Warlord (Anathema Book 1)

by Grayson, Lana

  But I didn’t know how much romance to expect with Anathema. Thorne didn’t make love. A man like him hardly controlled his need to push his hips and impale. He growled as my body submitted, yielded, and trembled over of the widest part of him.

  Even if Exorcist hadn’t threatened us, our passion wasn’t born of champagne and roses. Bullet casings, pain, and fear forged our shared pleasure. That was Anathema. That was Thorne.

  It was all I ever needed.

  I bucked against him. I let his hands lift me only to slam me back down and accept the wild, brutal force of his lust. Each unrepentant thrust demanded my pleasure, and every moment of fullness my body accepted clenched him with my own demands. I needed him. Just as much as he needed the club. Just as much as he needed the road. Just as much as he needed me.

  I crashed against his body as his grip tightened to bruise. He held me like I might’ve escaped. Even if I might have wiggled from his strength I would only have fallen closer to him. My breath pitched in beautiful, prophetic gasp. This time, I didn’t take. I allowed him to give. I ground against his thickness and whimpered as the force of his body and the heat of his hardened cock imprisoned me more than any binding on my wrist or weapon against my temple.

  I didn’t fight. I didn’t demand. I trusted. My pleasure struck as I rose up, and my thoughts fractured into concentrated, frazzled, helpless verse when Thorne drove me down. The rush of masculine heat slickened my core. My body ached in delirious warmth with every subsequent pounding. His conquest jetted within me, and I quaked in my own triumph.

  And then it was done.

  And then it was just beginning.

  And then everything was ending.

  I fell against his chest, cast my arms around his neck, and buried myself in his leather and wind-swept scent. He didn’t move, and I didn’t dare shift from our embrace. My body twitched in wavering aftershocks. He held me through them all, holding me, kissing my forehead, promising, above all else, it wouldn’t be the last time.

  Except I wasn’t a stranger to Anathema.

  No matter the promises, lovely words, and oppressive arrogance, too many conflicts were resolved with blood.

  Even if we survived Exorcist’s retaliation, the club demanded purification. The president placed us all in danger if he didn’t cull the threat to Anathema.

  Brew would have to die for his betrayal.

  And the man I loved would become his murderer.

  The music faded in an abrupt popping of the club’s speakers.

  I zipped my jeans with trembling fingers, but the button didn’t catch. Once. Twice. Figured. The damn things came off so easily. I held my breath and yanked at the denim.

  “It’s a strip club, sweetheart.” Thorne tugged on my belt loop until I stumbled before him. “Not many girls put clothes back on.”

  The jeans buttoned. He lowered my shirt over the waistband. And just like that, my body had been covered, our desire sated, and the heat and sweat of the room replaced with foreboding chill. His hand brushed my cheek. My stomach bundled into tight pain.

  I would not say goodbye.

  He didn’t say it either.

  “You stay downstairs,” he said. “Once Gold and Scotch get here, you’re leaving. We’ll find you a safe place…if one even exists anymore.”

  Thorne pulled me from Lyn’s office. The club darkened as the straying dancers gathered their bags and hurried out in manicured outrage. Lyn pulled two guns from behind the counter. Her eyes hardened into the green menace of a swirling curse.

  “My club is, and always has been, neutral territory.” Lyn pushed the guns to him with a frown. “Consider our arrangement null and void. Anything that happens here is on your head.”

  “Let’s survive tonight before renegotiating contracts,” Thorne said. “Get the hell out of here, Lyn.”

  “So you and Exorcist can burn Sorceress to the ground? I should call the goddamned fire marshal and have him stand fucking guard.”

  “If you plan on staying, better whip out your tits. At least give Ex something to shoot at.”

  “Won’t have to. He’ll be aiming for your head.”

  The resentment in her voice snapped like the strings of an aging guitar. Apparently Thorne and Lyn didn’t know how to say goodbye to each other either.

  He pulled me from the bar and shoved one of the handguns into my palm. The cold metal rested unfamiliar and frightening.

  “I can ride a bike.” I swallowed. “But I’ve never shot a gun.”

  The metal in his eyes glinted like the weapon in my hand. “You better hope it stays that way.”

