CONTROL: A Dark Bad Boy Baby Romance (Blackened Souls MC)

by Naomi West

  The silence was growing all around her. Everyone was waiting.

  She took a deep breath. “I do.”

  “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

  Pistol looked slightly green.

  Katrin flinched as the words she’d been dreading arrived. “You may kiss the bride.”

  ###

  Well damn. Seriously damn.

  Those were the only thoughts that had been running through Pistol’s head as Katrin had approached the altar.

  Once Pistol had been able to pick his jaw off the floor, he’d realized that his brain was never gonna work right again. The only thing fully functional right now was his dick, which was changing the fit of his suit even more.

  Katrin was hot as hell.

  That dress was … Pistol didn’t know jack shit about dresses, he just knew this one was hugging everything exactly the right way. And her face … subtle makeup accenting those wide hazel eyes. She didn’t even need lipstick or anything — those lips were plump and pink, and unless he was mistaken, the blush in her cheeks was natural.

  He had a feeling he was blushing too. How was it possible he was marrying a woman this gorgeous?

  He barely heard a thing the priest said. Made a damn fool of himself trying to get the ring on Katrin’s slender finger. Had nearly come in his pants when she’d slipped the ring on his. God, this was not the time to be thinking about…

  Except he couldn’t stop thinking about it. And this was embarrassing, because neither of them had consented to this, and because he ought to be furious, ought to be thinking of ways to cut Leonard Smith’s limbs off and feed them to him — and instead he was…

  Speechless.

  He was still speechless a few minutes later when it came time to say I do. But somehow he swallowed and made himself say it.

  Katrin looked right at him when she said the words. She looked afraid, but strong. So fucking strong. And in that moment, he realized he was getting way more than he bargained for. Not just the marriage and the baby, but … her.

  This woman who had layers. This woman he didn’t know, didn’t understand, but who made him feel like maybe, just maybe, they’d get through this together.

  Then the priest said, “You may kiss the bride.”

  And Pistol froze.

  Could he?

  He had to, didn’t he? Or the jig was up. Leonard would surely have something to say about it if Pistol refused the kiss. Pistol was still standing there wondering how the hell he could do this to Katrin if she was an unwilling participant, when she leaned forward and tilted her chin up, that same blazing strength in her gaze.

  And before he knew it, she was kissing him. And he was kissing her back. And the surge of desire he felt was probably inappropriate as fuck for this wedding, for any wedding, but he couldn’t help it. Her mouth was hot and wet, the kiss fierce but oddly chaste. He didn’t want it to end, and yet it was over so quickly.

  There was a smattering of applause. A whoop from Ford that made Pistol want to smack him upside the head. Pistol and Katrin pulled back, both of them breathing hard. Her lips were parted slightly, and she looked sort of shell-shocked. Pistol ran a hand quickly over his scalp. He gazed at her dark hair, elaborately pinned up, and wished he could take it down, run his hands through it

  She was his wife. She was his wife, and he had no idea if he was allowed to touch her. If he’d ever be allowed.

  After what seemed like forever, they left the altar. Katrin walked quickly in front of him, not speaking to him, and disappeared into some side room. He didn’t try to follow her.

  He had no idea what to do now. Where to go, what to say to Katrin, whether or not he could get away with going to the clubhouse to smoke and drink and plot revenge against Leonard.

  Was there any way he could make the best of this? Find a silver lining? His club’s funds were gonna triple, and he had a gorgeous wife. Things could be worse.

  Before he could do anything, Leonard Smith approached. Pistol tensed.

  “Mr. Wilson,” Leonard said in that same, smooth polite tone he’d used the night in the desert.

  The night he’d shot Mica. Beaten Deion. Ruined Pistol’s fucking life.

  Pistol didn’t answer.

  Leonard held up a set of keys. “These are to your new home.”

  “What?” This shit just kept getting more and moreTwilight Zone.

  “Your new house. It’s on the edge of town. 5621 Blessing Way. A very nice, comfortable place. I think you and Katrin will be quite happy there.”

  “I already have a home.”

  “Yes, but you’re married now, Jax. Surely you don’t intend to live in your little clubhouse while your wife lives with her father?”

  That had kinda been the idea, yes.

  “Just remember, Jax. This can be very easy, if you cooperate. And I can make your life very, very difficult, and very painful, if you don’t.”

  Pistol snatched the keys from him. “Did you get me a car too?”

  Leonard grinned. “Don’t be silly. You have your bike.” He waved a hand. “I’ll drop Katrin off in about an hour. I have a few words for her before she embarks on this new life.”

  “I’m sure she can’t wait to hear them,” Pistol said savagely. He turned and started to walk away.”

  “Jax?”

  Pistol turned.

  “Treat her right.”

  The irony of that was almost too much to handle.

