OVERCAST (B723 Book 1)

by Hazel Grace

“Perfectly.”

  My thumb brushes her cheek. “You had my last name, Ivanov. It’s the one I was born with, my family’s before they died. It’s why I am who I am. I watched my town burn to the ground, fire so hot that I couldn’t even attempt to save my parents and two younger sisters if I tried. I like to think that, if nothing would’ve happened, maybe I’d be normal. Maybe I wouldn’t have so much pent up rage and grief. My story isn’t just what you’ve seen, it’s evolved into so much more. And—” I take in a deep gulp of air. “—I need you to know before…”

  Stormi’s hand comes up to cup mine resting on her cheek. “We don’t have to talk about it now.”

  “I want to. I need you to be fully informed of all my shit.” I stare into the depths of her blues and blurt, “I murdered Reagan’s father. I came to America and killed him because he ordered the bombing on my town. He was a senator.”

  Her eyes widen, but, surprisingly, she doesn’t hurl herself away from me.

  “The rest is history between us. She dragged me home, ratted me out to her mom, and Mama adopted me. I ran hard drugs, Reagan dealt with the small shit. We were poor, red notices in the mail all the time, and Mama had cancer. I went into the Marines to get her health insurance because she got fired from her job over some bullshit. That’s how I got involved in B723. That’s how I know Wade because Emmy was his assistant. I killed his ex-wife because she was trying to run away with intel for the Russians, she burnt down my mother’s house with her in it and almost had Reagan killed. When I...left you in Silver Lake, I couldn’t give you anything else but a name, some part of me that you’d have with you always.”

  “You...” Tears brim her eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall. “I hate you.”

  “I see that.” I clasp her hand that’s over mine. “You almost killed yourself for me.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” she quips. “You should’ve asked me what I wanted to do.”

  “I already know what your answer would’ve been, sweetheart. At the time, it would have been the wrong one.”

  “The wrong one? How do you—”

  “Love is blinding and ignorant, you didn’t know everything you were getting yourself into.”

  “It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

  “You sure about that?” I raise a brow. “I just told you I killed Reagan’s father, and I wasn’t even an adult yet.”

  “Yes.” She inserts pressure on my hand.

  “Alright—” I begin to lower myself onto my good knee, but a sharp pain hits the one with a bullet lodged into it, allowing a grunt to escape my lips.

  “Marty,” Stormi begins, resting a hand on my side. “There—”

  “I need you to marry me, Stormi. I can never let you go again—ever. I’ll do anything you want me to do, baby. I’m fucking begging you to say yes.”

  Her lips part in shock because this is the least romantic thing a man could ever do.

  Hell, there are several dead bodies in this room right now, but I didn’t plan this. I just want it—more than anything.

  Stormi stares at me, dumbfounded, and sucking in all the air with her lack of a response.

  “Is this where you torture me with silence?” I ask. “Because...it’s working.”

  She shakes her head, and my heart drops.

  I don’t blame her.

  I’m a fucking wrecking ball engulfed in fire that’s swinging aimlessly around wanting to cause destruction.

  But it was worth a damn shot.

  “Then the bunker it is,” I deadpan.

  “Marty,” she mutters, chin tucked into her chest. Her cheeks pinked, worry casts over her features, and my hand comes up to tip her face to me.

  “You don’t have to say yes, Stormi. I can take you back home. I can stay at your side from a distance to protect you from anything. I can—”

  “Stop.” She lets out a harsh exhale then averts her gaze from me. “You don’t want to marry me.”

  “What? Of course, I want to—”

  “I’m not who you want, just someone who can deal with it. I’m boring and naive. I’m not exciting or—”

  “You’re everything,” I quip. “You’ve never wanted to get married?”

  “Never thought about it much until...I thought you were going to kill me.”

  My inner caveman begins to beat his chest because I want to throw her over my shoulder and tell her to start thinking about it again.

  “I’ll marry you.”

  “Well, if—wait...what?”

