Judgment Road (Torpedo Ink #1)

by Christine Feehan

  * * *

  “What are you doing with that woman?” Savage demanded.

  Reaper didn’t know what he was doing with her. He’d walked into that bathroom, knowing she’d fallen asleep, knowing she would be naked, but the idea of her lying in cold water had been more than he could take. He pressed his fingers to his eyes.

  “She’s living out of her car. The car wouldn’t run. That simple. Woman shouldn’t be out there by herself. Sooner or later her luck is going to run out.”

  “You let her put her hands on you, Reaper. Since she’s been here, you haven’t been acting like you.”

  What was he supposed to say to that? It was true. There was nothing he could say, because he couldn’t even explain it to himself. “You get rid of those assholes, the ones that tried to jump her?”

  Savage shrugged. “You put a knife in one of them. Sooner or later he was going to talk. Sad ending for them. Drove their bikes over the cliff about fifteen miles from here. Bodies won’t be found.”

  “You tell Czar yet?”

  Savage nodded. “Stopped by his house. Caught him and Blythe going at it.” He smirked a little. Blythe was so much a part of their family now, none of them could imagine life without her. “Talked to him through the window. She told me she was going to shoot me if I didn’t go away. I told her to stay busy while I gave Czar the minimum. Used our code so Blythe can sleep good at night. Not sure he got it all because Blythe did what I said, and he was a little distracted.”

  Reaper shrugged out of his shirt. “Hurts like hell,” he admitted to his brother.

  “Woman’s turning you into a whiner,” Savage commented, but his fingers were gentle as he examined the wound. “You need those antibiotics, bro. Some of your stitches have popped. I’ll have to redo them.”

  “Woman packs a punch.” For the first time in a long while, Reaper’s mouth softened. It wasn’t a smile, but it might have been a ghost of one. “She’s got a hell of a temper, but keeps it covered.”

  “Why’d she hit you?” Savage kept his eyes glued on the laceration. He’d already laid out the needle and thread and antibiotic cream. He had topical lidocaine just in case as well.

  “Smacked her ass twice. She retaliated. Had her over my shoulder.”

  “She know you were hurt?” Savage’s voice was mild.

  Reaper frowned. “No, she didn’t. Don’t go getting predatory on me. I recognize that tone. She’s under my protection.”

  “You’re under mine.”

  “Damn it, Savage, I mean it. I forced her to come here …”

  “She doesn’t put her hands on you.”

  “I let her. You know I let her.” This was why he didn’t let anything out of the ordinary into his life, and Anya was so far out of the ordinary he didn’t know what to do. He could barely breathe when he looked at her. All he wanted to do was throw her over his shoulder like a caveman and fuck her until she couldn’t walk. Until neither of them could stand. There were so many things he wanted to do to her, but getting her hurt wasn’t one of them. “She’s under my protection,” he said again. “That means she’s under yours.”

  It was a challenge and both knew it. A warning. Maybe even a plea. This scenario was out of both of their depths. Savage nodded and continued working. “We’ll play it your way, Reaper. Maybe you should take her to Blythe.”

  Czar’s old lady could do anything, fix anything, advise them on anything. As far as the club was concerned, she walked on water. She never minded if they all showed up for breakfast, lunch or dinner. She let them watch the four kids while Czar took her off for alone time—as alone as one could get with bodyguards. She was a screamer, so more than once, during the throes of sex, the bodyguards had run up on them, guns drawn, to find them going at it hard. She didn’t look down on them, or act like she was embarrassed to be seen with them.

  The members of the club had been raised, most from the time they were toddlers, without clothes or food in a particularly violent school in Russia. Their parents had been considered enemies of the State, so once they’d been taken, no one ever came to rescue them. They had lived in a small windowless basement a good deal of the time. Nudity didn’t bother them. It sometimes was difficult to stay indoors. Every kind of sex was commonplace, their teachers forcing them to perform in front of the others. It became so usual, they didn’t think anything of it. Now, trying to integrate into society, at least as far as they could, it was difficult to know and understand the rules. Some of the things they were used to, people on the outside frowned upon.

