The Vigilantes Collection

by Lake, Keri

  “I know nothing, and I swear I won’t tell a soul, if you let me go.” A scream sat at the back of my throat, itching to break free.

  I kicked back, as he leaned in closer, his head dipping to my collarbone. The other two men stood and watched, my captor, with his arms crossed over his chest the whole time. The blonde’s hand came up the side of my neck and gripped my jaw, while behind him, the other man unbuckled his belt.

  Oh, God. This was going to be a gangbang.

  Cold metal hit my chest, and I looked down to see a blade snaking its way down to the V of my T-shirt. “No, no! Okay! Okay! I work for an underground newspaper! It’s called the Detroit Muckraker. I took the photos that night, but I swear on my life I deleted them!” The last bit of my confession came out on a swift string of mumbling. “Please don’t do this!”

  A moment of quiet followed, quickly broken by a burst of laughter filling the room. The blond beside me planted a kiss to my neck before he rose up from the bed, while the other one refastened his belt buckle. “Think that’s all she knows, Brother.”

  “You’re … you’re not going to …?” I didn’t even want to say the word and suggest it. “I thought you and him were … going to …”

  The blond tipped his head, the corner of his mouth sliding to a half-cocked grin. “I’d cage your soul before I even parted your thighs.” He nudged his head toward my captor. “’Sides that, I don’t like an audience.”

  “I’m gonna make a liquor run. You in, Hawkins?” The dark-haired one polished off the last of his bottle.

  Hawkins. Hawkins. Where had I heard that name before? It swirled inside my head, zipping through memories and a series of faces, coming up completely empty.

  “Yeah, sure. I’m in.” In my periphery, the level stare of my captor burned hot over my skin, as he watched me.

  With a hesitant lift of my chin, our gazes locked for a few seconds before breaking away, and he walked back into the other room.

  When all three left me to the darkness and the door closed behind them, my muscles finally sagged.

  * * *

  The noise.

  They’d come back an hour ago, having picked up some women, from the sounds of it. Not one of them had bothered to peek into my room, which I could've used right then. I couldn't call out for help, either. My captor had replaced the tape over my mouth and changed the zip ties binding my arms, which rendered whatever progress I’d made in getting away futile. Bastard.

  He’d only brought those men in to intimidate me into talking.

  The walls thumped with their rough housing, the laughter, the music. Rap, of all things. Not that I could sleep. What if one of them got shit-faced drunk and tried something on me?

  The door clicked, and I sucked in a breath through my nose, muscles tight, as the light streaming in through the window silhouetted my captor. He stumbled into the room and closed the door behind him.

  My heart pounded inside my chest, as he removed his belt and pushed his pants over the smooth lines of his hips, before he slipped them off his legs, stumbling once. Long, shadowed striations in his thighs emphasized the ridges of his muscles. He stood tall, revealing dark boxer briefs, then tugged his shirt over his head and chucked it somewhere behind him.

  As he climbed into bed beside me, I scooted as far away as I could, arms tugging at the zip ties. Burying his face into the pillow, he moaned and shifted on the bed. No more than a minute later, he was out, breathing deep.

  My muscles wilted with relief.

  In what little light the window offered, I stared at his sleeping face. He didn’t look like a killer. Didn’t look like a rapist.

  Stupid, Lucy. Rapists don’t look like anything in particular.

  Why did he have the tattoo, though? Craig had told me it was their mark—one that identified them. He just didn’t strike me as a man who'd want to hurt me. He’d mentioned his family. Did he think I’d had them killed?

  A thud hit the wall, and a gasp followed.

  I’d thought the men were attacking the women at first, until the pounding against the wall turned rhythmical, like a metronome, and the woman cried out.

  Fantastic.

  My captor shifted on the bed, releasing a groan, but returned to deep breathing on the cusp of a snore.

  I squinted my eyes, praying I’d fall asleep without my face covered, but when the chick in the other room finally climaxed, I realized the sounds of their sex had my traitorous body wired. It was wrong. I shouldn’t have been turned on. I should’ve been disgusted, but not a single moment of their sex sounded painful. Instead, the woman laughed and what must’ve been Dark-Hair’s voice kept an undertone of talking to her, his deep voice rumbling through the walls.

