No Saint (Blood Legion MC Book 3)

by Rie Warren

  “But that just makes me a horrible person.” I still couldn’t look at her, I was so ashamed.

  Running her arms around me, she patted my back. “I always knew he’d go before his time. I know exactly what he did to you. And you? You just did what you had to for your own survival. For yours and Caleb’s.”

  She pulled back and made me look at her. “I’m not going to forgive you because there’s nothing to forgive.”

  Giant tears spilled from my eyes, and I crawled back into her embrace.

  “Maybe he’s at peace now.” She comforted me when I should’ve been the one giving her solace. “And now you can get on with your life.”

  “I’m so sorry, Joan.” I wailed brokenly.

  “What did I just say about that nonsense?” Pushing me back, she let me see the tears staining her cheeks. “Why don’t you go see to those two boys of yours?” She winked. “I’m gonna lay down for a bit.”

  I watched her move down the hallway, and I wondered how I’d gotten so lucky to have her in my life.

  I kicked off my strict black heels, and my footsteps silenced on the long hall. Caleb and Saint must not have heard me approach Caleb’s bedroom.

  Peering through the cracked door, I held my breath in my chest.

  Caleb had changed into shorts and a T-shirt, and Saint had lost his jacket and tie.

  Kneeling in front of my son, Saint jerked his head and muttered, “C’mon. Give it to me.”

  I gasped when Caleb—my beautiful little boy—snarled up his lips and flew at Saint. He kicked out with bare feet against the big man’s midsection and rained tiny-fisted blows on his shoulders.

  Not even a second later, Caleb thrust himself against Saint whose arms caged around him.

  Not to hurt.

  Not to punish.

  But—oh lord—to hold Caleb as he cried his heart out with high pitched keening sounds.

  A new batch of tears made streaks down my face, coming harder when next I heard Saint say, “If you’re angry at the world, I make a pretty good punching bag, and I don’t hit back, okay? I’m just gonna hug you.”

  Caleb’s head bobbed beneath Saint’s chin, arms clinging around his neck.

  “Just because he wasn’t always good doesn’t mean you have to suck it up. You just cry and mourn as much as you need.”

  Saint kneeled there, taking it all on himself, and I backed away from the door with a torrent of tears taking my breath away.

  In my bedroom, I unpinned my hair and got out of my black dress. I pulled on sweats and a tank top and brought the tissue box with me to my bed.

  Following Joan’s suit, I collapsed onto the mattress. Laying down for a while sounded like about all I could do at that point too.

  It was only late afternoon, but I was exhausted. I’d been exhausted for days.

  “Mommy?”

  Caleb lingered in the doorway with puffy eyes much like mine.

  I patted the bed next to me, and he clambered up.

  Curling myself around him, I hugged him close. “Tonight, you’re my baby boy, and nothing you can do about it.”

  “I don’t mind, Mommy.”

  He smelled so sweet, but still like a boy. His wiry little body huddled closer, and I caught a whiff of Saint’s cologne. I wondered if he’d patted some on Caleb too.

  As Caleb snuffled, and his swollen eyelids fluttered down, I could hear Saint out there in the kitchen. It sounded like he was rinsing the dishes that’d piled up and loading the dishwasher, and my heart tripped a tiny beat.

  Later, he appeared in the doorway too. Seeing Caleb sound asleep in bed with me, he toed out of his polished shoes so unlike the usual shitkickers.

  “Room for one more?” His voice rumbled quietly.

  I held my hand out to him. “Always.”

  He crawled on in his dress shirt and suit pants, careful not to jostle the mattress too much. And then he maneuvered until his broad shoulder supported both me and Caleb. His fingers found mine, and we held hands across Caleb’s body.

  “How’re you doing, baby?”

  I lifted weary eyes to his. “Relieved. Free. Sad and angry and most of all . . . guilty.”

  Together, Saint and I had agreed that Caleb would never know who pulled the trigger.

  What more could be said?

  My eyes drifted shut, and I let the warmth of two bodies seep into mine.

  There followed many nights with Caleb in our bed.

