It’s warmed up in the cabin a little. And it smells good. Like bacon. Coffee.
Breakfast.
I blink my eyes open. The man is in the kitchen. He’s standing over the stove, in the same jeans as before, and a tight black T-shirt that reveals muscled biceps lined with tattoos.
Somehow he must feel my eyes on him, because he cuts his eyes over to look at me. Saying nothing, he merely nods and continues what he’s doing. My stomach growls loudly. I haven’t had anything except the apple to eat in over twelve hours.
Eventually, he opens a cupboard and takes out a couple of plates. He holds up a pan of what turn out to be eggs and divides them, then pulls the bacon out of another pan and puts the strips on a smaller plate. He carries them out to the table, sets them down, and looks at me.
“Do you drink coffee?” he asks without preamble. I nod my head. He goes back into the kitchen and pours two cups. He doesn’t ask if I take anything in mine.
When the coffee’s on the table, he comes over to me. I expect him to untie me, but instead he simply picks me up, chair and all, and carries me over to the table. He sets the chair down, roughly enough that my teeth rattle a little.
I snort in disbelief. “What, so you’re going to feed me?” I ask sarcastically.
“No.” He reaches behind me and unties my hands. When they’re free, he goes to his chair, sits down, and begins to eat without another word.
I snort again and roll my eyes, even though he’s not even looking at me. But I’m too hungry to protest or wait any longer. Instead, I grab the fork lying beside my plate and dig in.
I’ve eaten three pieces of bacon and most of my eggs before I know it. When I finally look up from my food, I see him staring at me, one side of his mouth twitching up just a little.
“Hungry, were you?”
I pick up the mug of coffee, savoring the warmth of it in my hands. I take a sip. It’s strong, and I grimace a little.
“You don’t like your coffee black?”
“I usually take it with milk,” I admit.
“There isn’t any,” he tells me. Then, grudgingly: “I can ask Gunner to bring some when he comes with some clothes for you.”
“Thanks.” I take another sip. This time I’m ready for the bitter taste. “So. Am I ever going to know your name?”
He shrugs. “There’s no reason you shouldn’t. Thorn.”
It feels like a little victory that he told me without a fight.
“Why the hell are you doing this, Thorn? You’re not in my dad’s club.”
“Because it’s my job,” he grunts.
“Why is it your job?”
“Because my president told me this is my job.”
“Why does your president care?”
“None of your business.”
“Dammit, this is my business. I’m the one who’s being held captive here!”
“Take it up with your father.” He picks up a piece of bacon, his face stormy. He’s clearly not going to tell me any more.
The rest of breakfast passes in silence. When I finish my coffee, I want to ask him for another cup. But I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of me talking first, so I don’t. Instead, I take turns pouting and glowering at him. He doesn’t even look at me.
When breakfast is over, Thorn collects the plates and silverware and takes them over to the sink. He dumps them in and turns on the faucet, reaching for a sponge on the counter. The sound of the water, plus the coffee I drank, wakes up my bladder. I try to ignore it, in vain. Sighing in frustration, I admit defeat and realize I’m going to have to talk first.
“I have to pee,” I announce.
Thorn turns off the water and comes over. Kneeling, he unties my feet and points down a short hallway. “In there.”
I don’t wait. Standing up, I try to ignore the pain in my legs as the blood rushes back into them. Hobbling a little, I pad into the hallway and find a smallish bathroom with a sink, a toilet, and a tiny shower stall. I reach up to close the door, but a large, strong hand stops it.
“Are you serious?” I ask incredulously.
“No locking the door.” His deep brown eyes bore into me. “If you try to open the window, I’ll hear you. If you do anything stupid, I’ll have Gunner bring a bedpan and you’ll do your business out in the living room where I can watch you.”
I blanch. The expression on his face tells me he’s dead serious. Nodding, I wait as he takes his hand off the door and allows me to shut it. My hand lingers on the knob as I contemplate locking it anyway, but I decide there’s no point. This door is flimsy and hollow. If he wanted to break it down, he could do it with a single blow of his fist.