  Not at all the mutilation and pain and fear that I’d heard about the men of Seventh Circle. In fact, I couldn’t recall seeing a tattoo on Dark-Hair or the blond, earlier. I supposed they could’ve had one inked somewhere else, but all the members seemed to have them tattooed in the same place. Viktor. The men at the Slaughterhouse. My captor.

  I looked back at the man beside me again, still baffled. Nothing about the last two nights made sense to me. Aside from the burns on my wrists, he hadn’t left a single mark on my body. It was possible he had something in store for me, and maybe I was just being naïve.

  If he did have something planned, I didn’t intend to lie there and wait for it to strike out of nowhere.

  At the same time, I might never have the opportunity to get information about the club—the same club that could’ve very well been responsible for my best friend, Lena’s death. Finding out about the tattoo had stirred memories and questions that’d been buried for a long time. I needed to know more about it, and my ticket to that information was lying beside me.

  Perhaps I’d need to do something crazy to find out if he was, in fact, associated with Seventh Circle.

  Perhaps I’d need to provoke him.

  * * *

  An hour later, I still couldn’t sleep. The others must’ve drifted off, because the laughter had died down to hearty snores that bled through the walls. Ordinarily, snoring didn’t bother me, but coupled with my face not being covered, every pull of air I took dried my throat, and had me cringing with each harsh swallow. I’d probably never get to sleep.

  Quirks aside, I’d only ever slept beside a man for a whole night once in my life. Hookups in college had been wham-bams that'd ended with me sneaking out of the room afterward, while the guy lay passed out. I’d always hated the threat of awkward moments first thing in the morning, particularly since, half the time, we’d have gotten shitfaced, doing things I’d never admit to while sober.

  Having my asshole licked all night, then dodging kisses the next day, just never appealed to me enough to stick around. Some nights were better off staying legend—nothing more than flashbacks to cringe about over coffee with Jolana.

  I never typically slept in a bra, either, and the fabric of the one I wore felt like a scratchy grip around my ribcage, itching my skin. Rubbing my back into the mattress failed to alleviate the discomfort, and I groaned, slamming my head deeper into the pillows. Like all itches, once I’d paid it some attention, it kept on like an unrelenting bastard that wouldn’t let me ignore it.

  Sliding up and down popped the corner sheet loose, springing it back across my shins. “Shit!” Lifting my head, I noticed my foot now trapped in the elastic, and I kicked it off, but it coiled back over my ankles. I couldn’t stand sleeping on wrinkled up sheets, feeling trapped.

  “Something wrong?” Voice carrying a slur, my captor moved beside me and lifted his head, his eyes still sleepy with drunkenness.

  “No,” I snapped, kicking the sheet back. The itch on my back flared again, and I squeezed my shoulder blades together, on the verge of screaming out in frustration.

  “That bra giving you a hard time, Sparrow?” A quiet rumble in his chest told me he laughed at my discomfort. “Kick its ass. Show it who’s boss.”

  “Piss off.”


  Bastard.

  The bed dipped as he propped himself on an elbow, and my gaze dragged downward, to where his muscles bunched. “Turn over, I’ll help you out.”

  “I would rather spring a crusty, painful rash all over my body, than let you touch me.”

  Another burst of laughter raked along my spine, and he pushed at my shoulder.

  Flexing my shoulder blade, I resisted his effort to turn me over to my side—laughable, with my arms tethered to the headboard.

  As easily as if I hadn’t fought at all, he flipped me over, and his hands slid up under my shirt. Within seconds, my bra popped loose, and I nearly gasped at the relief, and in surprise that he’d unclasped it so fast.

  Like a damn tit-slinging ninja.

  His hand glided up and down my back, soothing over the marks left from my bra and the itch there. Slow. Gentle. Warmth radiated from his palms where he pressed into my skin. Fingertips slid along the curve of my body, teasing, when they traced over the edge, toward my breast. “Better?”

