by Kati Wilde
Silence falls as I fight back the tears and Gunner waits for my reply. Abruptly he seems to realize it’s not coming.
He sits up. Without his chest to support me, I roll onto my back and suddenly he leans over me, his right hand planted beside my shoulder, his face close to mine—searching my eyes through the dark.
“Don’t,” he says roughly. “Don’t cry.”
“I’m not.” It’s thick and clearly a lie but I don’t quit telling it. “I’m not.”
He groans and hangs his head. Tension cords the powerful muscles of the arm braced against the mattress and holding his upper body above mine. “What’d I say?”
“Nothing. Just, I don’t know—” I’m still working it through. “Maybe that’s what I’ve been doing. Leaving gravestones all over the place. Desperately telling myself that I’m loved.”
“Damn it, sweetheart. That’s not what I meant for you to take away from that.” He sounds tortured. “You are—”
“I know.” I do know. I’m loved. By my family, by friends. “I’m just tired. And feeling sorry for myself. And a little vulnerable. You know, all that fun stuff.”
He nods, his face shadowed, but I can feel him watching me. “So that selfie in the brewery—was that a gravestone?”
Agony constricts my lungs. I strive for a light reply but I only manage a strained whisper. “It was definitely the end of something.”
It was supposed to be—the end of hoping I’ll ever be anything more to him. But like a vampire or a zombie, the hope keeps coming back from the dead. And I need to remind myself that this hope only returns to suck me dry or to eat my brains. This hope only leaves me feeling empty and stupid.
But it’s so hard to remember that when I’m in bed with him. When he’s looking down at me. When every gesture and every word says he cares.
Even though he said something else before. You’re not anything more to me.
His fingers twist around the ends of my hair and a light tug brings me back to the conversation. “The end of worrying about dying?”
“Yes.” Let him think that. It’s partially true. Then the memory of a fist to my jaw and the blinding light in my face spins that worry around and I can’t stop my laugh. “Oh god. Maybe I stopped worrying about dying a few hours too early.”
“Don’t you fucking say that.” Gunner’s not laughing. “He’ll never get to you, Anna. I swear to you. I’ll make sure you have your future.”
I fall quiet at the ferocity of his response, as if every bit of gentleness was scraped from his voice, leaving nothing but a rough promise. Longing fills my chest. I want to believe that promise. And I do believe he’ll protect me. But to give me a future? It’s just too much to believe he’ll be any part of it. At least, not in a way that’s any different from the past ten years.
“All right?” he says, his voice softer now.
I nod, throat hurting too much to speak.
“Good.” He lowers onto his side again, his head on his pillow and his arm over my stomach—but now that I’m on my back and we’re not spooning, he’s not as close. He’s not wrapped around me.
A few hours ago, he kissed me. I ache to turn over now, press my mouth to his—seeking comfort in his warmth.
Then seeking more.
But I’ve done that before. And even though he kissed me in the shower, I don’t know whether it was anything more than what he’s doing now. Being here for me. Supporting me. Trying to warm me and soothe me.
It felt like more. But how many times have I thought the same thing, simply because he looked at me a certain way? It always felt like more. But it never has been. And after he found me taped to the chair I was so hurt and vulnerable. I might have read too much into that kiss. I might have seen what I wanted to see.
If I turned toward him now and he pushed me away? If he reminded me to keep it simple? I want to pretend I’m not, but the truth is that I’m still hurt, I’m still vulnerable—and that rejection might kill me. And I don’t know if I could hide the pain this time. Not when I’m feeling so fragile.
So I won’t throw myself at him again. If Gunner meant anything by that kiss, then he needs to step over the line between us.
But he doesn’t. Instead he lies beside me, his fingertips drawing absent circles over the side of my ribcage. Quietly he says, “I fucked up by sending you those messages.”
I turn my head on the pillow, searching through the dark to make out his expression. There’s nothing. Just angular shadows upon shadows.
