Evil's Price: Devil's Outlaws MC (Book One) (Dark MC Romance)

by Raven Dark

  Tell him what he wants to know? What information I can possibly have that would be of any use to him?

  When he turns to face me again, his features are a cold mask. Was that the look those men from the Satan’s Bastards saw before he killed them? His eyes are completely without compassion, devoid of any of the warmth I saw above me while he was inside me so many times. Lord, I hate that expression.

  He put his gun to my head. I hate him.

  “What’s the use of telling you anything if I’m dead anyway?” The question is meant to buy time.

  The smile that tugs at his mouth tells me he knows this.

  Spider bends and pulls a blade from a sheath on the side of his boot. The long blade glints in the bluish white lights of the room. He closes in, one slow step at a time.

  He’s going to stab me. Heck, not going to shoot me in the head, he’s going to gut me right here and now.

  I thrash and twist, barely feeling the agony ripping at my shoulders and arms through my panic.

  “Fear and pain are good motivators.” His conversational tone is alarming. “Have you ever heard of the expression, “death by a thousand cuts?”

  I haven’t, but I can work out what it means. I thrash harder.

  Stopping right in front of me, Spider grabs the back of my nape. I hang there, chest rising and falling hard. His palm burns the back of my neck, huge and as strong and inescapable as steel.

  The blade in his hand gleams. I’ve never realized how sharp a knife looks until now. Expecting him to ram it into my gut, I squeeze my eyes shut.

  “The trick,” he adds now, “is to apply just enough pressure to draw blood, but not enough to make you bleed out. Small cuts. It’s a slow way to go. Excruciating. It takes hours if you want it to. It can take days.”

  He’s good, I’ll give him that. I can imagine that after enough small, agonizing cuts, as the blood slowly trickles out over the course of endless hours or days, a person would be ready to tell him anything just to stop the pain.

  When I was a kid, I read stories about the Salem Witch Trials. Women who were suspected of witchcraft were tortured into confessing to the use of magic. Inquisitors used methods of extraction that left me feeling sick to my stomach after reading them and enraged for the poor women who often confessed to murder and countless other unthinkable crimes just to end their own misery.

  With his icy indifferent demeanor and cold efficiency, Spider would have made a fantastic Inquisitor.

  My heart hammers.

  “What do you want to know?”

  The question doesn’t mean I’m intending to tell him anything. It doesn’t. It’s a tactic meant to feel the situation out and buy more time.

  Once more, he releases me and retreats a pace. Watching me in silence.

  A second ticks by. Then another. Then…

  “Who is Abel Adamson?”

  I blink at him. I’ve never heard the name in my life. There’s no one in the Colony with that name that I know of, and the only person I’ve had any prolonged contact with outside of the MC or The Devil’s Den is my previous employer.

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Don’t play games with me, Emma.”

  “I’m not,” I snap. “I don’t know an Abel Adamson.”

  He clasps his hands behind his back, legs astride. The stance is militant, reminding me of the way the guards sometimes stand on the Colony grounds. I’m not fool enough to forget the knife is still in his hand even if I can’t see it.

  “You’ve already proven yourself to be a liar as well as a thief. Who is he?”

  “I told you, I don’t know,” I say tightly.

  Again, he watches me in silence.

  “What makes you think I know him? Who is he?”

  “If you don’t know him, then why does he have a photo of you?”

  My brows scrunch. He has a picture of me?

  That doesn’t make sense. Since leaving His Holy Peace, I’ve made a point to avoid having my picture taken by anyone, refusing to offer up any evidence of myself that could fall into the wrong hands. Several times my previous employer wanted to take pictures at his kid’s birthdays and Christmas, and I made sure not to be anywhere near the camera.

  I’m tempted to think he took one without my knowing, but his name wasn’t Adamson. It was Porter. Maybe he took one without my knowing and this Adamson got hold of it somehow. But that doesn’t sound right.

  Spider must be trying to set me up somehow, trying to trick me.