  “Anya isn’t going to change a thing for me,” Reaper said, wanting to believe it. She already had, and now the nightmares had come back. He was afraid to go to bed. Afraid to sleep. Afraid to touch her. She made him want things he knew he couldn’t have. It was far too dangerous. He looked at his brother. “It isn’t safe. You know that.”

  Savage shrugged. “I get away with it.”

  “You’re a man whore.”

  “Takes the edge off. You ought to try it.” Savage squeezed antibiotic cream all around the wound. “Take those pills.”

  “I will.” He swallowed two in front of his brother just to keep the peace. “I’m going to lie down for a while.” What he really wanted to do was go into that room and lie next to her. Touch her skin. Put his fingers inside of her. His tongue. He wanted to taste her. Leave his brand on her. And that was just for starters. He had so many things he wanted to do to Anya Rafferty, he knew he couldn’t fit them all into one night.

  “Think about it, Reaper. You fuck her hard, it all stops for a few minutes. Sometimes an hour. If you’re really lucky and you wear yourself out, you get longer.”

  Reaper walked away from him, concentrating on every step because his jeans were too tight and his cock hurt like a bastard. He’d put her in Lana’s old room. Lana rarely stayed there anymore. He’d texted her first and asked. Of course she’d said yes. That was Lana. Tough as nails when she had to be, but so soft inside she stole your heart—if you had one.

  He stood for a moment at the door of Anya’s room, his hand on the wood, just about where her head would be. He liked that she was tall with long legs. He liked that he was even taller and she had to look up at him with those green eyes of hers. His gut clenched hard. His cock jerked. Needed attention. He should go take a cold shower, or at least take care of the problem, but he didn’t. He dropped his hand to the doorknob. It was locked again.

  The woman just wouldn’t learn. They didn’t use locks. Not ever. Having been locked up for years, it was something they all detested. He picked the lock easily and stepped inside. She lay on the bed, the blanket haphazardly pulled over her body. He’d seen so many naked women, women who deliberately tried to arouse his body while he was forced to be disciplined enough to resist. Roles were often reversed and he was forced to arouse a woman while she was supposed to resist. By the time he was a teenager, the women didn’t win that battle. His body stayed under his control—until now—until Anya.

  Just the sight of her, naked with the blanket revealing part of her buttocks, round and firm, her back, her left breast and nipple made his cock hard and dripping small, pearly beads. He swore under his breath and opened his jeans. Dropping his hand to his cock, he fisted it, watching her. He wanted to paint her back and ass with his seed, but now wasn’t the time. Let her think she was safe. He had plans. Just not yet. His side hurt, and he was so tired he thought he might just go to sleep on his feet.

  He reached down, snagged her clothes and went back out, holding them with one hand to his chest, pumping his cock with the other, every step painful.

  FOUR

  Anya woke with a small groan, rolling over to look up at the ceiling, one arm flung over her eyes to keep out the light. The light. She’d gone to bed with the privacy screens down, which meant the room should have been dark. Not good. Someone had been in her room. Catching hold of the blanket, she pulled it up over her breasts and forced herself to stop being a baby. She opened her eyes.
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  “Finally,” a cheerful feminine voice said. “We didn’t think you’d ever wake up.”

  She wasn’t certain who “we” were. She sat up slowly and looked around the room. She had an audience of five. Two women and three men. She recognized the three men immediately. They were club members who came and went from the bar. Storm and Ice came in often, and Preacher worked as a bartender with her on heavy nights. She had just flashed her breasts at them.

  She hadn’t met the two women yet, though she knew who they were. She knew one had to be Lana Popov, Preacher’s birth sister. He talked about her as though she walked on water. She was beautiful. Her hair was a true black, very shiny, tumbling around her face as if she was windblown. She was tall, a little taller than Anya, and very curvy. Reaper may have had an inch on her, but no more than that.

  Alena was Ice and Storm’s sister. She was shorter, but not short. Anya guessed her at five-five or five-six. Her hair was wild, a platinum glossy mass, and her eyes were the same stunning blue as her two brothers’. Anya felt dowdy next to the vibrant women. Both had long nails, perfectly manicured. Both were dressed in fitted jeans and Harley tanks that made them look elegant as well as biker babe. She wouldn’t be able to pull off that look in a million years.