“I don’t have a real excuse,” he continues and his body is rigid with tension beside me. “Just that your first text came in right after I found his phone and I was still trying to figure out what the hell had happened. Plus you’d just heard about Red and I didn’t want to add worry to your grief. I thought it wouldn’t matter, just one time, and then I’d find Stone. But I didn’t. So it just…snowballed.”
I look up at the ceiling. “You still wouldn’t have told me he was in trouble, would you?”
“No. I’d have said he was out of touch, on club business.”
God, I should have known. Because that’s the same thing Stone would have said. But I’m not angry now. I’m hurt that he kept the truth about Stone from me…but I understand it, too. Maybe more than he realizes.
Because I know a lot about what my brother does for the Riders and I never tell my parents any of it. I hide so many things that might otherwise worry them.
And tomorrow, I might be doing it again. Not lying to them. But not telling them all the details, either.
My chest lifts on a heavy sigh and in the dark, I slide my palm across the taut forearm slung over my stomach. The steely tension in his body eases as I say, “I’m glad you sent those messages. Aside from the pretending-to-be-my-brother part. But texting with you last week was a bright spot amid a whole lot of grief and shittiness.”
His voice sounds a little hoarse as he replies, “For me, too.”
“Okay, then. Unicorn Daddy.”
The bed shakes as Gunner’s laugh rumbles against my ear. Then my heart jumps as he pulls me closer—but only a little closer, his arm wrapped around me, his fingers tucked against my side. His head’s at the edge of his pillow, his breath whispering through my hair. I’d only have to turn my face toward his and his lips would be so near to mine.
But I close my eyes. And although my body burns and this endless longing aches in my chest, I’m pretty sure I’m smiling as I fall asleep.
And if any nightmares would have returned, having Gunner so near chases them away.
I must have slept like the dead. The sun’s high and bright when I open my eyes, and I’m alone in Gunner’s bed.
My heart clenches painfully when I realize I’m not just alone—the bags of clothes and weapons that he packed last night are gone, too. Did he already take off, then? He intended to leave this morning, to go looking for Stone. He wouldn’t delay that. He probably arranged for some of the other Riders to look out for me and then left.
And it’s good he did. I’m glad he’s the one going after Stone. There’s no one who will risk more to make sure my brother returns.
Still, everything inside me aches as I slowly shuffle into the bathroom. Not just my jaw and my leg. Every muscle hurts, including the stupid one beating in my chest.
Then it gives a wild leap when I walk into the living room and the front door opens. Daisy runs in, tail wagging. Gunner follows her, a tray of coffee cups and a pastry bag in hand, his crystalline gaze sweeping from my sleep-tousled head to my bare toes.
I stop, heart pounding. Sometimes I forget how gorgeous he is. Except I don’t really forget. It’s more like every time I see him, he’s somehow more beautiful than the last time I did—even though nothing’s really changed. He’s worn those faded jeans before and they’ve always hung low on his hips, always emphasized the long muscles of his thighs. Four years ago, my mom gave him that Henley shirt for Christmas, and although the color has faded from dozens of washings, th
e dark cotton has always stretched across his wide shoulders and broad chest like that. He’s always pushed the long sleeves halfway up his strong forearms, always looked so effortlessly strong and sexy. His jaw has always been hard, his eyes always that glacial blue and surrounded by thick black lashes, and his lips…
God. I can almost feel them on mine. Can almost taste him, the hot thrust of his tongue, the sweetness of his kiss.
Daisy’s head bumps against my leg, demanding attention. Moving gingerly, I bend over to greet her.
“She needed out, so I took her up the block.” Pushing aside a stack of paperbacks, Gunner sets the coffee on the counter separating the small kitchen from the living room. “And I had Bottlecap run out for breakfast and dog food.”
“She’ll probably like whatever’s in that bakery bag better.”
“I figured.” Although his mouth curves, his gaze is solemn as he watches me straighten. “The prez wants us to head over to the Den as soon as you’re ready. You up to it?”
“Yes.” Especially since Saxon isn’t just the Hellfire Riders’ president. He’s my boss.