  Thorne was no optimist. Neither was I. What did I ever have to be optimistic about? Music? My family? Even the best things in my life shattered with crime, violence, and the specter of fear.

  Except I did have something to be optimistic about now. Passion. Desire. A life with someone I loved wasn’t anything I ever planned for myself. Escape from Anathema consumed my every moment.

  But the thing I wanted most, the man I wanted most, wore a cut, cocked a weapon, and prepared to die.

  Keep shouted from the basement. He met me on the stairs holding my vibrating phone.

  “Luke.” He couldn’t meet my eyes. “He’s not gonna talk to me.”

  It probably wasn’t a social call. My voice trembled as I answered, an artificial sound that wouldn’t earn respect from either a motorcycle club or an audience on stage. Luke didn’t respond to my greeting. He didn’t say my name. He didn’t ask about the drugs, or my brother, or where I was.

  Because he knew all that.

  And so did Exorcist.

  “Get down.”

  The call ended. I stared at my phone.

  Thorne scowled. “What did he say?”

  The hail of bullets screamed from the club above. Shattering glass pelted the hardwood floors, and the whine of fracturing exposed wood muffled over the explosive, brutal cacophony of guns and crashing and destruction. Three men grabbed me at once. Thorne dove over me, Keep tossed me down the stairs, and Brew sheltered me under the bulk of his body as the semi-automatic vengeance roared through the club.

  When the gunfire stopped, the molotovs began.

  The crack of the glass bottles pinged against the booths scattered around Sorceress, hardly decipherable against the din of violence that assaulted the building and riddled it with splintering holes, jagged windowpanes, and the encroaching darkness. Exorcist and his crew cut the power. The rush of heat and the crackling, snickering, burst of fire destroyed what the bullets left unscarred.

  “Stay down!” Thorne yelled for Keep. “Find Lyn! I’ll get the fire!”

  Thorne and Keep barreled up the stairs and into the darkness that summoned fire, danger, and death. The Coup’s gunmen didn’t care what they needed to destroy, who they needed to hurt, or what they needed to do to find and kill us. I fought to follow, but Brew’s crushing grip pinned me to the floor.

  “They need help!” I batted at his arms. “What if something happens?”

  “Something is happening.” Brew pulled me off the floor but didn’t allow me to bolt for the stairs. “We don’t have time to wait. I’m getting you out of here.”

  “But Thorne and Keep are upstairs!”

  “I’m not worried about them.”

  I grabbed Brew’s hand, but my monster brother was twice my size and half my patience. I could no sooner stop him than hold back Exorcist and his crew with my unpracticed handgun and unsteady shot.

  Brew kicked open the door to a secondary office. He pointed toward the twilight glow of the glass window poised high above the desk. I slammed the door closed, and he stole the gun from my hand. Five quick shots shattered the glass brick before I ducked for cover. He crashed the desk against the wall and climbed on top.

  My brother launched at the window, punching through the rupturing glass as blood streamed over his arms and dripped onto the floor. Another rage of gunfire punished the club, but the returned burst of bullets came from in
side. Thorne and Keep abandoned the flames and suppressed Exorcist as best they could.

  But God only knew how many men Exorcist had gathered. The Coup didn’t number many, but anything outmatched Anathema when only three members were present.

  Three of the ranking members.

  The lifeblood of Anathema.

  If it spilled, the club stood no chance against Exorcist.

  I scrambled on top of the desk as he shattered the layer of chewed glass preventing my escape through the window and into the well outside the building.

  “This ain’t going to feel good,” he said. It wasn’t an apology, just straight up honesty. Before today, I never imagined my brother lying to me about anything. Apparently his only lie was his biggest. “Climb up there then stay low.”

  “I can’t leave without everyone else.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ll shove you through that window if I have to.”

  “Brew—”

  “Jesus Christ, Rose.” Brew hauled me off the desk and into the air, pushing me into the broken, jagged window frame. The palms of my hands instantly scraped against the pebbled fragments of glass scattered in the bottom of the window well. “I’m not gonna let Exorcist hurt you. I’m not gonna let anyone ever hurt you again. Move your ass.”