  “Blythe wants to meet you,” Alena announced. Where Lana had smiled, Alena didn’t. she clearly was sizing Anya up.

  Anya looked around for her clothes. She felt a little desperate without them. She was certain she’d left them on the chair by the bed, but there were no clothes there. “Good morning.” She didn’t know what else to say. She looked around a little helplessly, wishing for Reaper. At least she understood him, knew he wanted to get rid of her but was too chivalrous to leave her alone in a campground with a car that wouldn’t run. She had no idea what these people wanted.

  “We brought you some clothes,” Lana said. She patted her lap, drawing attention to the pile of jeans, shirts and lacy underwear. She made no move to pass them to Anya.

  “I locked the door. How did you get in?”

  “It wasn’t locked,” Ice said. He had three tattooed teardrops dripping down his face just to the side and under his left eye. His eyes were so incredibly blue she thought they had to be contacts, but his twin and sister had the same eyes.

  She believed him. That meant Reaper had been at his lock picking again. She was going to kill him. “What can I do for all of you?”

  “We were just wondering what was going on between you and Reaper,” Alena said.

  Anya pushed at the unruly fall of heavy hair. She hadn’t dried it the night before, and it fell in waves all around her to pool on the bed. Clutching the blanket even tighter around her, she took a deep breath. They were all staring at her, completely serious. She couldn’t read their expressions, but she was terrified if she didn’t give them the right answer, they might murder her and bury her body somewhere.

  What had she been thinking hiding out bartending in a biker bar? It was the last place anyone would look for her, that’s what she’d been thinking. “Nothing. Nothing’s going on between us. Ice, you heard him. He wants me gone.”

  “He wanted you gone, honey, you’d be gone,” Storm said. “So, what the hell is between you two?”

  Hadn’t he even been listening when Reaper demanded Czar get rid of her? It was a horrible moment. She needed this job. She was homeless—again. Living out of her car, not a shelter, terrified every minute of her existence that she wasn’t safe. Not in the bar and certainly not camping alone out at the Egg Taking Station. Reaper’s I don’t give a shit meant he did, he wanted her gone and had expected Czar to fire her.

  She took another deep breath, knowing they saw her hands tremble. “I’m telling you there’s nothing between us. He took me to my car, which incidentally isn’t running and …”

  “Which he incidentally had towed to the garage for Transporter and Mechanic to fix,” Storm persisted.

  What could she say to that? Reaper was nice? “He didn’t like me out there at the campground where I was staying, and he insisted I come here for the night. It was a nice thing to do. He was just being nice.” Even to her ears that sounded lame, but what else could she say?

  “Bullshit,” Alena snapped. “Reaper’s not nice.”

  “You might want to start tellin’ us the truth,” Storm insisted.

  “He’ll fuckin’ cut your nuts off”—Savage’s wide shoulders filled the doorway—“you talk to her like that again. There’s no need for that tone. Just give her the clothes and leave her the hell alone.”

  The world had gone crazy. Everyone in the club was nuts. Savage coming to her rescue? He hadn’t spoken a single word to her, in fact, he’d given her the death stare. Now, all of a sudden, he was going to stick up for her? That made no sense.

  “It’s all right,” Anya murmured. What else could she do? She didn’t want these men and women for enemies. “They just misunderstood Reaper’s kindness.”

  “Or maybe you did,” Alena pointed out. She stood up. “I hope you like the clothes. We did the best we could with Reaper’s weird measurement system. We had to guess at your sizes.” She sauntered out of the room, looking regal. Biker regal.

  Anya watched her closely; the woman had a small limp, one she covered well. Her brothers followed her, giving her a little salute.

  “I’m sorry we intruded,” Lana said. “I could lie and say we didn’t mean to, but I’m certain you’d know it was a lie, so why bother. We wanted to meet the mystery girl who has Reaper tied up in knots. You go, girl. But don’t hurt him. You hurt that man and someone’s going to cut your throat.”