  Jax went outside. Deion was waiting for him. “Jesus dude.” Deion clapped him on the shoulder. “I can’t believe that really happened.”

  Pistol looked at the keys in his hand.

  “What’re those?” Deion asked.

  “Keys.”

  “No shit.”

  “To my new house.”

  Deion stared at him. “That creep bought you a house?”

  “Yeah. Shit this is … this is too weird for words.”

  “Where’s Katrin?”

  Pistol shook his head rapidly, his panic and anger rising. “Who the fuck knows? Her dad wants to have a few last words with her, then he’s dropping her off at the house. Our house. Fuck, I can’t do this. I really can’t.”

  “You gotta.” Deion slapped him on the back. “You’re still my brother, man. No matter what.”

  Pistol nodded. “You too,” he muttered.

  “Take this. You’ll need it.” Deion handed him the whiskey bottle.

  Pistol glanced at him. “That’s my wedding present, huh.”

  “Damn straight. Enjoy.”

  “Coulda got me a new bike. Or a new gun. How about that?”

  “I think you’re gonna need booze more.” Deion’s cheek had the last yellowish traces of bruising on it. Pistol looked sadly at his friend. This really did feel like being forcibly separated from his family and forced into some strange new life. “Take care,” he said quietly.

  “I got your back. You know I do.”

  “Yeah.” He knew it.

  “We’ll find you a way out of this.” Deion grinned. “Unless you take to married life.”

  “Hell no!”

  Deion’s grin widened. “Pistol Wilson. Biggest player in Rialto. A married man.”

  “Shut up.” Pistol tried not to grin as he brushed past his friend and headed for his bike.

  Chapter Eleven

  When Katrin’s dad dropped her at the door of her new home, she was shaking. Whatever illusion of cool she’d managed during the wedding shattered as they approached the house and pulled into the drive.

  She said goodbye to her father in a hollow voice. He turned his cheek to her as though expecting a kiss. She didn’t lean over and give him one. Instead she quickly let herself out of the car and hurried toward the front door of the two-story ranch house.

  The house was beautiful — white and gleaming, with rust-red shutters and a tidy front porch. But Katrin barely noticed. She was distracted by the motorcycle in the driveway, and then by the bike’s owner, who was standing on the fr
ont porch, looking large, imposing, and grim.

  She tried to avoid looking at him as she walked up the steps.

  “I didn’t go in yet,” he said, stopping her in her tracks.

  She gave him a quick glance, then looked down at the ground again.

  When he spoke, it was with an almost charming nervousness — he wasn’t at all the cocky bastard who’d hit on her at the bar. “I, uh … I know I’m supposed to … the guy’s supposed to carry the girl over the threshold.” He jammed his hands into the pockets of his ill-fitting suit pants. “You probably don’t want me to carry you. But I thought we ought to go in together.”

  She nodded. That was almost … gentlemanly. She refused to look behind her, but she knew her father’s car was still there, knew her dad was watching her. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “Let’s do it.” She tried not to notice Pistol’s massive biceps. The tilt of his hips as he leaned against the porch rail. The way his chest muscles seemed the strain the too small suit. She wanted to rip it off him — every article of clothing. Wanted to lie on the bed while he showed himself to her, while he turned at her command and displayed his broad chest, his muscular shoulders, his tight ass…

  Jesus, nerves were making her restless. Horny. She needed to calm down. Pistol turned and pushed the key into the lock, then opened the door and motioned for her to go in first. She saw him pick up a duffel bag and a whiskey bottle from beside the welcome mat before he followed her in.

  Nice. A drinker. What sort of bastard had her dad married her off to?

  Pistol shut the door behind him, and instantly, Katrin was afraid. Afraid, because now he could do anything to her. And while he hadn’t shown himself to be a bad guy so far, there was no telling what sort of act he might have put on. She hadn’t felt safe with her father, but she felt even less safe with this massive, tattooed stranger.

  But to her surprise, he didn’t say a word. He looked around the house. Examined the provided furniture — it all looked drab to her. Drab and formal. There was a small office on the first floor, and some of Katrin’s things had been delivered there. She nearly laughed at the ridiculousness — just when she’d finished unpacking at her dad’s house, he’d had it all boxed up again and sent here.

  She went to the living room and found Pistol standing there, staring at the wall.

  “Do you…?” she started. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to ask. Something stupid maybe, like What do you want to do for dinner? or Do you need any help unpacking?

  Apparently, all he had was the duffel bag. And the whiskey.

  Mostly she wanted to make conversation just so she could get a sense of where they stood. This man was so different from the lively smooth talker she’d met at the bar last month. And while the memory of their wedding kiss still burned on her lips, while the mere sight of him made her panties damp, she knew she had to be cautious. Pistol could be incredibly dangerous.

  But if he’s going to hit me, going to rape me, going to … to kill me … I’d rather know that now.