  “I said—” She erases the rest of the space between us. “—I’ll marry you. But only if you promise to come home to me everytime you go on whatever you go.”

  “Say it one more time.”

  “I’ll marry you, Emric Ivanov. I’ll marry all of you.”

  My lips crash into hers, ruthlessly, deprived, all in. I never thought of asking someone to marry me until Stormi became a victim, and I was thoroughly obsessed with her. I can’t shake her, stuck to me like a sweet piece of candy for me to save for later.

  Except I want her all the time.

  My tongue parts her plush mouth, hitting hers immediately, and my cock stands on end. It missed her. I longed for her, and I’m—dare I say—blessed that she’s still with me.

  My fingers begin to bunch up the fabric of her dress. The need to sink inside her and ferociously claim her making its way to the surface of my brain.

  “I want five kids,” I say between kisses.

  Five kids, what the fuck?

  “I want three,” she counters.

  “Done.”

  “And I prefer to stay in the cabin.” I nod, going in for another deep kiss where she proceeds to melt into me. “We talk about things like a normal couple.”

  “Couple?” I shake my head. “Nah, sweetheart, that’s boyfriend-girlfriend shit. I want you as my wife. Only mine. Married shit. The whole nine.”

  “You need to get fixed up.”

  “Not before I get to fuck my soon-to-be wifey.” I wrap my arms around her small waist, pressing her into my body where she belongs. “Then we’ll go.”

  “Fixed up,” she mutters against me. “You’re bleeding.”

  “Blood doesn’t bother me,” I reply, grabbing her ass and hauling her frame upwards until a jagged pain batters through my leg.

  “See,” she verifies. “You said you’d do anything.”

  “Not so soon,” I retort gruffly. “I want you.”

  “Don’t you still want to be alive when we get married? I’m not going to walk down the aisle with a corpse.” I groan when she breaks our kiss, lacing one of her hands with mine and calls out to Emmy.

  “I wasn’t done yet,” I complain like a little bitch.

  “Too bad.” Emmy and Mills stride through the room, both with shit-eating grins on their faces.

  “Congratulations,” Emmy beams, her smile wide and, I swear to God, tears.

  “Are you fucking crying?” I snap. “And why the hell are you two still listening to our conversation?”

  “Because I told them to,” Reagan’s voice replies from behind them. “I can not wait to plan this wedding.”

  “Fucking Christ,” I mutter, squeezing Stormi’s hand. “There’s still a chance for you to get out of this. I can’t run after you yet. You’ll have a head start.”

  She tugs on my arm, demanding my attention that I freely give her. “I like it here. Just like this...with you.”

  I spent the whole morning with Reagan—to her utter and excited state of mind with Marty and I getting married—having breakfast with me and gushing about my “dream wedding”.

  Like I said, I’ve never thought about it much until Marty and I met.

  Probably because I was always too worried about paying for classes, and which one of my dad’s friends was going to be over that night, it never was a dream that sat in the forefront of my brain.

  When Reagan pulled out over a dozen magazines with gowns, venues, table decor, and DIY ideas, I was
overwhelmed while she was over the moon. She flipped through the pages, pointing and explaining. I couldn’t keep up, noticing that nothing had a price tag on it, which I believed was how it sucked women in with just the pretty pictures.

  I allowed Reagan to have this moment, though. Marty was her only brother. Her only chance to be able to plan something so close to her and I’d let everything sink in when I had two minutes to myself.

  When I was finally able to get her to agree to give me a few days to look and think everything over, she asked if we could go shopping in a few days. I agreed, happy to spend some time with my soon to be sister-in-law and my new family.

  Striding across the grassy front yard of Reagan’s house and through the small trail leading to Marty’s, the small stack of pamphlets weigh heavily in my hands.

  I don’t want anything fancy or expensive, I just want Marty.

  Everything in the magazines are materialistic and so pricey that I believe it to be a waste of money altogether.

  Marty and I haven’t spoken much about when or where we’d finally tie the knot. He’s been too busy trying to get me into bed with him, but his leg has been bothering him. He didn’t get far with trying to convenience me that he’s ready to have sex.