  At the sound of his deep, husky voice, something wound low and tight in my belly. For a split second, I wanted him to reach to the front of me and massage my breasts. How fucking good would that feel after two days wearing the torture device?

  When I gave a sharp nod, though, he merely pulled his hand out from beneath my shirt.

  A twinge of disappointment swallowed the heat of his touch. I flipped onto my back, catching him turning away from me, and no more than a minute later, his back expanded and contracted with deep breaths. Asleep again. As I studied the cross tattooed along his spine, the scars scattered across his skin, my fingers suddenly tingled with the urge to return that soothing touch. If not for the handcuffs …. I didn't want to explore how twisted that might've made me.

  14

  Lucy

  Rhythmical grunting that ended on a blast of air reached through a fog, lazily drawing me from a black nothingness inside my mind. A blaze of warmth smothered my face, and I opened my eyes to a bright, blinding white light that engulfed me. Sucking in a gasp, I kicked back, and the white slid away to Warhawk, standing by the window, curling a dumbbell.

  My gaze darted to the sheet, crumpled around me, and I lifted my hands that’d been cut free of the binds, flexing my fingers. I must’ve covered my face at some point.

  Or he did.

  His bicep bulged with each pump of the dumbbell, and my eyes remained glued to the ripple of his tattoos below the torn sleeve of his black muscle shirt. Gray athletic pants hugged his hips, sweat coated his visibly flushed skin, while his lips tightened with every curl of the weight.

  I’d probably break something internally if I’d tried to pick up one of those bastards with both hands, let alone one.

  “You trying to suffocate yourself now?” His question, punctuated by the strain in his voice, drew my attention back to his massive arms, where thick lines beneath his skin created a map of delicious vascularity.

  “I can’t sleep unless my face is covered. It’s probably why I slept so late.”

  “Yeah?” Bending forward accentuated the perfect curve of his ass. When he straightened, resting his hands on his hips, I glanced away, for fear I’d have to subtly wipe the corner of my mouth while he watched. “Why’s that?”

  “Just something I do.”

  “You got some strange habits, Sparrow.” Head kicked back, he guzzled a bottle of water while staring my way out the corner of his eye.

  Following the path of his gaze took me somewhere in the neighborhood of my breasts. My bra still remained loose from the night before and had slid below them, leaving my nipples to pop out through the tight fabric like a goddamn confession of sin.

  Hugging my knees tight to my chest, I did my best to hide them and caught his smirk.

  “You’ve got one thing going for ya.” He set the water bottle down and removed his shirt in front of me, his skin glistening with sweat. “Hottest set of tits I’ve ever seen.”

  Heat warmed my cheeks, and I shrank away at the attention on them. “You must be severely deprived.”

  Leaning against the bathroom door in a casual pose, he folded his arms across his chest and shook his head. “Not one for compliments, are you?”

  “Was hot tits supposed to be a compliment?”

  “Oh, right. You’re one of those uptight chicks. I gotta be all, your exceptional breasts are the fairest in all the land, Lady Sparrow.” He bowed afterward, and I had to clip a laugh at his ridiculous English-sounding accent.

  “I’m not uptight.” I’d just always hated my breasts, but I supposed it was natural, having grown up with a mother who'd criticized her own body in front of me every day. To me, they'd always been too big for my smaller waist and made me feel sloppy and busty in my shirts. Unlike Jolana, who’d gotten implants at Viktor’s request, and always seemed to be put together so well.

  “You’re afraid of swallowing spiders, afraid of getting trapped in bedsheets, and afraid to be touched. You’re uptight.”

  “And you’re an asshole.” Glaring at him from across the room, I ran my tongue along the back of my teeth, silently scratching his eyeballs out of their sockets. “For the record, I’m not afraid of spiders, and I’m not afraid to be touched. I happen to like being touched by the right man.”

  “Then, why’d you almost lose your shit when I tried to break you out of Bracatraz last night?”

  “Because I thought you were going to …” Damn, why had I freaked out? I’d had a hell of a lot worse done to me at the club, the night I'd performed lap dances. Again, I reminded myself that he hadn’t been one of the idiots who'd tried to cop a feel.

