by Jo Raven
“Have to run,” I tell her, and get the hell out of the house before she has a chance to reply.
Feeling like a douche, I drive to work.
As mornings go, this one was pretty tough but nothing I can’t deal with. Not the first time I have nightmares so bad they won’t fade away, that I feel so shaken I can only forge ahead hoping I’ll make it through the day in one piece.
So of course things go downhill from there.
First Jasper sends me out to check a broken-down car out of town, and nobody’s there when I arrive, so that I have to return with the bad news.
Then I burn my hand on the engine of a car just brought in. Nothing life-threatening, but Evan makes it sound as if it’s fatal. The guy’s cool and nice and all, but today of all days I’d rather he didn’t fuss.
To be honest, the physical pain kinda grounds me, and I have to resist the urge to press into the burn, make the pain sharper.
My hand all wrapped up, I get to return to the overheated engine and finally get some work done, take my mind off everything that’s been haunting me.
And then Ross turns up.
Obviously fucking hungover, strutting about like a goddamn peacock, looking for a brawl.
You got it, asshole.
Evan sees me and tries to get in my way as I stride across the workshop, my fists clenched so tightly my nails dig into my palms, the sound of blood rushing in my ears deafening. I push him aside and march right up to Ross.
I grab him by the shoulders and slam him into the wall. “Motherfucker. Stop fucking harassing my family.” I slam him again for good measure, and he growls, kicking at me and jerking like a fish on a hook. “Stay away.”
Releasing him, I step back—and he falls on me like a truck, throwing me to the floor. My head hits the concrete and everything goes black for a long moment.
When the blackness clears, his fist connects with my face, snapping it to the side. I taste blood, and I spit it out.
Hands haul him off me, cursing and kicking.
I sit up, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand, leaving a long red smear.
“What the hell’s going on?” Jasper’s voice booms, and Ross jerks free from the hold of the other mechanics holding him back.
“This son of a bitch attacked me.” He spits at me but misses. “Fucking cunt.”
“Keep away from my house,” I hiss. “If I find one more message stuck to my door, I fucking swear…”
He throws me a look of disbelief. “You’re out of your goddamn mind. Are you on fucking drugs?”
Not the reaction I expected. Then again… what the hell did I expect, that he’d confess? That he’d go on to brag and explain the method behind his madness, like in the movies?
“What are you talking about, Hansen?” Jasper throws me a hostile look, and I return it.
Hell, I know this is his son, but his son is a damn bully, a dickshit and a criminal, and on top of that a fucking pussy for not fessing up to what he did.
“Just keep away from my house,” I say again, jabbing a finger at Ross as I slowly get to my feet, wincing at the drum pounding inside my skull. “You hear me?”
“Just because you’re fucking that bitch, Octavia, you think you run this town?”
“Ross, enough,” Jasper mutters, grabbing his son before he throws himself on me again like a rabid dog, almost foaming at the mouth. “And you, Hansen. You’d better have an explanation and a goddamn apology.”
“The hell I do.” I’m a bit unsteady on my feet but fuck if I let it show. “You don’t own Octavia, you piece of shit.”
“Enough.” Jasper’s face is read, veins bulging in his throat. “Go home, and cool your guns. We’ll talk tomorrow about this.”
“He should apologize to me!” Ross yells, coming at me again.
His father drags him away from me, toward the little office where he holds court, muttering something about stupidity and young age.
Yeah, well. I doubt a douchebag like Ross will grow up to be an upstanding member of the society, much like I don’t believe his dear old daddy is any better.
Avoiding Evan, I drag my sorry self to my truck and head home.
Enough, I tell myself. It’s been a train wreck of a day, but now I’m going home to my kids and I’ll try my damnedest to be who they need. I’ll sit down and eat with them, play with them.
See Octavia smile at me. Her smile is a star in the dark, leading me home, and I don’t try to analyze it, understand it. Understand why she feels so familiar, and so exciting, and why I need to get back home to her.
Enough shit for today. Tonight will be good, I just know it.
