by Lucy Smoke
He's right, but for some reason—despite the fact that getting his name
etched into my skin is about as intimate as you can get—this feels heavier.
Not just physically, but emotionally. Mentally. Spiritually. This ring is like a
promise, one that I'm not sure if I can keep.
Dean's head dips down and he snuggles against my back, his face turning
into my throat as he breathes out. "Please," he says.
Fuck. Dean's not the kind of guy who asks for shit. When he says the
word ‘please’ in that tone, it makes me want to give him anything and
everything because I know all I have to do is ask and he’ll do that for me.
“Can I think about it?” I counter.
“Yeah, so long as you keep the ring,” he says.
I grimace. Not exactly what I was hoping to hear. “Do I have to wear it?”
His mouth opens and in answer, I feel the harsh sting of his teeth in my
flesh. I hiss as he clenches down, leaving a mark. “What do you think?” he
finally says when he pulls away. I look down and frown at the double half-
circled red lines that mark the outline of his bite.
"Dean, I'm not ready," I admit.
His arms tighten around me. "Do you think that'll scare me?" he asks.
"You not being ready?"
No, I don't. I shake my head.
"I'm committed, baby," he says. "As committed as a man can be. I'm just
as tied to you as I am to life and death. So, sure, you can think about it—you
don't even have to wear the damn ring, but you do have to keep it. You do
have to recognize that all of the roads you will take from here on will only
lead you back to one place." He pauses as if to let it sink in and then he parts
his lips and breathes out one last word. "Me."
The world turns as he flips me over and presses my back into the
mattress, coming down hard over me. His body rolls like a fucking dancer’s
might as he moves down, his chest touching mine, his hips grinding down.
Dean's arms come up and cage my head and I'm left with no other view but
that of his expression. Hard. Excited. Intense. Impossible to ignore.
"Whatever comes next," he breathes. "There is only one answer to my
question and you know that."
I do, but it fucking scares me. It terrifies the living shit out of me. Loving
someone—wanting them— needing them is like giving over a part of myself
that I'm not ready to surrender. I don’t dare because once it's given, it can't be
taken back. How am I to know if he's the right person? How am I to know if
I'm the right one for him?
The result of my thoughts hits me a split second later—as if my brain is
lagging.
I need him, I realize. I need Dean Carter. I need him like I’ve never
needed anything in my fucking life. More than adrenaline. More than
survival. More than my breath itself. I would be willing to walk off the face
of the Earth—throw myself into a volcano—for him. That’s how deep my
need for him is. That's what truly scares the shit out of me.
Micki’s warning—spoken years ago—returns to me. Needing shit is what
lets people get a hold of you. Anything you need, they’ll take as a sign of
weakness and no matter who the person is, they’ll exploit that weakness. My
desire for Dean makes me weak.
I shake my head. "Not now," I tell him, my voice hoarse. "Don't ask me
now." He won't like my answer.
Dean's head dips and he presses a kiss to my cold lips. "Okay," he
promises. "I won't ask now, but you know you can't hide from it forever and
you can only run for so long."
I arch up and lock my legs around his waist, pushing against the bed with
my shoulders as I feel the hard ridge of his cock press between my legs.
"We'll see," I reply. “But for now you’re taking the ring back.”
As if he doesn’t want to hear anything else from me, his mouth crashes
into mine, harsh and violent—a lot like the man behind it. We roll, the sheets
catch and tie us up, but with little effort, we free ourselves again. My hands
come down as I toss a leg over him and find my position on top. I cup his
face and lean down, kissing him again. Our tongues tangle and duel and the
pleasure he gives me eats away at my insecurities, making them evaporate
and disappear as if they were never there to begin with.
If given the choice, I would let this man swallow me, I realize. I would let
him consume me and take me into himself and I would never have to worry
about being a separate entity again. I want him. I need him. I crave him.
There is a reason why people love villains so much. No one wants a hero.
A hero will choose the world over their lover. A villain will burn it down for
insulting them.
Dean's hands cup my breasts, he pinches my nipples, making me whine
and cry out as he rolls them between the pads of his fingers. My head dips
back, hair falling down my naked spine as I circle my hips, grinding into his
lap, and relish the responding grunt of arousal.
"Tease," he accuses, tightening his hold. The pain flares to life, making
me gasp, but then it quickly dissolves as he releases me and sits up, shifting
upward until my pussy aligns with his cock and he presses into me. I slide
down, taking the hot, hard length of him to the hilt and gripping him for all
I'm worth.
Fate has a fucking funny way of taking people down wild pathways. I've
never felt so insane as I do right now with Dean's cock inside of me. His
hands wrap up in my hair. His lips devour me.