Inside, I pull down my panties and squat, sighing in relief as my bladder empties. As I pee, I look at the window. It’s small, but I could definitely fit through it. Maybe I can wait until Thorn lets down his defenses, and then…
“Hurry up in there!”
“Hold your horses!” I yell back crossly. “Asshole,” I mutter to myself. I finish peeing and wipe, then wash my hands and dry them on a worn, coarse towel hanging from a rack by the sink. I open the door and Thorn is standing right there, leaning against the jamb.
“Seriously, do you get off listening to women pee?” I ask sarcastically.
His eyes glint, their expression going from irritated to wolfish in a heartbeat.
“Do you want to get me off?” he asks, his lips twisting into a lazy, sexy smirk. “Because I can tell you how, Isabel.”
I know he’s just saying this to shock me into silence. But it works. Suddenly, I’m acutely aware that I’m alone in the woods with a man — a sexy, hard, dominant man — and I have basically no defenses against him. He could do whatever he wanted to me. If he wanted to. My pulse starts to race — partly from fear, but partly from something else entirely. Because the thought of Thorn doing things to me… dirty things… excites me more than I care to admit to myself.
“I don’t think my father would like that,” I croak.
“Your father might not. But you would, wouldn’t you, little girl?”
My mouth opens and then closes again. My face starts to burn. I slip past him, but his arm shoots out and grabs me by the bicep, pulling me back toward him.
“Wouldn’t you?” he repeats, his mouth so close to my ear I can feel the warmth of his breath.
“You’re a pig,” I whisper.
He laughs and lets me go.
8
Thorn
Isabel asks to take a shower. I can’t think of any reason not to let her, so I say yes, though I make her keep the bathroom door open. I show her the tiny linen closet to the left of the bathroom, and she picks out a towel to use. Right before she goes in, she looks at me hesitantly, like she wants to ask me a question.
“What is it?” I demand.
“I don’t have anything else to wear,” she says in a small voice. “Could I maybe look around to see if there’s something in a drawer somewhere I could put on?”
“Good Christ,” I mutter, and go to my duffel bag, which is still in the corner. Pulling out a T-shirt and a pair of sweats, I go back and thrust them at her. “Here.”
She blinks. “Thank you,” she murmurs. I go to the couch and fling myself down, lighting a cigarette. I watch through the bathroom doorway as she carefully drapes the clothing and the towel over the shower door and gets in with her dress on. A few seconds later, the dress is flung over the door as well, and then a small hand snakes out and shoves a bra and a pair of dark panties into the sleeve.
My cock goes hard as a bat. Christ, it’s not even ten in the morning yet and already I want a drink. This girl is going to drive me mad if I’m not careful.
While Isabel is showering, I pull out my phone and call Gunner. “Where the fuck are you?” I demand.
“Jesus, you’re in a foul mood this morning,” he replies cheerfully.
“You don’t know the half of it,” I rumble. “So, where the fuck are you?”
; “Alix is packing a bag for the girl. I’m sending Beast up with it a little later. Rock’s got me going on a run with him, Ghost and Angel.”
“What’s the run?”
“Taking that shipment down across the border to the Reign of Hell.”
I grunt. “Good luck.”
“Thanks. Beast should be up to you by mid-afternoon,” Gunner continues. “I’m here at home right now. Taking off for the clubhouse in about an hour. You think of anything specific you want Alix to send up, text me before then.”
“Will do.” I’m about to hang up, when I remember something. “Bring up a quart of milk if you can.”
“Got it.”
A few minutes later, the water shuts off. I watch as the towel disappears over the shower door. Knowing Isabel is in there, wet and naked, is fucking with my head. My cock is so hard it’s aching. I think back to her reaction when I told her she could get me off if she wanted to. I said it to shock her, but the look on her face — the way her breathing sped up, like it excited her as much as it scared her — it fuckin’ did me in. I made sure to get my rocks off at the clubhouse with Melanie and Tammy before we went to pick up Isabel, knowing I was about to go through a dry spell. But I didn’t bargain for the constant temptation that this girl is turning out to be. Who would think that an ugly fucker like Oz could produce something that looked like that?
