by Jc Emery
The ridiculousness of it all gets to me, and I stomp toward the target and throw the gun as far as I can. I’m close, so close in fact that the stupid fucking gun hits the target on the outer ring, near the edge of the wooden board, and then falls into the grass below. Fabulous. The only way I can hit the target is to throw a gun at it. I close the distance to the target and glare at the stupid wooden board that I painted so neatly.
Idly, I reach out and slap the edge of the board. It doesn’t budge, but hitting it feels good enough to do it again. And again. Then I close my fist and try to focus my inner rage on the bull’s-eye and swing. I lose track of time and how many swings I’ve doled out. A dampness covers my fist, and when I survey the damage, I find blood dripping down my fingers to the patchy grass below. The skin covering my knuckles is torn open, with more blood seeping out.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Ryan’s deep voice shouts from across the field. I turn and catch sight of him rushing toward me. He’s wearing an old, torn wifebeater that hangs off him, obviously too large, and black jeans with his black boots. His black hair has grown out some and falls into his eyes as he runs. He ignores it and picks up speed, stopping just short of knocking me over. His rough hands reach out and grab mine. With narrowed brows and a seriously ticked-off expression, he rips off a piece of his shirt and wraps it around my battered knuckles. “Stupid brat.”
“I just lost my temper,” I say. I hate it when he calls me names, but I’ve grown more accustomed to returning the favor. “Asshole.”
I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t feel good to call him out. So I do it again. “Like you’ve never lost your temper, you jerk.”
“You’re beginning to have an attitude problem,” he gripes. Wrapping his large hand around my wrist, he drags me away from the target and fallen gun and toward the house. I guess he doesn’t care that he’s leaving the gun behind. We do have plenty more in the house, I reason.
“You love me,” I whisper, reminding him of something I’m certain he’s never forgotten.
“And you talk too much.”
“And you still love me.” Through his grouchy expression, a hint of a smile appears in his eyes, and I know it’s his way of confirming the obvious. Ryan loves me when I’m quiet and when I’m sassy and when I talk too much. He loves me in a stupid, self-sacrificial way, and he even loves me when I’m crying—something else I do too often as well.
And I love him, though I’ve been having trouble connecting with him. We haven’t done a lot of things together lately. He comes home and crawls into my bed—our bed—in my room—our room—and he takes me. He barely says a word, and then he’s sated and passed out while I’m left to wonder what I’m doing wrong and why he’s so disinterested. I know he loves me, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t losing interest or patience. He hasn’t even reached out for my pinky in weeks, and that’s always been our thing. It didn’t matter how much of an asshole he was being. As long as he wrapped his pinky around mine, I knew he loved me. Now I just grasp at straws because I can’t bear it if he’s found someone else. It doesn’t matter how much I loathe violence—I’ll kill the bitch who tries to take him from me.
He drags me through the house to the hall bathroom, where he shoves my bloody hand into the sink and turns on the faucet. The cool water stings against my torn knuckles, and I try to pull back, but he won’t let me.
“I have to clean it out.” One of his rough fingers pushes into my wounds and fishes around for foreign material he has to pluck out. It hurts, but I don’t say a word. Instead, I bite my lip to keep myself from whimpering. He’s doing his best, just trying to ensure that I don’t end up with an infection or something equally nasty. Still, it really hurts, and I can’t take it anymore.
“Stop!” I shout and pull away from him, barely slipping my wrist through his grasp. He lets me go and takes a step back only to grab my wrist again and pull me to him. With his free hand, he stops the flow of water from the faucet. We don’t move for several breaths. Every instinct in me tells me to apologize for snapping. My voice was too loud and far too demanding. I was bossy, and I need to remember my place.
But I don’t apologize because that’s Alexandra Mancuso, the principessa to the Mancuso crime family, who wants to say she’s sorry. Alex, the small-town biker chick who scored a majorly hot but also majorly moody boyfriend, doesn’t apologize for speaking her mind—at least she tries not to. The weight of my rudeness weighs on me.