For the first time in my life, I want to cry. I want to scream. I want to hurl
insults into the wind for how unfair the world is. Why? I think. Why did I
have to come to him like this? So fucking broken and damaged and in pieces?
And why the hell did he have to help me pick those pieces up and put them
back together, using himself as the glue?
I rock my hips forward, sliding the ridge of his cock in and out of my
pussy as I contract the walls, squeezing him and relishing in the sound of his
groans. Fingers press against my back, digging into the healing cuts there. It's
almost as if he's making sure that his name is still there. That his mark hasn't
left me yet. What he doesn't seem to realize, though, is that his mark is far
deeper than the surface level of my skin.
Even if he disappears, his fucking name is branded into my soul.
The scrape of his piercing sends me to fucking heights that don't exist
without him. I gasp as he thrusts his hips upward, grabbing onto my waist
and jerking me down into his lap. Harsh movements. Violent tendencies.
There's no escaping it. My nails sink into his shoulders as I hold on for dear
life.
It hurts. It feels good. It makes me want more.
"Dean..."
"That's right, baby," he pants. "Say my fucking name."
At the sound of his name on my lips, something else overtakes him. He
shoots up and shoves me back until my spine meets the mattress once more.
His hand grabs one of my legs and pulls it up, making my thigh ache as he
anchors it over one shoulder before he repeats the motion with the other. His
hips slap my asscheeks as he fucks into me with demanding thrusts.
"Fucking. Say. My. Name." Each word is punctuated by yet more slaps as
he sinks into me, only to yank himself back out and do it all over again.
I'm out of breath. The world is hazy. My lips part and I follow his
command as I go over the edge. I scream out his name as he stills inside of
me and the world goes from hazy to all fucking white.
22
AVALON
“TWO?” I STAND BEHIND RYLIE’S DESK AS SHE HUNCHES OVER HER COMPUTER
like a gremlin out of some fairytale. Dark circles cling to the skin under her
eyes, a bag of half-eaten potato chips lies open on one side of her keyboard,
and a Monster energy drink can sits on the other side.
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” she snaps, fingers clicking away. “This
motherfucker was good, too, but I found it. She had multiple accounts—
remember, I told you. Didn’t I? Well, I’ve been tracing several of the
transactions back from their source since you last came by.”
“Clearly.” The word comes out on a dry note as I take a step to the side
and glance into the mini trash can stuffed under her desk. The neon green of
several more energy drink cans as well as plastic wrapping from various
candies—no doubt grabbed from the convenience store and gas station down
the road—peek out. “When was the last time you slept?” I ask.
“Sleep?” she mutters as if the word is disgusting. “Who cares? What
matters is I fucking found one of the bastards!”
“Avalon…” Dean stands back, watching the proceedings with a grimace
of confusion and a slightly horrified look. The rest of the room looks like it’s
faring about as well as Rylie and her desk. Her sheets are peeled back, but it
hardly looks like she’s even laid down since we last left her.
“Just…” I don’t know what to tell him. All I can think right now is that
it’s probably a good thing we told Abel and Brax to wait out in the hallway.
“Give us a moment?”
Dean frowns, his brows drawing down low before flicking his eyes from
the back of Rylie’s head to my face. I gesture towards the door, mouthing,
“Just go.” He looks at me like I’m fucking crazy, and who the hell knows
anymore? Maybe I am. But he doesn’t argue any more. Dean huffs out a
breath and turns, pulling open the door and then shutting it behind him while
blocking his two curious best friends from the interior.
The clicking of Rylie’s fingers against the keyboard and the soft whirr of
her computer are the only sounds left in the room. Dragging in an exhausted
breath, I turn back to her and step towards the desk, gripping the top of her
laptop. Before I can shut it, however, her hand whips out with a speedy reflex
I hadn’t expected.
“Don’t touch!” she snaps.
“Rylie,” I state, pulling my hand away without shutting it like I intended,
“you’ve gotta get some rest.”
“No, no, I swear, I’m almost done,” she says, eyes pinned to the screen.
“You have no clue how hard this has been—he must’ve hired someone
fucking good because I’ve tracked this damn computer from America to
Sweden to Albania—who the hell sends money through Albania?”
“Don’t know…” It’s clear she’s unhinged and I don’t know what to do.
The last we spoke, we decided to be friends and as her friend, I feel like I
gotta lay down some serious truths she’s not about to like. “Listen, Rylie,
when was the last time you showered?”
Her hands pause and she slowly rotates her head towards me like some
creepy doll from an old horror movie. “Did you just ask me when the last
time I showered was?”
I nod. “Yes,” I say. “I did.”
“Avalon.” Is that a twitch in her eyeball? I think that’s a fucking twitch.
Maybe sending Dean off wasn’t the best plan. Being a friend is fucking hard.
“Rylie,” I say back.