  Saint didn’t complain about the lack of privacy or intimacy. Not once.

  He held us both through the nights, guarding us from the demons in our sleep.

  ****

  I didn’t seem to be able to get better.

  The rape. The humiliation.

  The shame because I’d brought all of that on myself. If I hadn’t been so young and dumb when I’d gotten involved with Reggie . . .

  And more pain, because without Reggie, there never would’ve been Caleb.

  Weeks afterward, and I was still underwater. I hadn’t been playing or busking or writing new music, because even melodies were out of reach to me. Music had once liberated me.

  Now I was locked in silence.

  One day, I answered the door to find Mercy and Grace standing on my stoop. Mercy carried a sack of beignets and a cardboard tray of clear cups filled to the brim with iced lattes. Grace carried precious little Haven.

  “Just consider us the MC wives club.” Mercy swooped inside as I blinked in surprise.

  “Speak for yourself, sister. I’m not hitched yet.” Grace jiggled Haven gently in her arms. “That’s right isn’t it sweetheart?” She cooed to the baby. “Daddy’s getting cold feet.”

  “He is not,” Mercy scoffed. “Anyway, I think it’s cute that you make Killian nervous. Nobody else does.”

  The two women suddenly filled the house. They filled the void of emptiness with bright chatter and easy smiles. Grace with her statuesque figure the height of womanhood, and Mercy with all of her tattoos and the long straight hair and slim body about to bloom with pregnancy.

  “Here, take these, would you, Honoré?” Mercy handed me the lattes as ice jingled in the cups. “I’ll go find a plate or something for these. The kitchen this way?”

  She pointed down the hall.

  I nodded mutely, still a bit stunned at their arrival.

  Grace lowered herself into Momma Joan’s rocking chair, and Haven let out a teeny sweet yawn without opening her eyes.

  “Hand me one of those?” She nodded toward the beverages.

  Sitting on the couch, I slid her a drink.

  Mercy came back with a stack of napkins and the plate of fluffy, powdery beignets.

  “Saint sent you.” Although there was no malice in my voice, the words came out flat.

  Plopping beside me, Mercy placed her hand on top of mine. “No, he didn’t tell us to come. Besides, we don’t take orders from our men, no matter how fine they are.”

  Her pretty brown eyes twinkled.

  Then her gaze shaded slightly darker. “Did you forget I was with you that night? And Grace and I . . . no one understands what you’ve been through better than us.”

  Biting my lip, I looked down at my lap.

  “I don’t know how you got through it,” I whispered. “All I can feel is hate and humiliation.”

  “Me too.” Grace glanced at me as she shifted Haven to her other arm. “And I was so damn angry.”

  “Vindictive. So many times Ah wanted to use my garrote to strangle the life out of Vernon and Ricky and Ned.” Mercy squeezed her fingers around her cup like she was asphyxiating one of her abusive relatives.

  “I really thought Killian was going to kill Roark.”

  Mercy and I murmured in agreement.

  “I just feel so empty right now.” Picking off a fluffy piece from a beignet, I let the dough melt on my tongue. “Reggie took something from me.”

  “I know. And it takes time to get your life back, but you have to. For Caleb. For yourself.” Mercy popp
ed half a pastry into her mouth then devoured the rest.

  Ahhh, I remembered eating for two.

  Something about watching her demolish the beignet made me smile.

  I drank some of my latte and passed the plate to Grace.

  “Hey, Saint said you’re not playing music anymore.”

  Mercy had always been one of my biggest fans, and I had trouble meeting her eyes.

  “I can’t. Nothing sounds right to me.” I wrapped my arms around myself, only looking up when I heard Joan’s chair creak.

  Grace stood up, and her knees bumped against mine.

  “Here’s some good healing right here, honey.”

  Before I knew what she was planning, she slipped Haven into my arms.

  “Ohhh.” It’d been so long since I’d held a newborn.

  Not since Caleb.

  And it was healing, holding that innocent baby. She yawned again, her tiny fist raising to her rosebud lips. She smelled like baby powder and warmth.