“I’m—”
He cuts me off. His warm whiskey-laden breath washes over my face when he says, “You’re not sorry, Cub.”
“No, I’m not.” I’m crap at having a backbone and even worse at lying. “Something’s going on with you, and I don’t know how to help.”
“Explain,” he says.
“My Ryan is short-tempered and quick to jump to conclusions. He’s a serious ass, but then he’s gentle with me. I don’t get the short-tempered asshole, but he’s been showing up lately, and I don’t like it.”
With a heavy sigh, he lets out a breath and bends at his knees to meet my eyes. He leans forward just slightly, his jet-black hair wisps against my forehead.
“What are you making a big deal out of now?” His voice is soft and low. I lift my eyes to find deep pools of gray staring at me intently. His brows are furrowed, and there’s a sadness in his expression. “Life sometimes sucks and shit goes down. I got a lot happening in the city right now, and I don’t got time for this shit. My primary goal is to keep you safe, and I can’t do that if I have to make sure you’re not fucking up your hand by beating on a fucking piece of wood. I can’t take care of club shit and your shit and not fuck them both up. You get what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, I do. You can’t deal with my shit right now.” My stomach drops as I say the words. The last thing I want is for us to fight—again—but it seems inevitable these days. Our fights usually consist of something like this, where he tells me he can’t be bothered with my crap and I end up crying. Except this time I refuse to cry, so I close my eyes and steady my rapidly increasing heartbeat. The moment of peace gives me the strength to pull back the tears, but it’s not enough to keep my mouth shut.
“You had every chance to leave me alone and not deal with my shit. Duke does it, Ian does it—and he’s my brother—and even Jim manages to leave my shit alone. But you? You couldn’t stop yourself from being selfish and forcing me to fall in love with you just so you could shove me aside when you realized how much maintenance it takes to date a chick with fucking feelings!”
Everything hurts, and I don’t care how dramatic I’m being. My knees to my toes and all the way up through my chest to my temples ache with heartbreak. We don’t fight like this. Never this serious. It never feels like we’re severing something between us that I once thought was unbreakable. But I suppose everything breaks. It’s just a matter of when.
Backing away from him, I hold my hand up in front of me and tug my other hand free. It still hurts, though less now, but I’m not up for doing anything with it just yet. I guess I hit the board harder than I thought.
“Don’t walk away from me,” he barks.
I narrow my eyes and shake my head slowly. How dare he order me around. I spent my whole life under the control of a man who oversaw every tiny detail of my existence as best he could. Ryan offered me a life where I could make my own choices. He promised me he wouldn’t become my father. He promised me he’d give me the freedom of choice. But here he is, taking that choice away.
Asshole.
“Or what? You’re going to bully me some more?”
I push past him and rush down the hall toward my room. He’s faster than I am, though, and he catches up quickly. His hands wrap around my upper arms. His grip is firm, but he’s not hurting me. Slowly, I let myself lean back and rest against his chest. The tension in my body slips away the longer we stand here like this. His touch means the world to me. It always has.
“Don’t act like you can’t take it,”
he murmurs into my ear. This is sweet for Ryan—the best I can expect from him.
“Tell me what’s going on.”
“I can’t tell you—not again—how dangerous my job is. You don’t get it. I don’t stay on point, I end up dead.”
“I do get it, but you want me to just stay in the house all day, and I hate it. I’m sick of cooking and trying to clean. I want to help.”
“You’re sounding like a housewife,” he teases.
That’s another thing I don’t care for. He sees me as this fragile little woman whom he has to protect. Duke doesn’t see Nic that way, not entirely. She’s strong and fierce, and it doesn’t matter that she’s waddling these days, because she can still be mean as hell. The men all seem to respect Holly. She’s taken care of business when need be. Even Cheyenne is respected for helping negotiate a peace treaty between the club and Leo Scavo. Part of me feels that should have been me since I have a history with him. We come from the same culture, and we quite literally speak the same language.