“There are more important things to worry about right now! I’ve almost
tracked down the motherfucker that sent your mom all that money—well, one
of them anyway.” Her gaze slants to the side as something pings on her
laptop.
“Honestly, I’m more interested in you getting a shower and some sleep,”
I reply. “No offense, but this room smells a little rank.”
“I haven’t taken out the trash,” she says with a little hand gesture as she
refocuses on her computer. Her brows pinch and she bites her lip.
Shit. I’m gonna have to do it. Rylie is small and I can knock her ass out
no problem, but I might actually feel bad about this one. I glance around the
room. Should I go with a choke hold or should I use something? She’s
muttering to herself, shaking her head as I step up behind her. Might as well
just go with the old and known—choke hold, cut off the airways, and let her
pass out. Sleep first and maybe afterwards, I can convince her to take a
shower. A nasty thought perks its little head up inside my mind. I could just
ask Abel to help me wash her up. She’d fucking hate me for that, but it’d be
funny to see her reaction.
Before I can lock my arm around her throat, however, Rylie lets out a half
shout and jerks back away from her desk. I stumble back as she shoots up
from her chair, the thing skidding across the floor and falling on its side.
“No!” she screams in horror, but it’s too late. She stands there and
watches as the screen of her laptop darkens and green letters appear typing
out from left to right in the upper corner. “Oh my god.”
“What happened?” I ask, peeking around her.
The door knob jiggles and then bursts open, Dean, Abel, and Braxton all
spilling into the room in a heap. “What’s wrong?” Dean snaps. “I heard her
scream.”
“My fucking computer!” Rylie wails, pointing towards it. “It’s fucking
toast. They left a virus. I didn’t catch it and all of the fucking information…”
She trails off as literal tears begin to well in her eyes. I take a hefty step back.
“You can just get it back, though, right?” Abel asks, looking from her to
the computer.
“No.” She shakes her head. “I set it up so that if anyone tried to back hack
me, it’d wipe the hard drive. I was too focused … I wasn’t paying attention—
there’s always a chance when you go in through a backdoor and I had to
because I was tracing the bank’s movements and the money. Everything’s
gone. I can’t prove anything.”
“Prove anything?” Dean replies. “Did you find out who was sending the
money or not?”
Rylie lifts a hand and pushes back a tendril of lavender colored hair. “I …
did, sorta. I saw the name right before the screen went black, but I can’t
prove it to you. I’ll have to re-hack everything and even then, if they caught
onto me and it was actually a person behind that virus and not an automatic
failsafe, the information will be gone anyway.”
“Don’t worry about proving it,” Dean says. “Just tell me who it was.”
Rylie chews on her lower lip, her eyes scanning her desk before returning
to Dean. “There were two original locations that the money was coming
from,” she says, her voice
dipping, growing quieter. “I was only able to track
down one of them—the one who’s been sending her money for several years.
The other one has only been doing so for a few months.”
“Tell me,” Dean orders.
She inhales sharply and blows out her next breath while taking a step
away from him as if afraid of his volatile reaction which can only mean one
thing. I grit my teeth. She doesn’t want Dean to get mad, but I already know
he’s going to be. Her reaction can only mean one thing.
“It’s Nicholas Carter, isn’t it?” I say.
Purple hair flies around her face as she jerks her gaze towards me. Across
the room, Braxton’s face darkens and Abel’s goes slack. Dean freezes. When
Rylie doesn’t say anything, Dean takes a step closer. “Rylie,” he snaps, “is
she right?”
Closing her eyes, Rylie’s shoulders sink low and make her appear even
smaller than she already is—a feat within itself—but she answers
nonetheless. “Yes,” she says. “Nicholas Carter is behind one of the money
trails leading to Patricia Manning’s accounts.”
At first, there’s no reaction on Dean’s part and I think maybe he’ll be
rational about this. Almost as soon as that thought has entered my brain,
however, he proves me wrong. Rylie jumps and screams when he smashes
his hand into the dresser propped against the wall. The face of the wooden
boards covering the drawers cracks and breaks in half under the blow, and
without another word, he turns and storms out of the room.
23
DEAN
THAT MOTHERFUCKER. I PUNCH MY WAY THROUGH THE FRONT DOORS OF THE
Havers Dorm. I'm so fucking pissed, my limbs are shaking. At the same time,
however, the bite of panic rears its ugly head and burrows into my mind,
swirling in a mass around my thoughts and sinking its fangs deep.
I can't keep still. So, I do the only thing that makes sense to me in this
moment. I start walking—fast-paced steps. Stomping down the sidewalk,
through the deserted campus. With my mind racing, I reach into my pocket
and yank out my cell, punching the number I know by heart—but until now
so rarely had a reason to use.
It rings once, twice, three times, and then goes to voicemail. I punch the