  He’s been a crank for days.

  The same man who tended my wounds, Lucien, came to the house the other day. Dressed in jeans and a black plaid shirt, carrying his black leather bag and a bored expression on his face. He didn’t acknowledge me when I opened the door, just strode in, kissed Emmy on the cheek, and chided Mills for being an idiot.

  When he left, leaving instructions—for Emmy—and some pills for his pain, I made sure to slam the door behind him as my silent, petty act. I’m aware I’m not part of their “group”, but I wasn’t going to be discarded either.

  Those days are over.

  Mills chuckled while Emmy wrapped her arm around my shoulder and told me to go see my man.

  And I did.

  He was silently sleeping, appearing innocent and peaceful with his jaw slack from a painless sleep. I wasn’t going to disturb him, but I didn’t mind staring at him. He was the most influential person in my life, and, as messed up as it sounds, his truths didn’t scare me anymore.

  Opening up the front door and taking the stairs to my room, I open it to find it completely bare beside the furniture. My bed is neatly made, the curtains are drawn like they were this morning, the heavy dressers are still in place, but everything else is gone.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” The rooted tone of Marty’s voice ripples up my spine in delighted anticipation that I don’t shyly remain still.

  Instead, I now confidently pivot to find Marty standing in his door frame, arms crossed, and looking positively delicious in a white tee and gray sweats. His dark hair is a disheveled mess of sexy and sleepy while his hazel eyes don’t bother hiding the exploration of my body.

  “My room,” I voice with a lifted brow. “Where is all my stuff?”

  “In mine.” He moves, carefully limping on his good leg. “Where it belongs.”

  “It’s here—” I jerk my head behind me. “—where I always—”

  “See, that’s another thing I should’ve mentioned,” he professes, balancing his gaze on me. “I’m not keeping a separate bedroom from my wife. You’ll sleep with me. You’ll wake up with me. You’ll be pressed up against me where I can—”

  “We’re not married yet,” I deadpan when he’s skyscraping over me, displaying nothing but determination on his features.

  I love that look.

  I writhe off it and the fact that I’m messing with him right now. He should be resting, but I already knew he wasn’t going to stay bed-ridden for more than a few days while he healed.

  He’s too antsy.

  Too moody.

  “Keyword ‘yet’ and, sweetheart, if that’s what it takes for you to sleep beside me tonight, we’ll get married right the fuck now.”

  I raise Reagan’s books in my hand. “But your sister wants me to look through—”

  “Quit screwing with me, Stormi. There is no way in hell you were still going to sleep in that room. I’ve had to spend the last two nights plus the fifteen we were apart waking up to an empty bed while you’re in another.” I keep his stare before he frowns down at me. “Shit...you’re serious.”

  I force down my lips that want to lift upward. “Important decisions, you promised to talk to me about these things.”

  “I did,” he mutters. “You’re serious about sleeping separately until we’re married?”

  No.

  I nod. “Yes.”

  He releases a heavy sigh. “Alright.” He scoops the magazines out of my grasp and takes my hand. “Let’s go, baby.”

  He then begins guiding me down the hall, passing his bedroom. “Where are we going?”

  Marty isn’t supposed to be going up and down the stairs—my rules, not Lucien’s—for fear that his bad leg is going to give out and he’s going to tumble down them. He’s already a crazy person, I don’t need him to hit his head and make it worse.

  “Courthouse,” he deadpans.

  I gently jerk back on his arm, halting him to a stop. “Marty, I’m teasing. It’s fine.” Marty peers over his shoulder before turning to face me, his face unamused and hungry. “I hope you didn’t move all my stuff by yourself.”

  “I did,” he growls. “And you’re sucking my dick for that, sweetheart, fast and rough.”

  I roll my eyes. “Come on, I’ll show you those—” I sigh. “—booklets Reagan gave me.”

  “I don’t give a shit about flowers when I have my fiance dressed in one of those easy access dresses that I like.”