  “Rape you?” He pushed off the doorframe and strode to the end of the bed. “Let me make this clear. If I’d wanted to, I’d have done it by now. I’m not a guy who hesitates, Sparrow. Remember that.”

  True, I’d been left vulnerable with the man a few times, but that tattoo contradicted everything. Any time I let down my guard, the stupid thing would catch my eye and remind me of the woman dumped in a sump drain. Provoke him. “And if I was naked right now? Tell me you wouldn’t try something.”

  He nudged his head toward the bathroom. “Come with me.”

  Shit. “Why?”

  His brow swung up. “Would you prefer to be tied up?”

  Would you prefer a size eight in your ass? I let out a huff of frustration and, after sliding from the bed, followed him into the bathroom. Once inside, he locked the door, instantly sending my pulse soaring, and when he flipped on the water, my internal defense shot to DEFCON 2. “What are you doing?”

  Instead of answering the question, he shed his athletic pants, followed by his briefs, and God forgive me, my eyes shot straight to his perfectly erect cock. “Take your clothes off.”

  Swallowing a gulp, I frowned. “You just said—”

  “I know what I just said. Take. Your clothes off. Now.”

  Gaze on the circle seven tattoo, I steeled my muscles. With stiff arms and a confused mind, I lifted the T-shirt over my head and tossed the bra to the floor. Maybe I’d been wrong to assume he wasn’t dangerous. That he wouldn't push my limits. Maybe I’d given him a great idea. Who the hell knew what twisted shit swirled inside his head?

  His gaze devoured my breasts, his chest rising and falling evenly. “Panties, too.”

  Biting the inside of my cheek, I frowned harder, desperate not to look at the massive distraction calling my attention from below.

  He tipped his head and re-crossed his arms, lips set into a no-bullshit hard line. “Don’t make me tell you twice.”

  I slid them over my hips and pushed them to the floor, until I stood completely naked and vulnerable in front of the man. A stranger. Crossing my arms over my chest, I did my best to shield what seemed to be gobbling up his attention. “Look, if this is about what I said—”

  “Get in the shower.”

  Narrowing my eyes, I planted my feet, but his fingers gripped my elbow. As he nudged me forward, I did as he
commanded with hesitant steps, not knowing if it was fear or fascination that guided me along. If he did try to do anything, I’d surely stop him. Right, Lucy? I could damn near feel my instincts shrinking away in disappointment, as I failed to acknowledge their blaring warning signals.

  For Milena, I told myself. No one knew anything about the club. I could be the first to know. And die with the information. Maybe falling to his whims might lead me to answers I’d been searching for.

  Bullshit, my head battled back. Whether my mind cared to get onboard, or not, he turned me on. I liked bossy, and the twisted half of my libido seemed to enjoy the edge of danger.

  He stepped inside the shower after me, his intense eyes igniting my skin as they roved my body. “I think it’s pretty safe to say I want to fuck you right now.”

  My eyes fell to his erection, standing proud and ready, thick and heavy, and I had to swallow a gulp as I imagined him thrusting that between my thighs. “If you do …”

  “What are you going to do? Fight me?”

  “I would.” I lifted my chin in defiance, hating the pathetic tone of my voice that echoed in the stall.

  “I like it rough. You’ve got me hard as a fucking lightning rod right now, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  I had. Holy mother of all confusion, his cock had me painfully aware it’d been a long time since I’d seen a man in all his naked glory. Yes, I would fight him, if he tried anything, but goddamn, he made for one hell of a distraction in the meantime. Like him, I had a thing for roughness, too. Sex with him would be crazy, no doubt, but his tattoo confessed that it could also take a turn for scary real quick.

  Tipping his head back in the water, he released a groan as rivulets cascaded down his muscles. Turning his back to me gave a drool-worthy view of his ass—squat-toned and as magnificent as I'd imagined it'd be through his jeans. His body had a perfectly symmetrical appeal, evidenced in his wide back, the left side a mirror image of his right, absolutely flawless down to his sculpted calves.