  “But—”

  “Now!”

  I was the only person who ever pushed my brother. Rattled him. Teased him. Even argued with him. And he let me. Had it been any other time, Brew would have apologized. Made sure I was okay.

  Nothing in his voice sounded like Brew.

  I dove through that window, cutting my hands, tearing my shirt, and hissing as the bite of the glass wrenched through my jeans and left a trail of sticky blood against my calf.

  I loved my brother, but that’s why I moved. Why I ran. In that moment, in that second of pure stress and fear and rage and grief, my brother became another man.

  Someone hard. Someone determined. Someone dangerous.

  Brew acted exactly like my father.

  And he knew it too. That was why he didn’t apologize. Why he forced me through the window, over the glass, and into the night. Fear and heartbreak would save my life, but it wouldn’t save my brother. Not when he resigned himself to death. But did he welcome the bullet because of his betrayal of Anathema, or because he failed to protect me?

  The night deceived a calm and peaceful presence as The Coup’s rampage halted. They ducked for cover behind the cars and barriers in the parking lot. I recognized the panicked, grunted cry of Bounty as a bullet pierced his shoulder. I couldn’t see who posted on the roof, but I guessed. Keep. Despite the trembling of his hand, he never missed a target.

  I brushed the glass from my clothes and hopped up, grabbing the lip of the window well and hauling myself over the aluminum edge. I tumbled onto the concrete behind the club. Brew grunted below. A series of raw scratches clawed his flesh, matching the jagged scrapes on his knuckles and hands. Blood stained his shirt and obscured everything, even the dark blot of ink immortalizing Anathema’s scarred demon upon his skin.

  “Come on,” he whispered. “Stay low.”

  He checked the gun’s clip. Even in the faint light of the alleyway only a few gold bullets glistened in the clip. He grunted.

  I wasn’t ready for this. Wasn’t ready to run. Wasn’t ready to get caught in the middle of a war. Wasn’t ready to lose one of the men who mattered most to me in senseless violence or blind penance.

  Tears I didn’t remember crying stained my cheeks. Brew didn’t offer sympathy. I hurried to match his steps, and in the darkness, the uneasy silence, and the lingering scent of sulfur and burnt metal, I feared it would be the last time I saw any of them.

  And I hated every minute of my past for wanting to be rid of them.

  Sorceress separated its debauchery and wild nightlife from the rest of the valley with a wrought iron fence and half a mile of undeveloped commercial property. Brew didn’t head for his motorcycle. He pushed me toward the fence, and offered his hand as I stared at the six foot tall looming monstrosity.

  “Just like when I taught you to climb a tree,” he said. “I’ll give you a boost.”

  “I broke my arm when I climbed that tree.”

  “I’ll catch you this time.”

  He grabbed my hips and hoisted me up. I clutched the top of the iron fence and struggled to haul myself up and over the pointed parapet. Brew pushed up my feet, but he shouted just as the sharp crack of metal against skull drove him against the fence. I dropped before making it to the other side and collapsed next to my brother. He wavered and tossed an arm over me, but Exorcist had slammed the gun hard enough against his head to render him unconscious. I screamed, but the gun rose before I could protect Brew.

  Exorcist pulled the trigger, and the bullet sliced through Brew’s chest.

  His body lurched, twitched, and fell limp against the ground.

  The spray of crimson doused me in sickening warmth. I screamed, and the metallic tinge of my brother’s blood bittered my mouth.

  “Get up.” Exorcist aimed the gun at me. “You stole from me. I’m getting it back.”

  He expected me to stand. Next to the limp, broken, bleeding body of my brother. He expected me to obey his orders while Brew lay dying beside me.

  Exorcist festered in The Coup because he didn’t belong in Anathema. He didn’t understand loyalty or family or that even though I hated my father, I was still the daughter of Blade Darnell.

  Thorne sought vengeance.

  My family became it.

  “You’re coming with me,” Exorcist said. “Behave, and I might just kill you. Resist, and I will break you, hurt you, then earn back every cent from Daddy’s little cunt.”

  I believed him. Evil had many forms, but life within the MC offered a bit of perspective against the world. An empty clip. A blackened eye. Bloody sheets.