  Anya stroked her throat with her fingers. “You don’t have to worry. Your little warning is enough for me to keep my distance. I’m fond of my throat.” Screw Reaper. Screw Lana. Screw the biker club. She was so getting out of there. She needed to know if her car was fixable. The moment it was, she was out of there. Out. Of. There. For good. Done with biker bars. Done with biker bullshit rules she didn’t understand. Done with being scared.

  She didn’t belong. Not anywhere. Not with anyone. She couldn’t even fit into the biker world. What did that say about her? She pressed the blanket to her mouth to keep it from trembling. “I’d like to get dressed now.” The words were muffled. They made her feel vulnerable and inconsequential. She’d had enough of that growing up living at the shelter. They weren’t going to reduce everything she’d worked so hard for to nothing. She wasn’t going to feel like trash someone had thrown out onto the curb. So yeah, screw them.

  Lana stood up gracefully, flowing, fluid like a cat, and carefully put the clothes in a neat stack on the end of the bed. Savage stepped back to allow Lana and Preacher to leave the room. He stood a minute studying Anya’s face. “You all right?”

  “Yes. Fine, thank you. No worries.” She prayed her voice wouldn’t tremble. Just let him leave, she’d put on the clothes, run to the bathroom and make her escape. She could walk to the garage. It wasn’t very far. Visit her car. She had money stashed in it. She’d saved nearly every penny she made just in case she had to run again. There was a used car lot in Fort Bragg. She could make a deal with them. Maybe.

  “You’re full of shit,” Savage said. “Reaper won’t let anything happen to you.” He waited. She didn’t say anything. She wanted him to leave, and he got the hint.

  The second the door closed, she pulled on the stretch lace underwear and matching bra. Neither did much in the way of covering her up. The jeans fit like a glove. Perfection. She’d never had a pair of jeans that fit so well, not with her smaller waist. The jeans fit, but the shirt was a disaster. It was small. It barely fit over her breasts, so that the material clung to her curves and showed not only the top of her breasts, the valley in between, but also the lace edging on her bra—similar to Betina’s tank. Had Alena and Lana done it on purpose? Probably. They were making a statement. She knew the difference between the women they respected and the ones they didn’t.

  She went to the closet
in the hopes of finding something that would fit. It was empty. She sank down on the end of the bed and dropped her head into her hands. She didn’t want to cry. She’d cried enough when she was a kid, trying to figure out where her next meal was coming from.

  “Anya?” The voice was soft. The way Reaper said her name was almost haunting. “Baby, are you crying?”

  She shook her head, not looking up.

  “Savage said the girls were in here not being very nice to you. What did they say?”

  “I just want to leave. I’d like to get to my car.” She forced herself to stop being a coward and look up at him. The moment she did, her heart clenched hard in her chest. He hadn’t deteriorated overnight. He was still hot as hell. Still scary looking. Still scarred and tattooed.

  “Come on, let’s go.” He stepped back.

  “I have to go to the bathroom first.” She didn’t want him to see her tearstained face. She hated crying. Hated that weakness. Mostly she didn’t like that Lana and Alena had been the ones to make her cry. There should be a sisterhood that prevented women from making another feel left out. Ugly. Unwanted.

  He nodded and stayed where he was. She could feel his eyes on her butt as she hurried down the hall to the bathroom. She had the mad desire to peel off the top and throw it. Maybe going around in her bra would be better than trying to outdo Betina. If Betina wore a top like this one to the bar, every man who came in would be all over her.

  She stayed for a while, long enough to wash her face and try to tame her wild hair into some semblance of order. When she came out, she padded back to the room to find her shoes. “I’ll need to go somewhere to find a different top. This one is a little small.”

  “It is?” Reaper leaned his hip against the doorjamb, looking lazy and tempting. “I think you look beautiful. I might have to fight half the male population off you though.”

  A compliment? He sounded sincere. She glanced up from where she was tying her shoe. There was no trace of humor on his face or in his eyes. She swallowed hard. “I can’t wear this. I need a different shirt. One that covers me. I look too much like Betina.”