  “You’re lying,” I say.

  Spider reaches into the pocket of his cut and pulls out a piece of paper. He unfolds it and shows it to me.

  Sure enough, there’s black and white photo on the page. The image is grainy, like it’s been photocopied, making it impossible to see what background might have been behind me or anything else that might tell me when or where the pic was taken, but it’s definitely of me. And beside the image is my name, Emma Wineman.

  Thoughts spinning, I lick a bead of sweat off of my lips. “I have no idea who this Adamson is, or why he had that.”

  “You’re lying.” He folds the picture and pockets it. “That photo was in his house, along with dozens of other people’s photos.”

  Dozens of others?

  Okay, this is starting to make less and less sense. The only explanation is that the others are from the Colony like me. But no one outside the Colony would have managed to take pictures of people there without someone knowing. Outsiders aren’t allowed in, and even if they were, they wouldn’t be allowed to do that. And no one in His Holy Peace would do it. Pictures mean a paper trail, an easy way for documentation to fall into the hands of people who’d waste no time trying to take the cult down as soon as they realized what was happening there.

  Wait. Was Sarah in one of those pictures?

  I lick my lips. “Let me see them.”

  His eyes narrow.

  “The other pictures. Let me see them.”

  A sly smile tugs at his mouth. “You really think I’m going to do that?”

  Well, no. I hadn’t really expected him to show me. It’s just that it would have given me more time to figure out what to do, and it might have helped me figure out what the heck is going on here. And I need to see if Sarah is in one of them. Or my parents.

  “Look. I have no idea what’s going on here, or who this Adamson is. If you show me the other pictures, I might be able to tell you.”

  “I have a better idea.” Spider closes the space between us. He grips the back of my neck. The knife in his other hand glints. I tense. He presses the tip of the blade to the base of my throat. I go still, my breath freezing in my lungs.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I wait for the inevitable.

  But Spider doesn’t stab me. Instead, barely letting the blade touch my skin, he trails the tip down the front of my chest, between my breasts. I suck in a breath, my feet pedaling backward as I try to put distance between that knife and my exposed flesh.

  The blade stills right between my breasts. “Stay still, or you’ll only hurt yourself.”

  As if this is my choice, and any pain I suffer is my own fault. I freeze in place, praying for mercy, for a way out from a God I know full well doesn’t exist. If he did, he wouldn’t allow this to happen.

  If there is a God, he abandoned me long ago.

  The knife trails slowly over my ribs, around one breast, then around the other. I pant, my muscles going taut until I expect them to snap.

  Spider puts his face close enough to mine that his warm breath fans my cheeks. The tip of his blade doesn’t leave my flesh. “The day you stole those tips, you said you had to get out of town. Who were you running from?”

  I say nothing.

  He adds the smallest amount of pressure and drags the blade in a slow circle around my left breast. He doesn’t press hard enough to break the skin, but enough that the tip of the blade would leave a long, red welt in its wake.

  The sting is shockingly intense and I hiss between my tee
th. He trails the blade around the other breast, producing the same agonizing sting. I buck, and his grip on my nape tightens, holding me still.

  “Adamson had the number to the boarding house you called on his list of contacts,” Spider growls in a low voice, tracing a line down to my stomach, then to my navel until my stomach draws in as far as it will go. “He’s rich. What is he, your Daddy Warbucks? Was he helping you escape them, whomever they are?”

  I have no idea who or what a Daddy Warbucks is, but the words are obviously supposed to imply a savior of some sort.

  “I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  His fingers squeeze my nape until I cry out. Lightening the pressure of the blade on my skin, he draws the knife in a long trail all the way up to the base of my throat.

  “Is that the kind of guy you run to for help? Did he promise to hide you? Was he waiting in the wings for you? Were you going to run away together to some tropical island and spend your days fucking each other senseless?”

  Disbelief wraps my mind in a confused fog. Anger has seeped into the cold indifference that until then ruled him.

  He’s jealous. When I look into his eyes, possession has turned them to blue flames.

