Save Grace (Blood Legion MC Book 2)

by Rie Warren

  Of course, Roark already knew about Killian Slade’s visit. He had eyes everywhere. There were no secrets.

  “You should know by now my head isn’t so easily turned by any man.” Including you. I couldn’t resist goading him.

  His lips curved into a semblance of a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yes. You are getting your fire back, aren’t you?”

  “It’d be a lot easier if I had a bit more freedom.”

  Roark shrugged. “Do what you want. You’re not a prisoner here, Gracie.”

  Ha. Maybe not a prisoner in the traditional sense, but I certainly wasn’t free to leave.

  Roark allowed me to be whored out, even though I carried his baby. I provided more value and therefore brought in more profit. At three months pregnant, I’d just started showing, and it was disturbing how many men had a pregnant/breeder fantasy. Fortunately for me, as the cost for my time climbed higher, my client list grew infinitely shorter.

  For the most part I just had to put up with Roark. Three times a week. Like clockwork.

  He’d already inseminated me.

  I didn’t know why he had to keep fucking me.

  He was the only one allowed to go bareback inside me, but of course that was only after I’d been fully tested for every single sexually transmitted disease under the sun.

  He wouldn’t want to pass on an STD to his wife, would he? Those were actually his words.

  How charming.

  While I simmered, he took off his jacket. He started loosening his tie while stepping out of his shoes.

  “I have to get home soon, so shall we?”

  He always made me undress him. It was expected.

  As was the requisite blowjob.

  Sometimes he sucked on my nipples and played with my breasts. Other times, he really got into the act and went down on me in full seduction mode. My resulting shudders were not from arousal.

  Some nights, he spent hours working me over, trying to trip my wire. I hated that far worse—the fake intimacy—than a quick wham-bam, no thank you ma’am.

  Sometimes, I tried to move things along just to get him out of me and off me faster. I’d moan for him. I’d squeeze my pussy around his prick. I’d thrust back at him. And for such an intelligent man, he devolved like every other dick-wielding douchebag, thinking he was actually getting me off when I was being forced to have sex with him against my will.

  The pig.

  Once I removed all of Roark’s clothes, folding the articles carefully, he jerked me to him. His kisses rained all over my neck before he parted my mouth with his tongue. His kisses were thought-out and thorough . . . and they did absolutely nothing to me.

  Then he took off my robe. One freckled hand on my belly, he traced the fertile mound that’d begun to grow, and he wore a gloating expression on his face.

  And then a sneer when he pushed me down to my knees.

  It wasn’t an ugly cock—decent sized, trimmed pubic area, always clean smelling—but I went about giving him head with clinical detachment.

  I licked and I sucked the hardness, fingering myself slowly in order to make sure I was lubricated enough. I twirled a fingertip over my clit, and this time I thought of Killian Slade.

  When Roark’s dick throbbed inside my mouth, he pulled me off him.

  He placed me on the center of the bed then pulled me to the edge.

  A lock of hair fell into his eyes from its gelled formation.

  “Tell me how much you want my cock, Gracie,” he ordered, swiping the tip of his dick up and down my cleft.

  I stared into his eyes—following another of his unsaid commands—and repeated in what I hoped wasn’t a totally wooden voice, “Fuck me, Roark. I want you inside me.”

  His triumphant expression returned, and he speared inside of me. He held my legs up in a wide V and watched my breasts bounce with each stroke he took.

  I feigned acquiescence.

  I faked arousal.

  The only time I’d fought Roark was the first night after I’d completed detox and tested clean. The first night he’d put himself inside me.

  I’d resisted when he’d tried to disrobe me. I’d clawed at him when he’d tried to press me to my knees. I’d bared my teeth when he’d angled his cock to my mouth.

  Roark had tightened a fist around my hair and pulled until tears sprang to my eyes.

  “You listen to me, Gracie. You’re going to suck my cock and eat my cum.” He wrenched my neck at a hellish angle. “You’re nothing but a piece of white trash put on this earth to whore out, but I’m going to make you better. I’m going to give you purpose. And if you fight me, if you ever fucking deny me, I’ll sell you right back to those ignorant inbreeds who sold you to me.

  “Or I’ll start drugging you too. Your choice.”

  Roark’s verbal abuse and threats were worse than even the physical abuse and forced drugging of before, but I had no choice now. Not in this condition.