And then life goes, LOL, one sec.
The message flutters a little in the warm breeze, stuck to the door with a huge-ass knife—a goddamn meat cleaver.
Talk about overkill.
Or is it escalation?
I stare at it from where I’m sitting in my truck, my heart thudding heavily. Whatever it’s supposed to mean, it’s nothing good, of that I’m sure.
Then I shake off my daze and climb out of the truck, slam the door behind me and go up the porch steps to my door. There’s a sick feeling in my stomach. I half-expect the door to be cracked open, and to see crimson and bodies on the floor.
Fuck, these are images pulled right out of my worst nightmares, the ones that have me falling out of bed, choking on a scream.
The door is closed. The message reads, “What is most precious to you?”
Oh fuck, my kids. Ross wouldn’t dare touch my kids, would he? Goddamn sicko.
I reach for the handle of the knife, and hesitate. I think I can hear Cole laughing from inside.
Keep your wits, Matt.
I don’t touch the fucking knife. I don’t touch the fucking piece of paper.
Instead I call the police, tell John what happened, describe the knife, tell him what the message says this time. Tell him to arrest Ross before I get my hands on him.
Predictably John tells me to cool my guns and stay put.
As if.
And then I put my key into the lock, open the door and walk inside, my heart still racing, banging around inside my chest, my mouth dry. I fear the worst, like every time, conditioned to expect it.
But they’re all three of them there, sitting on the thick carpet, playing with a Star Wars Lego set. A set my dad bought the kids before he died.
So much death.
Yet they’re alive. They’re alive and well, and even if the one thing I really wanna do is run to them, grab them and hold them, feeling their heartbeats, their breaths on my face, I swallow down bile and turn away, not trusting my voice, my reaction.
Whiskey sounds good right about now.
A whole goddamn bottle of it. Enough to drown my thoughts.
But now is not the time. They’re okay, and that’s all that matters.
So I stagger out the way I came, coming up short at the edge of the porch. Leaning on the pillar, I fold my arms over my chest and wait for the police to arrive.
Octavia comes outside soon after, calling my name.
She stops and her eyes go wide when she sees the cleaver stuck in the door. “Holy shit.” She stumbles sideways, and I catch her, steadying her with a hand on her shoulder. “When…? How?”
“You didn’t hear anything? See anyone?”
She shakes her head, her face white. “We were upstairs, in the kids’ bedroom.” Then she lifts a hand to my face. “God, what happened to you? Your eye is black and blue.”
I’d forgotten about that, and I say nothing as she leans against me. She’s soft and slight and silky and it would only be natural that I put my arms around her, pull her to me.
Even my hand on her shoulder feels too good. I wanna stroke her collarbone, cup her tits, feel her curves. I wanna bury my nose in her soft hair and inhale her sweet scent.
Fuck. Me.
Reluctantly I let her go.
In silence we wait for the police, standing apart, each leanin
g on a pillar, as if supporting the dark sky.
When they arrive, it’s John himself who climbs out of the unmarked car, together with another cop, looking tired and unhappy. They greet us and come up the steps to examine the cleaver, while Octavia goes back inside to check on the kids.
The cops put on rubber gloves and pull out the cleaver, bag it, bag the piece of paper, and after asking all the usual questions, go away with the promise to let me know if anything comes up.
Yeah. Right. I won’t be holding my breath, that’s for sure. Whoever this prankster is, they know how to cover their ass.
Invisible. Silent. Leaving no tracks.
The sun has gone down, and the night is pressing in around me. I’m getting a bad feeling about this, so bad it reminds me of a hospital that smelled of death, a white room where my wife lay on a narrow bed and a doctor’s harrowed face when he gave the diagnosis.
The security company is coming tomorrow to install cameras, and knowing that is not enough to settle my heartbeat.
Octavia has taken the kids upstairs for an early night, and the night smells of something bitter, like poison.