  Before she could find a way to finish her question, Pistol took the whiskey bottle and stalked off through the kitchen. She heard the back door open, then shut. A few moments later, she crept into the kitchen and peered out the window. Pistol was sitting on the back porch, drinking straight from the bottle. She turned and pressed her back to the wall. Slid down it and sat on the floor with her train spread out around her and her arms wrapped around her knees.

  She wasn’t going to cry. She was done crying. And she wasn’t going to let Pistol do anything to her. She might not have a gun of her own, but there was a knife block on the counter. Some of the decorations the house had come with looked big and heavy enough to be used as weapons. She’d do whatever she had to in order to keep herself safe.

  She glanced around the kitchen. White wallpaper with light blue diamonds. Lacy, baby blue curtains. An elegant, round glass table with high-backed chairs. There was even a centerpiece on the table — a tall, thin vase of fake lilies.

  She stood up and walked around, opening various cabinets. Everything she could possibly need was here. Mugs, plates, drinking glasses, wine glasses, beer glasses … a food processor, a juicer, all sorts of baking tins…

  Dad really expects Pistoland me to live here together, like husband and wife.

  The fridge was fully stocked. Eggs. Orange juice. Veggies. In the freezer, various meats.

  She slipped a knife out of the knife block and continued her tour of the house. A dining room with a small chandelier and an antique buffet. A den with a huge, flat screen TV.

  She wandered upstairs. There was a small bedroom, with pale yellow walls. It would make a good nursery, she realized. Her father had been cheerfully hinting over the past couple of weeks that she shouldn’t wait too long to start a family with her new husband. She’d been too appalled to respond. Her father actually thought she’d have some stranger’s baby? Nothing was too crazy for her to believe anymore.

  She moved on to the master suite. A spacious beige bedroom with generic paintings on the walls. A massive attached bathroom. Large glass-and-wood shower stall. Sparkling white granite countertops. His-and-hers sinks.

  She turned away.I can’t do this. This is insane.Some of her boxes had been brought up here. She needed to get organized. She set the knife on the nearby windowsill, letting the curtains hide it. Then she painstakingly got herself out of a gown it had taken two helpers to get her into. She hung it in the empty closet and searched her boxes until she found a pair of cotton pajama pants and a T-shirt. She dressed, then went to the bathroom to wash off her makeup. She stared at herself for a moment. At the wet mascara remnants under her eyes. Her pale, washed-out face.

  What would you do, Mom?

  Would you run? Would you give him a chance?

  Her mother didn’t answer.

  Katrin returned to the bedroom.

  She started unpacking, just for something to do. She kept an ear out, half dreading the sound of Pistol’s footsteps, half wishing he’d come in so they could talk about this.

  Clothes. Books. Orientation packets from the nursing school. Classes started tomorrow, but she wouldn’t be there. She tried to find shelves or hanger space for everything, but some of the stuff she just consolidated into one box and shoved it in the closet.

  She couldn’t find the photo album. What had her father done with that? She searched for it frantically, but it was in none of the boxes. Tomorrow, she told herself.Tomorrow I’ll go downstairs and check the boxes in the office.

  Eventually she was too exhausted to unpack anymore. The stress and anxiety caught up with her, and she knew she had to go to bed.

  She retrieved the knife from the window and placed it between the mattress and the box springs. Turned out the light, crawled under the covers and pulled them up to her chin.

  The house was silent.

  How was she supposed to sleep, knowing Pistol was outside? That he might come in at any minute, and might expect to…

  She couldn’t think about that. She had to try to sleep.

  She closed her eyes and immediately found herself thinking about the kiss. Pistol’s rough lips, the scrape of his stubble, the slight taste of whiskey and cigarettes in his mouth. The moment he’d started to kiss her back, and the way her whole body had responded to him…

  She slipped a hand under the covers and ran it tentatively between her legs while replaying the kiss in her head.

  She stroked herself, making gentle circles around her clit through her panties. Her breathing roughened. She imagined the kiss going further — imagined Pistol pulling her against him, running his hands down her back to cup her ass. Kneading her closer, his tongue plundering her mouth…

  She let out a little gasp and opened her eyes.

  Footsteps on the stairs.

  She lay still, trying to calm her breathing. Moved her hand to the edge of the mattress and let it dangle over, so she’d be able to pull out the knife if necessary. Through half-closed eyes, she watc
hed Pistol’s shadowy figure teeter in the doorway. Her throat was tight with fear.

  He watched her for a moment — or maybe he was just staring into space, who knew — then crossed the room unsteadily. He stank of alcohol and cigarettes. She heard him undressing. Then silence.

  What was he doing?

  The bed creaked. The mattress dipped slowly as he lowered himself onto it. She held the covers close to herself as he crawled under them beside her. His breathing was harsh. She only hoped it drowned out hers.