  Tonight, as I pretended to enjoy his dick plunging into me, he muttered obscene things.

  “Did your new john fuck you like this?” Roark spread my legs wider.

  I shook my head numbly, wishing he’d just stop talking.

  “Was he as good as me?” Roark’s black chuckle filled the room when I forced out a moan.

  “Did he make you come like I do?”

  Disgusting fucker.

  I didn’t struggle. I was compliant. I lay back and let Roark have his way with me. When he was angry, he fucked me until I was raw, until I was dry and sore just to prove his point.

  This, then, was the inevitability of my new life.

  I didn’t tell Roark that Killian hadn’t touched me.

  I never admitted to him I felt absolutely nothing but loathing when he touched me.

  And no one could ever know I had felt something toward the mysterious Killian Slade.

  Chapter Three

  SLADE

  NO MATTER WHAT THAT woman said—no matter how many denials she uttered—I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt she was my Grace.

  I slept for shit that night after seeing her. Although, insomniac nights weren’t far off from the norm for me. Between bitter memories and bloody nightmares, my sleep was filled with demons. Truth be told, I probably maybe definitely had a mild-extreme case of PTSD after everything that went down in Afghanistan. But what the hell, I wasn’t the only messed-up Marine I knew.

  I coped. I survived. I lived. Hell, I even fucking laughed sometimes.

  What Angel liked to call my grim reaper chuckle.

  Whatever.

  This shit was all relative anyway.

  I knew one thing though, and that was that I couldn’t for the fucking life of me figure out why Grace wouldn’t want to be found. Until I got to the bottom of why she shut me down, I wasn’t telling another living soul I’d located her.

  Exiting the shower, I rubbed away the last specks of water on my body. I glanced at the condensation-covered mirror without actually looking and trimmed my beard from shaggy to precise.

  I left the humid bathroom to my upgraded digs at Thunder Road. In preparation for their nuptials, Angel and Mercy had bought a house just down the street—good thing too, they went at it like bunnies and neither one of them was any too quiet. As veep of Blood Legion MC, I took over the so-called presidential suite. Lennox had tried to fight me for the room with the balcony view, and I’d almost sort of maybe landed him in the ER by accident.

  Whatever.

  I’d paid that bitch of a doctor’s bill.

  Wasn’t my particular fault his face hit my fist at a really bad angle. Concussions. The worst.

  Not as bad as if I’d used my blade on him, though.

  Pulling on jeans, I slipped a T-shirt over my head, because October in NOLA was about as brrrr as Kandahar in July. I drank some coffee I couldn’t believe Sol still brewed up for us rough riders like the most dedicated den mother in the world. Between his good chow and his spot-on spouts of Creole wisdom, the old man pretty much he
ld all us nomads together.

  Then I picked up my phone and did the deed.

  I put in a sly call to Storm, Angel’s half brother and member of Force-Reckon black-ops headquartered in Washington, D.C.

  Angel hated it when I contacted Storm for help.

  Fuck, Angel had almost torn my head off when I’d brought in Storm and Walker to help mop up the mess following our fly-by-night Mercy rescue.

  Goddamn brothers. That was all I had to say about the matter. Didn’t have one myself. Bo Maverick was the closest I got.

  On the third ring, Storm picked up. “Slade?”

  I heard the frown in his voice from all the way across the wires.

  “The one and same.”

  “Everyone okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You don’t just do friendly catching up shit, you know?”

  “So I guess this isn’t friendly catching up shit then.” I rubbed the back of my neck then rolled a smoke. “You still own that safe house in the Faubourg?”

  “Now you’re worrying me.”

  “Nothing to worry about. Just wondering.” I lit my cig and inhaled.

  “I’m betting you’ve never just wondered about anything in your life.”

  “Sure I do. I wonder if the earth is actually round, if heaven exists, if true love is an actual thing or if I’m destined to go to my grave alone.”

  “You’ve got a real fucking cheerful disposition, you know that?”

  “That’s why they call me Sunshine.” I blew a few smoke rings while Storm snorted.

  “You still suffering from PTSD?” he asked.

  Asshole mind reader dick-tool.

  I went into full denial mode. Huh, somewhat like Grace.

  “What’s that?” I flicked my ash into the palm of my hand. “Post partum something or other? Because I think you might have a case of that after the arrival of yours and Blaize’s next baby.”

  “Ha. Funny. Answer me,” Storm muttered.