  It’s absurd, but the notion that he’s jealous fills me with a euphoric rush. He has a knife pressed to my throat, and yet my body presses closer to him, seeking the warmth of the fire burning in him.

  He isn’t as cold and unfeeling as I thought. For him, the notion that I’d run off with this Adamson has pierced his armor. For an instant, I glimpse the man I’d begun to fall for. The angry, livid, possessive biker who thinks of me as his.

  Then, he traces a line all the way down between my breasts again, over my stomach. The blade stops right above my sex, inches from the thatch of hair there.

  What unspeakable things could he do with that knife down there? His eyes gleam, promising a thousand horrors. A thousand horrors, each of which should have me nearly passing out in panic, so why in heck is there a throb licking between my legs? Moisture pools there. What is this man doing to me? How sick must I be to be turned on by this?

  I pant, my muscles quivering with the effort to pull away from him.

  His grip on my nape is merciless. His nostrils flare, and a slow, knowing smirk teases his mouth.

  What now?

  Slowly, he releases my nape. Keeping the tip of the blade pressed lightly to the skin above my sex, he trails the fingers of his other hand through my folds. Through the wetness that’s betrayed me.

  Spider lets out an animalistic growl of approval. “You’re soaked. See? I’ve threatened to cut you up, and you still want me to fuck you.”

  “Get away from me,” I snarl.

  He chuckles. It’s a low, mean sound. He leans in, hot breath caressing my ear.

  “I could gut you like a fish,” he growls. “One slice, and I’d open you up from end to end. Your intestines would spill out, and you’d bleed out all over this floor.”

  “No…” Terror shreds my resolve to pieces, cooling the desire he’s somehow called up inside me like magic. “Please. I don’t know anything. I don’t!”

  “Oh, yeah.” His hand wraps around my throat, and when I buck in his grip, his fingers tighten while he traces a path over my ribs with the blade, pressing hard enough that small drops of blood run down my stomach. “I’d let you bleed out slowly while I take you right up the fucking ass.”

  Lord, Spider isn’t just a monster. He’s well and truly broken.

  I scream, a wordless protest that bounces off of the walls, high pitch and raw. I’ve never been so terrified in my life.

  “Shhh.” His voice is a low cooing in my ear, a parody of gentleness that’s as twisted as it is cruel. He releases my throat and presses his fingers to my lips.

  I toss my head, my eyes wet with tears.

  Slowly, he draws a random pattern of lines along my breastbone, inches from my throat.

  He’s marking me. A smile touches his mouth. Dread coils in my gut at what twisted image he’s leaving there.

  “Stop!” I scream.

  “Who were you running from? Where did you come from, Wildcat? What’s your connection to Adamson?”

  I sob.

  Shaking his head, he prowls around behind me, trailing the end of the knife along the side of my ribcage, pressing hard enough to sting. Enough to ratchet up my panic and send my imagination into overdrive with what’s coming next.

  He just threatened to take me up the ass. Holding the blade with one hand, he runs his hot palm over each cheek as if savoring every curve. My sex clenches, and my heart tries to beat its way out of my chest. How much will it hurt to have his manhood, a shaft as thick and as long as his…there?

  “I told you, I don’t know anything!”

  “Liar,” he rumbles, stopping the blade on my hip.

  I pant and twist.

  “Stay still now. Wouldn’t want to ruin my art work.” He presses a little harder, drawing random lines. The sting makes my eyes burn. The faintest trickle of blood warms my skin.

  “Stop! Please, please stop,” I sob.

  I’m like one of those witches in the trials, on the verge of shattering, ready to spill all my secrets just to end this.

  Spider grips my hair to stabilize me, leans into me, and slides the handle of the blade across my stomach and down my front, between my legs. I thrash and kick.

  “Stop moving.”

  I cry out.

  His teeth bite my ear hard. “Stop. Moving.”

  The pain goes right between my legs. I almost come.