But it wasn’t me. I was stuck in this house, unable to do anything to help clean up the mess I created. Right where Ryan wants me to be as his little lady, all sweet and protected. If I didn’t know him better, I might think he wants me to end up like Nic—incapable of doing anything but playing housewife. But even Nic is more than a housewife. I know damn well that she advises Duke in his dealings with the club. He talks to her when they lie together. He lets her in when things go bad, and he knows better than to shut her out.
“You help by taking care of me.”
“No. Stop forcing me out. You promised you wouldn’t shut me out. You promised I could go on a run one day.” I spin around to face him, tip my chin up, and do my best to meet his eyes. He doesn’t remember it, of course, but he did promise me I could go on a run. He was just high and about to pass out at the time. But he promised, and I want to cash in. I’ve done dozens of loads of laundry, folded countless pairs of jeans, and have prepared too many meals to count. My life should amount to more than my ability to spread my legs and feed my man.
“You are everything that matters in my life.” Placing a gentle kiss below my ear, he takes in a deep breath, smelling me. “You know what I want. I want you safe and protected and in our bed. I don’t want you involved in the fucked-up shit I got to do. And I don’t want to worry about you.”
I can’t just sit back and watch him go about his day to day business while I do absolutely nothing helpful. Feeding him doesn’t count. Cleaning his clothes doesn’t count. The fact that I have no part of his daily life is a huge part of our problem, and I’m not willing to let this continue to drive us further and further apart.
“Please.”
“No.”
“I’m not giving you what you want until you give me what I want.”
My heart sinks. We can’t go over this—not again. I’m just not ready. No matter how much he promises it won’t change things, I just don’t buy it. He’s my everything. And he always will be. It’s not the commitment that I fear—it’s the title.
Wife.
Chapter 2
“Ryan,” I whisper.
“No. Fuck you and your bullshit. You know what I want, and I’m not going to bring it up again, but you’re making it real easy to find someone else to suck my dick.”
The breath is knocked out of me with his words. When I first got here, I’d have cried at that. It still throws me off center—the threats of infidelity—but I’m learning how to handle them now. I know he does it to get a reaction out of me, and I don’t want to give him one, but I can’t help myself. He just makes me so angry.
Well, if he wants Angry Alex, he sure as fuck has found her.
“Do it and I’ll chop it off,” I say and raise my eyebrows. His jaw ticks in response as anger flashes in his eyes. Hm. Seems Mr. Big Mouth doesn’t like being threatened any more than I do. Well, too fucking bad. I swear to God, if that man pulls some shit like that on me, I’ll go Lorena Bobbitt on his ass. “Try me.”
“Pissed off yet?” he asks. Excitement shines in his eyes. Annoying prick. Between us, he bulges in his jeans at the prospect of a making up.
“On my way.” He wants me fiery and hot so we can have some crazy makeup sex. We may not be getting along lately, but that doesn’t mean he’s not still an excellent lover. I wrap my hands around the back of his neck and then hook my leg around his hip. He takes the hint and grabs the backs of my thighs and lifts me in the air so I can wrap my legs around his waist. With my body pressed into his, his dick straining in his jeans, and my heart thudding between my thighs, I say, “Make love to me.”
He told me long ago that he doesn’t make love. But that was before me. Before us. I reminded him of our first time together and how cruel he was to me. He makes love now, even if he won’t verbalize it. He takes me slowly, and when we’re there, all breathless and needy, he tells me what he wants. Not how he wants me to move, but what he wants—with us. It’s the only time he really opens up—when he’s inside me—and I need it now. I need to hear his intentions and declarations. I want to stick to my guns—that marriage isn’t something I’m ready for. I want to ask him to wait and be patient. Because I’m not ready to be a wife. But he’s Ryan, and he’s mine and I’m his. I don’t know how many more times I can reject him. It breaks my heart. Every. Single. Time. But there’s just so much tied to being a wife.
Ryan walks us to our bedroom, kicking the door shut behind us and crossing the room to our bed. He bends at the knees and slowly lowers me to the mattress. His muscles tense and shake just slightly the closer I get to the mattress. It must take such incredible strength to pull it off—holding another person while leaning over. I’ve watched him work out, tried to join him even. I know damn well he busts his ass on his keeping his body in excellent shape. Most of the club members do. I’m almost as grateful for his physique in the bedroom as I am when he’s out on a run. I get more enjoyment out of it here, but it keeps him safe out there, and that’s what really matters.