I head back inside the house, into the dark kitchen, and locate the whiskey bottle under the kitchen sink. Unscrewing the lid, I take a few long gulps, the booze burning a path down my throat to my chest.
It’s a damn relief, to feel something other than anger and fear. And yet it’s not enough. So I drink more. Slam the bottle into the sink. Scratch at my cheeks. Clench and unclench my hands, rub at my scar.
Punch a dent into a cupboard. And again, until blood smears the wood from my knuckles, already busted from punching Ross earlier.
Needing to feel more.
By the time she comes down the stairs, the sound of her steps ringing too loud through my brain, I’m straining on my tether, my control barely hanging by a thread.
She stops at the kitchen door, a shadow framed by the light, and I lick my lips, leaning back against the counter, taking her figure in.
I’d blame the adrenaline, the frustration, the fucking nightmares for the way my cock’s hardening, but they have nothing to do with this.
This goddamn lust that’s coursing through me every single time I see her, every time she’s near. I just can’t stop it, can’t rein it in.
Not anymore.
“You should go,” I rasp.
“Matt…” She takes a step inside, and I throw a hand up, to stop her.
“Stay away from me,” I say, my voice strained. My pulse thuds in my ears. My body is taut with arousal, my stomach clenched, my dick aching.
“I can’t,” she whispers, stepping closer, lifting a hand to cup my face. “I’ve tried, believe me, but I just can’t.”
Chapter Twenty
Octavia
I can’t pull my hand away, can’t stop touching him. His beard bristles under my palm, tickling, and my fingertips touch his cheekbones, moving over soft, warm skin, and his eyelashes, dark spikes.
He’s staring down at me, a hungry look in his eyes. I trail my fingers lower, over his mouth. It’s sinfully soft. God, he’s so frigging tall and broad and strong. So warm and alive.
So sexy.
A low growl leaves his throat, and in the half-light, he looks like some mythical creature, a dangerous creature lurking in wait for me.
I whimper, aching between my legs, and deep inside.
His body is tense, his arms trembling. When I trail my hands down his corded neck and forearms, his biceps are bulging, his hands fisted. I can hear his breathing in the quiet of the house, and it’s fast and ragged.
The spice of his sweat is making my mouth water. Pepper and musk and a hint of pine, shooting straight to where I’m aching to feel him. The need is so strong it’s a physical ache.
“You didn’t listen to me. You’re still here.” His voice is gravelly, hoarse. “You should go, girl.”
And maybe that’s what pushes me over the edge, undoing my last inhibition, my last fear, because I slide my arms up his strong chest, feeling his taut muscles under the thin fabric of his T-shirt, distantly aware I’m moaning softly at the sensation of those hard planes and ridges, that broad, powerful chest, rising and falling under my hands.
Of him so close to me, visibly struggling to keep from touching me, his strength barely contained—visibly aroused, his hot, hard length caught in his jeans, brushing against me as I shift closer.
It’s like petting a wolf or a panther, knowing he might snap his chain at any moment, that he might just stop purring and attack, bite you, hold you down…
Oh God, this is crazy, I can’t pull away, though I know I should. I’m dizzy with desire like I’ve never felt before in my life.
“Fucking hell, you’re still here, and I can’t…” His whole body is shaking now, and I feel every tremor going through his powerful frame. His eyes are hooded, those long lashes hiding his gaze. “I can’t do this anymore. Fuck.”
“Please,” I whisper, not sure what I’m doing, only sure I can’t walk away from this.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he says, the growl back in his voice, making my knees weak. “Fuck, you have no idea…”
“Show me,” I breathe.
“Shit.” His hands are suddenly on me, grabbing my hips. In one swift movement, he swings me around and pushes me against the counter. “You want me to fuck you? Say it.”
A gasp leaves my lips.
“Because I will. I’m gonna fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk for days.” He lifts me up on the counter, presses between my legs, his cock a steel bar between us. Feeling it makes my breath catch. “Hot damn, girl,” he whispers, his voice dropping to a groan.
And he kisses me.