  Exorcist expelled demons only to learn their secrets, adopt their sadism, and destroy anything good that might have survived this world of darkness and violence.

  Brew breathed. Exorcist didn’t see. The crimson pool spreading under his body was his only salvation. As long as Exorcist thought he was dead, his vengeance and rage would focus on me.

  I had been beaten before. Hurt.

  Raped.

  Exorcist couldn’t do anything to me that hadn’t already been done.

  Except murder my brother.

  “Okay,” I whispered. “I’ll go.”

  Exorcist pointed the gun and forced me to walk in front of him, toward the parking lot, into the line of fire. He shouted and wrapped an arm around my midsection. The gun rose to my temple. Keep’s fire silenced.

  Exorcist held me too tight. My lungs crushed before I caught a breath, before I could figure out just how I’d escape. How I’d help Brew. How I’d ever know if he survived.

  “You can have the drugs!” Keep yelled from the roof. His silhouette darkened the neon purple of Sorceress’s sign. He removed his clip and tossed it to the ground. The gun followed. “Let her go, and you can have the drugs. Whatever you want.”

  “The addict giving up his stash?” Exorcist wiggled me against his body. “What if I want to get into another industry? Put your sister to work. She’d earn me twice what the meth is worth before I wear her out.”

  I shuddered. Exorcist’s arms strapped me against him. Long, silver hairs thickened on his arm, and his skin sagged a bit where the muscle once popped. The familiarity prickled my skin.

  They were the same age, Ex and my father. And they still both wielded too much power over me. Without a gun, without the courage, I couldn’t fight someone like him off. I wasn’t brutal, I wasn’t strong, and I wasn’t prepared to survive another night trapped beneath a sadistic man while he punished me with whatever power he clung to.

  So I wouldn’t.

  I refused.

  “Jesus Christ, Ex.” Luke hissed from behind a dark van. More men positioned behind it. “Let the kid go. She’s done nothing to you.”


  “Nothing?” The gun accidentally bumped against my head. My heart stalled, and I clawed at his arm to free myself. “She stole our drugs. Lured ATF out. Delivered our stash to Thorne.” He snorted. “Unless you want to offer your ass in her place, Knight, you get that fucking bag.”

  Exorcist pushed me toward a bike. He sneered.

  “Get on. You’re driving.”

  I shook my head. His breathing rasped in my ear.

  “You can ride. Be glad it’s a bike and not my cock. Get on.”

  If I got on the bike, I doubted I’d ever return. Exorcist would steal me away, leave Brew to die, and have Keep and Thorne killed. He forced me to kidnap myself. To voluntarily escape and be lost within in underworld far darker and more dangerous than anything Anathema ever imagined.

  No music. No safety. No Thorne.

  I once thought I was living in hell.

  Now I’d die lamenting the loss of those demons.

  At least I’d take him with me.

  I stumbled as I climbed onto the bike, nearly casting the metal beast to the ground. Exorcist punished me for that. The gun slammed down between my neck and shoulder blade, replacing the sweet memory of Thorne’s kiss with jarring pain and the threat of more to come. He didn’t offer me a helmet, but Luke tossed his leather jacket.

  “Aren’t you sweet.” Exorcist spat on the ground. “Maybe you do want to trade places.”

  I bundled in Luke’s jacket. The leather would be my only protection against the wind, the road, and Exorcist’s snaking arm around my midsection. But Luke didn’t deserve my gratitude. Not when it was his threat that forced me into The Coup. Exorcist held the gun, but it was Luke’s fault my brother suffered, bleeding and dying.

  Sorceress’s front door crashed open. What remained of the wooden frame shattered off Thorne’s foot.

  Silence descended. Not a hush. Not a pause. The crushing, suffocating silence that didn’t prevent noise but destroyed it.

  Thorne stared out at the dozen men aiming their guns and wishing him dead. His dark hair hung loose, dripping with sweat and dirty with ash and soot, broken bits of wood and glass. A cut bled on his forehead. His jeans seared and burned. None of it mattered. He might’ve been crippled and charred, bleeding and wheezing, but he’d still terrify every last man facing him.