  As Grace took her seat, I blurted out, “But she’s not—”

  “She’s not Killian’s. I know. But in every way aside from biological, she’s his. She’s always been his.” She smiled, that peaceful momma smile that came from within. “He’s the man who loves us. Who has cared for us. Who saved us. He’s Haven’s father, and he’ll be my husband.”

  One of my tears leaked down my cheek, and I caught it before it slid off my chin onto Haven’s darling sleeping face.

  Grace handed me a tissue, and suddenly the floodgates opened. Like all the emptiness, the void, the water I’d been drowning under just swelled up and surged over.

  Grace came over, and she hugged me against her. Mercy was there too, and when Grace lifted Haven back to her shoulder, Mercy took my hands in hers.

  “Ah know it’s hard, Honoré.” Mercy tenderly swiped my tears away. “Ah wouldn’t wish my life on anyone. But we three, we’re the survivors. And these men of ours . . . well, shoot. Nobody’s ever gonna fight harder for you. They’re tough and they’re wild and they’re rough, but once you touch their hearts, they’re yours for life. And you’ve touched Saint’s heart. You have his heart.”

  I fell into her hug, taking solace from the younger woman.

  When my tears stopped, I leaned back. “I’m so sorry. Y’all must think I’m a piss poor hostess, being all maudlin and crying all over the place.”

  “Mm hmm.” Mercy gave me some fierce attitude. “And don’t let that happen again.”

  Grace chuckled, and I was given the freedom to laugh.

  “If a little girl talk and iced latte doesn’t help, you can always come to my house, and we can break into Killian’s whiskey stash,” Grace added.

  “I wouldn’t want to cross him,” I said. “What with that big blade of his.”

  Grace outright cackled. “Oh, honey. You have no idea how big it is.”

  My mouthful of iced coffee went spewing all over the place.

  Mercy grinned and patted the knife sheath at her hip. “He ain’t the only one with a blade.”

  “Yeah but his is still bigger.”

  I realized I’d never really talked to them before. I’d never had a girlfriend before. I had Momma Joan, but she was a cross between an interfering mother and a sassy sidekick.

  I’d never had this. Maybe this sisterhood was what I got in return for the pain I’d suffered at a man’s hands.

  Before they left, Mercy hugged me again. “We know Caleb needs you so much right now, but sometime soon will you come to the bar? Everyone misses you.”

  Choked up though I was, I managed a smile. One that was real.

  The days got better after that.

  Some of the nights too.

  Eventually, Caleb got sick of cuddling and getting squished while he slept, so he was coaxed back to his own room, his own bed.

  Still Saint didn’t make a move.

  I wondered if he was too scared. Or if I repulsed him after what had happened.

  And that kept me awake too.

  ****

  A month after the attack—with me on the mend—Momma Joan moved out. I knew it wasn’t because she held any grudge.

  I knew it was because she believed Caleb and I would be safe now.

  I tried to entice her to stay by telling her she wouldn’t be seeing Saint as much, but she informed me she had her own toy boy, which I didn’t doubt for an instant.

  Two weeks after she’d settled into her apartment, she brought Caleb home with her for his first sleepover at grandma’s.

  Caleb had perked up again, bouncing back with the resilience of youth, yet I still hadn’t been able to connect with my music or connect in an intimate way with Saint.

  Sweet as could be, he made dinner that first night alone at my place. Okay, he burned dinner, which was supposed to be a very ambitious lasagna.

  After he’d nearly smoked us out of the kitchen, he ordered my favorite dishes from my favorite seafood place. We sat at the kitchen table with the lights turned low, and I drank wine while he nursed a beer. He held my hand loosely, and I started to feel shy under his gaze.

  “Is there dessert too?” I asked.

  That dirty glint fired in his eyes, and I expected him to smirk and say he had his dessert in his pants as he led my hand to his erection. Instead, Saint doused the dark flame and released my hand.

  Didn’t he know I wanted him? I still wanted him. I wanted to be able to give myself to him, but I wasn’t brave enough.