“You feeling pretty sore? I’ve got ibuprofen, Tylenol. Or I can get something stronger for you.”
“Ibuprofen would be good.” The muscles in my shoulders protest when I reach for my coffee. “God. It feels like I haven’t just been punched in the jaw or whacked my leg on a table. More like I was beaten everywhere.”
His jaw clenches. “I know.”
I suppose he would. Sipping my coffee, I watch his gaze linger on my mouth before moving slowly upwards. By the dangerous expression in his eyes, I don’t think he’s checking me out like that because I’m so dang pretty.
“It looks terrible, doesn’t it?”
The huge bruise across my cheek hasn’t grown into a full-blown black eye but looks as if it was trying. My bottom lip is split and the left side of my mouth swollen. Strangely, my jaw hurts the worst but looks the best.
My breath stops when he lifts his hand and gently traces the curve of my bottom lip. “Looks like it hurts,” he says gruffly.
“It’s not so bad. I’m just not looking forward to seeing my parents.”
Abruptly he steps away. “Or them seeing you.”
Yes. That’s more accurate. They’re going to be so worried. But maybe they should be. Not just for Stone.
“Do you think my parents are safe? They’re my brother’s family, too. Maybe they’ll be threatened.”
“I don’t think so. You noticed Blowback wasn’t surprised when you told us why the fucker was there?”
“Yes.” Even though Gunner and Lily were.
“He knew family had been threatened after the fighters were taken. Not everyone, but some. So he had Hashtag looking out for you during the nights.”
“Really?” I hadn’t noticed at all.
Gunner nods, his jaw working. “I didn’t know. Just the prez and Blowback did. And Hashtag figured everyone on the executive board was in the know, so when Widowmaker sent him home sick last night, he assumed that you’d be covered. We fucked up.”
I shrug. They couldn’t have known for sure it would happen. “It turned out okay.”
“No.” His gaze holds mine before flicking to my cheek, my lips. “Not okay. A fuck up like that could have gotten you killed.”
“But not my parents?” I’m doubtful.
“You live out of town. You were alone. Your parents live together and across the street from the goddamn sheriff. Targeting them’s not going to be worth the risk to these fuckers.”
Is he lying to me so I don’t worry again? I can’t tell. But I think there’s something he probably isn’t saying—because another fuck up wouldn’t be acceptable. “The Riders are still going to have someone watching over them, aren’t they.”
It’s not a question, and the corners of his mouth quirk up into a smile. “Yup. But you don’t know that.”
“Okay.”
Easy enough. There’s a lot of stuff I supposedly don’t know.
Stomach rumbling, I pick through the pastry bag. There’s a variety, but the variety is all sugar. Bottlecap apparently has a sweet tooth. I like my coffee to resemble syrup but that’s about it. I’d have killed for a yogurt or fruit, but I can grab something at the Den.
Frowning a little, Gunner picks up the bag when I set it aside. With long fingers, he tears a blueberry muffin apart and tosses the entire bottom to Daisy, who wolfs it down in a single bite and turns her best I’m a sad starving puppy eyes up to beg for more.
He tears off another bottom and feeds it to her, then catches my look and grins. “I like the muffin tops best. Not so dry.”
I like watching him eat the tops best. In fact, sipping coffee and watching him share his breakfast with Daisy is the best start to a morning that I can remember in a long, long time.
But it doesn’t last. Too soon, he’s crumpling the pastry bag and looking over at me. “I packed up the truck earlier. So we’ll head out as soon as you’re ready.”
To the Den. Then Gunner to wherever he’s going—and I know better than to ask where that is. I already know the answer. Club business.
With a heavy heart, I nod.
“You want someone to pick up your stuff at your house, or do you want to head out there and do it yourself before we go to your parents’ place?”
Oh. Because, right. I probably shouldn’t stay alone at my house for now. “I’d rather do it,” I say. “And I need to get Daisy’s stuff, too. How long do you think I’ll need to stay there?”