  “Marty,” I fake-whine. “She’s excited.”

  “So am I,” he retorts, backing me up into the direction of his bedroom. His expression is one that he doesn’t want me to argue with him anymore.

  Rounding my body, he lets me walk inside first.

  The inside is masculine, which I don’t mind because it’s Marty. The walls are painted a dark blue, and nothing else dawns them. He has what looks to be framed awards and a family picture on his nightstand.

  His hard chest finds my back, and he wraps an arm around my waist, leaning in to smell my hair. Also, to get into his kill shot position of where his mouth claims my neck, and he drives me crazy with his lips and tongue.

  “We can repaint,” he mutters in my hair. “We can move the furniture around.” He kisses the shell of my ear. “We can do whatever you want.” His tongue follows, leaving a wet trail. “As long as you’re here with me every night, Stormi, I don’t give a fuck if you want everything in here hot pink.”

  “I don’t want to change a thing,” I reply.

  “Change one thing to make me feel better.”

  I smile. “Fine, I’ll change the sheets or something.” His mouth finds the column of my neck. “And maybe those ugly curtains.”

  They’re navy with generic designs in the shape of a diamond—from the eighties.

  Marty chuckles, humming against my spine. “Sounds good.”

  I turn in his arms, wrapping mine around his neck. “Now, what was that about rough and hard?”

  His eyes harden. “Don’t tease me, sweetheart. You won’t touch me below the chest ever since I got shot.”

  “Because you shouldn’t have moved,” I berate weakly.

  “We’ve been through this. You weren’t going to die on my watch.”

  “You don’t wear a watch and—” I graze his thigh and gradually ascend upward. “–I’d do it again just to keep you alive.”

  “We’re at a stalemate then, sweetheart. And you promised.” I hum in agreement, brushing along his groin to the semi-hardness that already began in his boxers. “Are you going to touch it, Stormi, or just drive me nuts?”

  I slowly drop to my knees, keeping my eyes locked on his. “I don’t know...I think you’ve been wanting to get back at me for what I did.”

  “More than
you know,” he grumbles.

  I bite down on my lower lip, watching his face transform, no longer annoyed with my little “stunt” as he called it but aroused.

  Carefully, I tug down the cotton material, making sure I don’t mess with the bandage behind his thigh and let them fall to his ankles. His fully erect dick welcomes me with a salute as I ignore Marty and focus on the task at hand.

  I should be over all the butterflies by now, but they flutter and knock into each other as I grip Marty’s cock. He moans, fisting his hands at his sides to keep from launching into full horny Marty mode.

  Yes, I have a name for it, and he’s heedless and negligent, something he can’t be with his injury.

  Wrapping my lips around his warm tip, his large body bows forward slightly, lacing his fingers through my thick locks.

  “Fuck,” he groans. “Stormi...shit, baby.”

  With his encouragement, I take him deeper. Not only because I love him wild but because I’m captivated with making him vulnerable, and he’s letting me.

  I’m aware it’s not easy for him. That it’s something he doesn’t’ care to be or is used to but, with me, he’s limitless.

  And I’m lucky enough to see this side of him. To worship and touch this man who claims to be a monster not my prince.

  I’d have it no other way.

  Princes are overrated and snobs. Monsters are calculated and fearless. Their morals may be questionable, but during the hardest and scariest times, they’ll do anything to keep you safe.

  “Yes,” he encourages, gradually submerging himself deeper. “Right there. I should fuck all your bad ideas out of your head.”

  I bob in agreement, knowing that he’s going to make me gag because I haven’t learned to relax all the way yet. To my response, he cups both of my cheeks and fucks my mouth. Not as hard as he has before because of his wound but enough to where his moans are becoming more frequent, and his fingers are digging deeper into my skull.

  After a minute or two, I release his hardness with a pop and shakily rise to stand. His hands grasp my elbows, helping me up, and I jerk towards his—our—bed.

  “Lay down,” I order, to which he doesn’t protest with a glare or raised brow. Instead, he keeps his grip on me and guides us to the mattress.