hurt and bound while having another human being toy with my fear using tender fingers, coaxing my uncertain terror to new heights.
I crave it. I hate it. He can't possibly know that, though.
That it mimics certain memories. Most are saturated by fear and guilt, while the edges of deserved affection are in there somewhere too. The want of it anyway.
Viper's fingertips spread apart as he meets his hands in the center of my chest, thumbs resting directly beneath and between my breasts.
“Talk,” he says quietly.
I shake my head.
He finds the injured rib with a finger and barely skims it.
I cry out.
Staying silent is so much harder than I thought.
“Why do I get the feeling there's more to this story?” He cocks his head, pressing slightly harder, and the sensation of broken glass grows more acute.
“Please stop,” I breathe from between my teeth.
“Storm will do more tomorrow.”
I do the only thing I can. I wrap my legs around his torso. Instinctive and natural, I use what I must. I won't talk, but I can't stand the pain, either.
If a man is thinking about sex, it is more primal than violence. Usually.
His smile is sly. “What are you doing?” Large hands grasp my waist as my legs squeeze him.
I breathe through the horrible pain of moving.
“Guess I should have tied your legs too.” A stray dimple makes an appearance as he smiles.
This close to his face, I can see fine smile lines around eyes laced by black lashes and a square jaw that has a day-old beard. A dusting of silver like forgotten tinsel glints in the light.
Shaking my head, I say, “There's no reason to torture me. I don't know who the person in charge is, honestly.”
I don't. But Puck would have known tomorrow, had I not run into Road Kill MC. Despair threatens to overwhelm me as its friend hopelessness beckons.
I struggle to calm the storms of my mind while ignoring the pain.
Viper's poo
l-water eyes search mine, and I put all my pent up frustration, fear, and determination into my own gaze. Naked before his scrutiny.
“There's other ways to torture it out of you.”
No. “No rape, you said.” That, I don't know if I could survive.
Viper nods. “It's very effective, but I won't sign up for that.”
My shoulders ache as I slump in relief. I'm afraid I have a little Stockholm's syndrome. Or maybe it's the threat of the red-headed guy coming to hurt me that has me suddenly contemplating things I wouldn't normally entertain.
Because if there's one thing I'm not, it's compliant.
“I can make things better.” His face goes still, emotions in plain sight. And I read from his expression that Viper is conflicted.
I would give a lot to know why, because right now, from his end, it's simple. He's got me where he wants me. Hurt me, and I talk. Or try to hurt me, and I probably won't. I'll just pass out instead.
Intrigued despite my fear and lack of options, I ask, “Like what?”
He captures my jaw with his hand, holding my face still. “The only way I want those legs wrapped around me is naked, with my dick impaled inside you.”
I rein in my shock with a supreme effort. Fuck him and maybe escape. Or be fucked up by the guy who hated me on sight. Great options. But any choice is better than none.
“My rib is maybe broken,” I remind him.
Viper nods. “I'll be very careful.”
“Why?” My legs start to tremble from the exertion of staying in one position around him. My rib's killing me because it can.
I identify the ridge of his cock straining between my legs.
His thumb strokes my jaw. “Because I think you're lying. And... ” Viper's nearly translucent eyes scan my body. “I want to fuck you.” He kisses my lips softly, and the faint smell of mint and engine oil invades my nose. “And because I can't bear to hurt you again, or for anyone else to, either.”
His forehead dips against mine as he rubs his cheek against the one he slapped.
I'm as confused as I've ever been in my life. This is a hard man. An MC president. They don't get soft when it comes to the club.
Calling out the pink elephant standing between us, I say, “You think I'm a pedophile enabler.”
Viper's head rises, eyes never leaving mine. “It would seem that way.”