Gunner frowns. “Where?”
“My parents’ house.”
“You’re not staying there,” he says flatly.
“Oh. Then where?”
He regards me for a long, endless moment. I can’t read his face, but his eyes—Jesus. Just like last night. Hot. Intense. Devouring me whole.
“Just go get ready,” he says gruffly. “And we’ll talk to the prez.”
16
Gunner
Hands to myself. Eyes forward.
After ten goddamn years of telling myself the same fucking thing over and over, keeping my hands and eyes off Anna Wall should be as easy as breathing.
But even breathing isn’t easy. Because, Christ—I can smell her. She showered before we left my place, and now her thick hair is piled in a messy bun on top of her head, smelling like my soap. It’s not her usual perfume, a green tea scent her dad gave her last Christmas, but my scent. As if I’ve marked her. And I’m one second away from dragging her close and burying my face against her skin, so I can breathe her all in and claim every inch. Mine.
One second away. God damn it. I should have more control than this. But around Anna, that control hangs by a thin thread. And every year, every day, every breath—that thread stretches thinner and thinner.
I can’t let it break.
Hands to myself. Eyes forward.
My fingers clench on the steering wheel. Hands to myself. Even though her thigh is pressed up against mine. Wearing that big puffy coat, she’s buckled into the truck’s middle seat so Daisy can stick her head out the passenger window.
A dog on one side of her, and something more feral on the other. Because that bruise on her cheek, her swollen mouth have broken loose a savage part of me that I’ve kept chained down all these years. Bullets for Chef and every bastard in the Iron Blood wouldn’t satisfy my need to kill them. Even a goddamn sledgehammer wouldn’t be enough. But my hands, my teeth? I’d bathe in their fucking blood.
My need for her burns just as hot and wild. I didn’t let myself fall asleep last night. Not while holding her. Because on this thin primal edge, I might wake up with my thick cock buried deep inside her scalding heat, fucking her with raging ferocity until she screams my name, her pussy gripping me tight as she comes. Or wake up with my face between her legs, devouring her sweet cunt until her juices are slipping over my tongue.
Ah fuck. Just the thought of tasting her pussy makes my cock throb painfully, my balls
tight and the head dripping precum. Just imagining sucking on her little clit while she bucks and cries out beneath me leaves me a stroke of my hand away from coming in my jeans.
I’d do anything for a taste. Just one single lick.
I’d do anything except hurt her. And shoving my dick into her only hours after some asshole tries to rape her? After she wakes up shaking from a nightmare?
Not a chance in hell.
But even though the night is over, I can’t unleash that savage now. I can’t touch her again. Not until we find Stone. Not until my family’s usefulness is done. Even though the feral beast inside me is howling that she’s mine. All fucking mine.
I can’t touch her. But I can keep her near me. I don’t have to let her go.
That knowledge is the only chain keeping me in control.
We’ll talk to the prez. But it doesn’t matter what Saxon says. Like it or not, Anna’s coming with me. All these endless goddamn years, I tried to save her by staying away—and she got hurt anyway. My brothers already fucked up once, watching over her. I won’t take that chance again. Anna’s mine.
And she’s mine to protect.
Late morning, the Wolf Den hasn’t opened yet and the parking lot is all but empty. Just the prez’s motorcycle and a car belonging to one of the cooks, who Anna says comes in early for lunch prep.
She scoots out the driver’s side after me, telling the dog, “Stay in the truck. Saxon will kick my ass if you bring the health inspector in.” She looks to me. “We’re not going to be long, are we?”
“Probably not.”
With her key, Anna lets us in through the front entrance. I follow her past the bar and through the employees’ door. The prez’s office is down a hallway, the door angled open, Saxon sitting at his desk with a pile of paperwork in front of him.
Anna taps lightly on the door and the boss leans back in his chair, telling her to come in with a flick of his fingers. His steely gaze lingers on her cheek, on her mouth. The boss is a hard man to read but I don’t need a magic decoder to know what he’s thinking.