The towel goes back over the shower door, and my shirt disappears. A few seconds later, so do my sweats. I can’t help but notice she hasn’t put her underwear back on, or her bra.
I could slip my hand under the waistband of those sweats so easily. Slide my fingers against her hot, wet pussy… make her moan for me… pull them down and sink my cock inside her…
A sharp jolt of pain singes my middle finger. Yelping, I look down and see my lit cigarette has burned down to its nub.
A few minutes later, Isabel comes out of the shower wearing my clothes. I’m flipping through channels on the TV, looking for a game to watch to keep my mind, and my eyes, focused elsewhere.
Isabel’s nose wrinkles. “Do you have to smoke in here?”
“I’ll do as I please,” I mutter darkly.
She sighs, clearly exasperated. “When is your friend going to bring me something else to wear?”
I glance over at her with a frown. Isabel’s hair hangs wet, away from her face. Her features are even more striking like this. High, elegant cheekbones, eyes that are dark and intense, even without the makeup that she’s washed off. My clothes hang huge and shapeless on her. But it doesn’t make her less sexy. On the contrary, my hands itch to reach underneath the fabric, knowing that she’s naked underneath it all.
Angrily, I turn back to the TV. “Soon. Today.”
She nods. “Thanks.”
Without waiting for an answer, she pads back into the bathroom. I can’t help but watch as she reaches into the mirrored cabinet, stares inside, and pulls out an old tube of toothpaste. Squeezing some onto her finger, she starts rubbing the paste vigorously across her teeth.
Sighing, I pull out my phone and text Gunner to have Alix send along a new toothbrush.
When Isabel is done in the bathroom, she comes into the living room and stands next to the chair.
“Are you going to tie me up again?” she asks.
I cut her a look. “That depends on you.”
“What about me?”
“Look. Isabel.” I lean forward. “We are a good twenty miles from anything. It’s forty degrees outside. You’re barefoot and you have no coat. If you try to run, you won’t survive it. That’s assuming I don’t catch you. If you’re not an idiot, I can let you stay untied. Are you an idiot?”
Anger flashes across her face. “No,” she spits, her chin jutting.
“We’ll see.” I lean back and cross my arms. I’ve found an American football game on. Both teams are shite, but I’d rather look at them than her.
A few seconds pass in silence. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her lean down. Glancing over, I watch as she picks up her necklace, which has been lying on the floor beside her chair since last night.
Isabel comes over to the long couch and sits down on the opposite end, as far away from me as she can manage.
A few more minutes pass in silence.
“Do you like football?” she asks, staring at the screen.
“It’s all right.”
“You’re not American,” she observes.
“Irish.”
“Oh.”
Isabel pulls her knees up toward her chest. Her head bows down in concentration. She starts to fiddle with the necklace.
“Is it broken?” I find myself asking.
“I think I can fix it,” she murmurs. “It’s just the clasp.”
“Why do you care so much about a damn necklace?”
“My mom gave it to me,” she says in a quiet voice.
Her ma. Funny I never even thought about her having a ma.
“Where is she? Your ma.”
“Venezuela.” She lets out a small sigh.
“How long’s she been there?”
“Three years.” Isabel holds out the necklace, testing it. “It’s where she was born. As soon as I graduated from high school, she left to go back and take care of her parents. The economic situation there is terrible. People have to stand in line for hours, sometimes days, to get food. And my grandparents are old, and can’t really fend for themselves anymore. So, my mom has to do it for them.”
I don’t say anything in response. But I know what it’s like not to see family for a while. How long since I’ve seen my own ma? Twelve years, it’s been.
Jimmy would be a grown man now. The two of you’d be drinking down the pub together.