Hovering over me, he hooks his large hands over my shoulders and rubs his nose along mine. His gray eyes lift and meet my gaze. I press my lips to his and close my eyes. His breath washes over my face, and he whispers, “I love you.”
My hands lift to his shoulders, and I remove his cut, then his wife beater, and on to the fly of his jeans. He undresses me just as slowly and with as much care. He uses the pad of his thumb to rub small circles over my clit. I gasp at the contact and let out a soft mewl. Finally my body starts to relax. I’m not normally this tense when I’m with him, but we’ve just fought and resolved nothing.
Ryan wants marriage, and I want a life. The danger is too high to even guarantee me a trip to Safeway without three men on me. I haven’t actually left Ruby and Jim’s property since Christmas. That’s over two months holed up in this house without going anywhere. But I’m going to change that soon.
His touch taunts me, firm enough to excite me but too gentle to bring me to climax. I run my hands over the tattoo that covers the whole of his right pec and shoulder. It’s an intricate piece that he had designed to look like a Norse warrior’s armor. It’s gorgeous.
But it doesn’t compare to the fresh tattoo above his heart.
My tattoo.
In a beautiful Old English font with a crown above it is the name he’s given me—Cub. It’s simple and elegant, and it tells me everything I need to know. He loves me in ways I’m still figuring out. He’s making us permanent with this. It doesn’t scare me like maybe it should.
It gives me peace.
I’m his and he’s mine.
“Quit teasing me,” I whine and drag my hand over my tattoo on his left pec.
“Like you tease me?” he asks. His lips trail down my neck, placing soft kisses and casting his hot breath on my needy skin. A moan escapes me as he sucks gently at the base of my neck. I buck my hips up to his, bare flesh meeting bare flesh. A wicked smile spreads on his face, and he lowers his hips, covering mine
and letting his hard cock rest on my lower belly. I grow wetter and even needier with every passing moment. “You let me fuck you and keep you, but you won’t give me what I want.”
“Marriage”—I gasp, nearly out of breath, his ministrations making me dizzy with want—“is just a piece of paper. You have me—forever.”
“If it means so little, then why won’t you fucking say yes?”
He doesn’t stop what he’s doing as he speaks. My body shivers in response to his rough thumb as I wet his skin and tense on the edge of orgasm. He’s unraveling me, but he doesn’t miss a beat. I don’t know how he can stay so focused with all that he’s doing to me.
“I come from a world where a wife is a showpiece and not a person,” I say in ragged, crazy breaths.
“You’ll still be Alexandra when you’re my wife. I’ll never take that from you.”
He slides into me slowly, still speaking, and grunts when he’s fully sheathed.
“I need you to marry me. I need more than just a promise. I need the security.”
“I know, but—”
“Ma wouldn’t give Pop the time of day until he gave her the security she needed. Nic demands it from Duke.” He’s breathing heavy now, with his words spaced out and broken up with each exhalation. “But you don’t ask for anything.”
“I have”—pant—“everything I want.”
He stops mid-stroke, mostly out of me and leaving me empty.
“You’re a liar.”
This isn’t the pronouncement of love that I expected. Normally he’s gentle and loving. Normally he tells me I’m the most important person in his world. Normally he practically begs for my hand in marriage right as he’s on the cusp of losing himself. And when he’s done, he says nothing more about it except when he’s being vague during arguments and wants to throw my refusal in my face.
I reach down and grab ahold of his bare ass and pull him toward me. He relents and slams back into me. The impact forces my back to arch with the waves of ecstasy that overtake me. The pad of his thumb puts pressure on my now swollen clit as he rubs feverishly. My lower belly warms, my legs tense, and it’s hard to breathe. I could let myself go in this moment, but I don’t. I always lose control well before Ryan does—sometimes even twice—and I’m so lost in myself that I don’t see him at his most vulnerable.