  He drained his beer and cleared his throat and kicked back his chair. “I had something else in mind tonight.”

  Maybe he was ready.

  Maybe he did still want me.

  I took his offered hand, and he pulled me up.

  “There’s something I want to try, but it’s not food, baby.”

  My cheeks flushed and my heart hammered and I hoped I didn’t disappoint him.

  Except he didn’t take me to the bedroom. He led me to my music room at the back of the house, and I almost sighed in disappointment.

  Once inside, I smelled the scent of crisp sheet paper waiting for new notations and new chords. I’d forgotten the calm, the peacefulness of my private sanctuary. I walked around the room like he had his first time here—a bit cautious, touching my beloved instruments.

  My ignored instruments.

  I stopped in place in front of my violin to glance back at Saint. “I’m not sure I can do this.”

  He lounged against the upright piano. “What part about Ripper ever had anything to do with your music?”

  “Nothing. It was all me.”

  “Exactly.” He pulled my stool into the middle of the room, and the glow of the orange harvest moon outside was the only light by which to see. “You know that night you sang to me, my heart just about burst out of my chest.”

  I picked up my violin then set it back on the stand. I gazed at Saint, and he retreated to the piano.

  Grabbing the rosin, I gently rubbed the bar over the strings of my neglected bow. Taking up the violin again, I plucked the strings with my fingers to see if it was in tune.

  Facing Saint, I sat on the stool, lids drawn down over my eyes. “What do you want me to play?”

  “I don’t want you to play anything for me. Just something for yourself.” His gruff voice sounded closer, but I didn’t look.

  I set the bow against the strings, and my first hesitant notes sounded jarring.

  “Keep going,” he rumbled out.

  I did.

  The strings warmed like skin caressed, and it was there again. I felt it again. Music spilled from my fingertips—not forgotten, just lost.

  Like I had been.

  Closing my eyes because I knew Saint would never leave me, I swayed into the notes, adding new fretwork with my fingers and soft plucks of the bow.

  I didn’t even startle when Saint’s hands settled on my thighs right at the hem of my skirt.

  Smiling, I opened my eyes to peer down at him as I played on.

  I
felt it again. And it was better than before because this was everything about the fight and liberation and ultimate love.

  I kept going. I kept playing. I kept feeling what needed to flow right through me and into the music. The sadness and the pain and the hurt and the hope.

  Ultimately the hope.

  Saint’s rough palms began moving, flirting with the bottom of my skirt and teasing across untouched flesh. I didn’t falter in the tune rolling from my fingers, but my breath became harsher, my body loosening as he caressed me like I caressed my violin.

  I pulled out a long plaintive note, and Saint looked up from between my spread thighs. His fingers drew circles higher, almost touching the edge of my panties.

  In the intensity of his forest green eyes, I felt the question: Are you ready?

  Because he wouldn’t take what wasn’t his.

  In that moment, he touched my shattered soul, and I found I wasn’t nearly as broken as I’d thought.

  I reached down to tip his face up to me. This biker man with his rings and his tats and his goatee.

  I kissed him, dipping my tongue between his warm lips to meet and tease his. I listened to his fast breaths and panted against his parted mouth. I kissed him again, pulling myself closer to him.

  Then I dropped back and told him, “Yes, I’m ready for you, Saint.”

  “You remember what I wanted, here in this room?”

  He wants me nude and playing. He wants to fuck me here, like this.

  Heat coalesced in my belly, and the thing I’d been missing—the swell of desire—surged down to my pussy.

  I nodded.

  All his hesitancy fled as he ordered, “Then take off your clothes.”

  I stripped in that moonlit room, and he lit a few candles.

  He stalked to me, groaning as his fingertips glanced off the pearled buds of my nipples then stroked down my trembling belly. He teased the damp curls at the juncture of my thighs, and he let out another raw noise when he searched out my wet center.

  The wicked glint was back in his eyes when he took my hand and perched me on the stool again.

  He passed me the bow and the violin.

  He watched as I set emotion to music once more. Finally. For the first time in so long. And this song was long notes and drawn out desire and a burning need to be had.