The grief hits me like a bullet, like it always does. I audibly wince, and Isabel shoots me a curious look, which I avoid by standing up abruptly.
“You want a beer?” I mutter.
“It’s a little early for me,” she says, amused.
“No such thing.” I reach in the fridge for a cold one, pop the top, and take a long drink. When I pull the bottle away from my face, my hand is shaking.
Clenching my jaw, I shove the thought away. Like I’ve been doing since the day it happened.
“It’s hard to imagine Oz with an old lady,” I tell Isabel.
“Oh, they aren’t together. Haven’t been for years.” She shrugs. “Honestly, I barely remember the time when they were. Mom took care of me for most of my childhood. Dad hardly ever came around. He gave her money, but that’s about it. He didn’t want to be a father. Especially not to a girl.”
The disgust in her voice is evident. But there’s also pain.
“You sure about that?” I ask, not sure why I’d be defending Oz. “He doesn’t exactly strike me as the kind of guy who’s good at expressing his feelings.”
“Dad doesn’t care about anything but his club,” she scoffs. “And making money, or whatever they do, and being tough. Being the guy that everyone’s too scared to mess with. Being a parent? Not on his radar.”
“If he didn’t care about you, he wouldn’t be going to such lengths to protect you, would he?”
“Please.” Isabel snorts. “Dad’s become a caveman about me ever since Mom left. While she was around, he didn’t have to give me a second thought. This? It’s just an ego thing. He doesn’t want his precious daughter defiled. That’s all this is. He’d lock me in a tower if he could, but he can’t, so this is the next best thing. It has nothing to do with me.”
I’m about to tell her she has it wrong, but I don’t know how much of the situation Oz would want me to share. Suddenly, Isabel lets out a cry of delight.
“Look!” Isabel crows, holding up the necklace. “I fixed it!”
The grin on her face is so wide and happy that for a second I forget everything I’m supposed to be doing and almost grin right back. My chest constricts, because in spite of all this shite I can’t help but be happy for her that she’s fixed her stupid fucking nec
klace and that this one tiny thing has made her so freaking ecstatic. Even though she’s basically a prisoner here, and I’m in charge of making sure she stays that way.
This is bad. This is very bad.
Wanting to have sex with her is one thing. Of course I do, she’s fucking hot. But I can tame that demon by jerking off. I’ve been fighting to keep my cock at half-mast ever since I woke up this morning, and for the most part I’ve managed it.
But this thing, this is fucking new, and it comes at me like a punch from behind. This thing where just seeing her happy about this tiny, pathetic thing makes me feel like shit for every second of how I’ve treated her the last twelve hours. I don’t see it coming, at all. It fucking floors me.
And it’s abso-fucking-lutely unacceptable.
What I cannot do — what I can not fucking do — is have any sort of personal emotional reaction or attachment to her. At all. My job is to keep her here. And to keep her safe. And the only way I can do that is by not giving a shit about her personally.
There are consequences for letting your feelings in for someone you’re trying to protect. I know that for a fact. From bitter fucking personal experience.
I’m about to make some crass, offhand comment about the necklace when a loud bang from the porch jolts me out of my thoughts. Instantly, I fly up off the couch and reach to my waistband for my piece. But then I see Beast’s ugly mug through the window grinning at me.
“God fucking damnit, I’ll murder the son of a bitch,” I rasp. Striding toward the door, I turn to Isabel. “Beast is here with your things,” I say, my frustration coming out as anger. “Try anything stupid and you’ll be back tied up to that chair for the duration.”
9
Isabel
The man Thorn calls Beast comes in with a large pink duffel bag. It’s stuffed full, and slung over his shoulder. It’s a strange image: he’s one of the tallest men I’ve ever seen, and absolutely massive, with muscles that look like they’re not even made of human flesh but of some hard, unyielding material. I remember his face and his deep baritone voice from before. But when the Death Devils handed me over to the Lords of Carnage, at the time I was too afraid and confused to pay much attention to him until now.
THORN: Lords of Carnage MC Page 5