It’s nothing like I imagined it would be. Nothing gentle and soft about it. His mouth crashes on mine, his beard chafes my chin, his tongue pushes between my lips, stroking my tongue, the roof of my mouth, and I’m on fire.
He tastes of blood and smoke and fire. My hands slide up his powerful shoulders to his face, tangle in his silky hair. I kiss him back, my mouth opening for him, my tongue sliding against his, and need pulses deep in my belly. It’s a strange ache, deeper than anything I’ve ever felt before.
I want him inside me.
The thought startles me, but he swallows my gasp, devouring my mouth, his hands moving down my body to grip my waist.
Never fooled around with a guy before—my frigging braces saw to that, plus the bullying by Ross and his nasty gang of friends—and I never thought my first time would be like this.
Against a kitchen counter. With a man who looks more beast than man in the twilight. Whose grip on my body is bruising, his kiss rough and unrestrained, going on and on, sucking all the air from my lungs.
Lighting up my body from the inside like a runaway spark, racing through my veins like liquid flame, waking up every part of me.
He draws back, his teeth scraping my lips, his beard tickling my chin. His warm breath washes over me, smelling faintly of Whiskey.
Without a word, he shoves his hands under my blouse, finding my breasts and squeezing them in their cotton cups, making me gasp. Pleasure shoots down my belly, pooling between my legs. I wind my arms around his neck, not sure of my balance when he tugs the cups down and thumbs my nipples.
Oh God…
More pleasure zings down my nerve endings, and heat gathers deep low. Pressure is building up, and I don’t know what to do with it.
I need him to take care of it.
Of me.
“Damn,” he growls, pressing his mouth to the juncture between my neck and shoulder, nipping and mouthing my skin, until I push into his hands, into his biting kisses that move up my neck. “You’re driving me fucking crazy.”
His scent hits me, that spicy musk mingled with car oil and leather, sharp and masculine.
“I want you,” I whisper.
With a curse, he pulls back and before I know it, he whips my blouse over my head and runs his
hot gaze over my exposed breasts.
My cheeks are burning. My eyes sting, and I don’t know if it’s from humiliation or that desperate need to feel him closer—against me, over me, inside me.
Everywhere.
His eyes are so dark they seem to swallow the light. He doesn’t move, taking his time to look me over, take his fill, and my nipples harden more under his scrutiny, aching for his touch. I’m caught in a net of desire, paralyzed, unable to escape.
I’m a statue made of clay. I feel like I’ll shatter if he doesn’t move, if he doesn’t do something. My courage, much as it is, fueled by this slow-burning desire for him over the weeks, lit by this sudden clash of our bodies, won’t last long.
The longer he stays still, staring at me, the more my heart races and the more second thoughts start crowding my head.
Nervous and shaky, I push at his chest. “Matt…”
A flash of darkness goes through his eyes. Then he leans back and grabs the hem of his T-shirt, whips it over his head and lets it drop to the floor.
Holy shit… Seeing his perfect chest never gets old. It impacts me just like the first time—the honed muscles, the line of his broad bones under smooth skin, the dark ink wire twining around his body, a white design on the inside of his left wrist.
He moves before I make it out, gripping my chin and lifting my head until I have no choice but to look into his eyes. My breath hitches, caught in my lungs.
I dig my nails into the back of his neck, but he doesn’t seem to notice. I need him to touch me so badly. To kiss me, stroke me, fill me up.
His mouth descends on mine once again, crushing our mouths together, his tongue thrusting against mine, making me see stars. He’s eating me up, mauling me, his hand sliding into my hair and pulling as he sucks on my lips and tongue.
Then, releasing me, he drops his hand to my pants and hauls them down and off me, panties, socks, shoes and all, leaving me naked on the kitchen counter.
“No more games,” he rasps, running his hands over my thighs, spreading me wider, and I gasp as the cool air hits my exposed pussy.
What games? I want to ask, but can’t because his thumb parts my folds and strokes me, a long, deep slide between my legs that has me trembling and moaning his name.