  The tip of the blade’s handle runs slowly over my clit, up and down, agonizing circles. Lord, that blade is inches from my sex, and I’m dripping wet.

  “Please, please….”

  “Tell me what I want to know.” His other hand strokes my hair. “You can end this all now, Wildcat. All you have to do is tell me who you ran from. And who this guy is.”

  “I don’t know who he is!” I roar.

  The hilt of the knife stills on my clit and then slowly slides away. He drops his arm, but his other hand fists my hair. He stands there, frozen and silent, as if thinking.

  Does he believe me, or is he just calculating his next move?

  “Then tell me the rest of it. Don’t make me gut you. I do what I have to for my club, and I will get it out of you.” He holds the tip of his blade an inch from my eye. “Even if I have to take out your pretty little eyes, one at a time.”

  I go deathly still, not blinking, not even breathing.

  Oh, heaven help me. He would. I can hear it in his voice. He thinks he’s hurting me to protect his people. He’ll do what he has to.

  “Who were you trying to get away from? Who are you, Emma Wineman?”

  I sniffle, tears soaking my cheeks. My chest heaves.

  I shatter like a glass thrown to a wall.

  “Please, take the knife away. Please. I’ll tell you everything. Just don’t do this anymore.”

  Spider slides his hands away. Footsteps prowl slowly around me until he’s standing before me.

  Arms crossed, his face a cold, cold mask, the monster waits.

  22

  Emma’s Tale

  Standing before my Wildcat, watching the tears trail down those soft cheeks gone white with terror, I’d love to say that her fear has no effect on me.

  Weeks ago, I’d have licked those sweet tears off her cheeks. I’d have sucked the tiny drops of blood that ran from the cuts on her chest, lapping it from her skin while I fucked her to insanity. Then I’d have painted my come all over pussy and smeared it on her skin, leaving my mark on her.

  I’d have fed off her fear and devoured her pain, letting it fuel my need and soothe the raging beast that lives in the depths of my blackened soul.

  Now?

  Now, the sight of her chained up and staring at me with such bone-deep fear in those big brown eyes hollows me out. It sends a spiderweb of cracks across the armor that surround
s my heart, threatening to implode what beats within with the force of a Hiroshima bomb.

  I stand before her with my face a cold mask, but where weeks ago, I would have had no problem breaking her, now I have to make a conscious effort to flip the switch on my emotions, shutting them off. The thing is, the switch doesn’t seem to be working.

  I’d have given anything to say I was enjoying the process of systematically breaking her down, but the truth is, only my loyalty to the club and the knowledge that she’s a danger to the MC keeps me from unchaining her and carrying her out of here then and there.

  When I’d come back to the clubhouse, I’d checked to make sure that Axe had locked her in here. Then I’d stripped her bare and hung her from those chains while she was still out cold. Dragon was the one who turned out the lights to scare her. When I’d seen her awaken on the camera feed looking so terrified, I’d had to restrain myself from knocking his teeth in and switching the lights back on.

  Then I’d had Rat check into the name I’d found along with the pic of her. Emma Wineman.

  I liked the name. It sounded soft and elegant and refined, just like her. I liked it and that pissed me off. So much for not caring about her name. Worse, now that I knew it, I wanted to know everything else about her.

  An hour after Rat had started his search, he’d called me up to his office on the second floor of the clubhouse, a room we always called the Control Room. I hadn’t liked what he’d found.

  He’d turned away from the half a dozen computer screens and TV monitors that lined his back wall to face me, looking baffled.

  “I have some interesting news on your girl, but you’re not gonna like it.”

  I glance at the computer monitors, where, of all things, he has an Avengers video game on pause. “Spill.”

  He heaves a sigh. “She doesn’t exist.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about? What do you mean she doesn’t exist?”

  Rat stands up and goes to one of the computers off to the side and types a few keys. The back of his black tee has an image of a motorcycle with Wonder Woman astride it in a sexy pinup pose. Across the shirt under the bike reads, Wonder Woman Is My Ol’ Lady.