  “Negative. Got all my mental capacities in full working order.” Definitely.

  “Does Angel need to know about whatever we’re actually talking about?”

  “Negative.”

  “Does this have to do with Mercy and that woman that went missing?” Storm had to be scrunching his forehead.

  I could literally hear lines forming on his brow. Over the line. Heh.

  “Affirmative,” I answered.

  “That’s all I’m getting from you, isn’t it?”

  “Affirmative.” I smirked broadly because I knew I was pissing Storm off. “So, that safe house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s the key?”

  “It’s a lockbox, you fuck. What century are you living in?”

  “Fine. Give me the code.”

  Storm rattled off the digits, exasperation coloring his voice.

  “Storm. Who’s on the phone?” I heard Blaize hollering from the background.

  “The missus is calling you,” I muttered.

  “Our asshole friend!” he shouted back to the wifey, who was literally a hardcore badass who ran the whole black-ops show.

  “Which asshole friend?” she asked.

  “Take that.” Storm finally chuckled. “See you at the wedding?”

  “If I’m still alive.”

  “There’s that cheerful personality we all love so fucking much.” Now he was frowning even harder, I just knew it.

  Then he added, “Have a happy Halloween anyway. Or something.”

  “Yeah yeah. Happy Halloween.” I ended the call, the code to the safe house locked inside my brain.

  Halloween in New Orleans. Any night of the week was cause for massive celebration in this city. Halloween in a place like this? Amped up the party vibe about ten thousand percent. And don’t even get me started on the wacky wildness that was Mardi Gras.

  Tonight I expected the bar to be packed to the gills. I expected crazies in over-the-top costumes. I expected at least a drunken brawl or three.

  ****

  Thunder Road had been open for approximately half an hour, and the place was already heaving. As I manned the bar with Chase the prospect, I could barely make out Angel and Mercy playing pool on the far side of the room or see through the windows to Sol who served up his special recipe barbeque on the sidewalk.

  So far, we had Fat Elvis in white and gold, a glammed-out Cleopatra with a definite sphinx-minx look to her, and Satan who actually resembled Storm when he got all wrathful. Then there was Raggedy Ann and Andy. I didn’t have a fucking clue who the freckle-faced, yarn-haired duo were supposed to be until Chase informed me. And that was just to name a few.

  Jesus also made an appearance at Thunder Road Bar, although he could’ve just been a Man Bun who’d let his hair down for the night.

  Speaking of, our ever-faithful man bun contingency came mostly as themselves, which as far as I could tell was already make-believe dress-up anyway. They all frigging resembled Paul Bunyan, you know if millennial Paul Bunyan had his ears pierced with gauges, wore beatnik-style glasses, and smoked from a hookah instead of a pipe like a real man.

  For sure, none of our customers’ costumes could compare to Mistress Bunny’s concoction last night. Not that her outfit with the elaborate gown and the flaming red wig had been a costume, but I wasn’t so up on the politically correct standards.

  Then entered Batman and Robin. They had to be boyfriends, the way they groped each other’s codpieces. The funny thing was, Robin was the one built like a tank while Batman looked more like a twink.

  “I think Robin’s the top.” Chase took a break from serving beers to refresh the ice.

  I glared at him.

  “What? You’re the one squinting at them like you’re thinking hard.”

  Fair enough.

  “You never know,” I murmured. “They could switch-pitch.”

  See, I could do politically correct when I tried. Just like when I tried smiling.

  Chase looked at me like I’d grown two heads then shook his head. “We should ask Revenge. He’s the one who likes things up his ass.”

  “First, I don’t even wanna think about Revenge’s ass-play. Second, I don’t want to talk to him about homosexuality. Who knows what’ll come out of his mouth.”

  “Or out of his ass.”

  Now that was a good one. I even grinned and fist tapped the kid.

  Which must’ve emboldened him, because he mentioned, “You didn’t dress up though.”

  “Sure I did. I’m wearing my grim fucking bastard outfit. Can’t you tell?”

  “Hopeless,” he muttered, shaking his head.

  “What are you going as? A grunt?”

  “What’s a grunt?”

  “Marine speak for lowest man on the totem pole.”

  He blew out a breath then skewered me with a glare. “Thanks. You’re a real fucking friend, you know that?”

  Yeah. I knew I had pure toxic asshole pouring off me these days like the cologne most of the hipsters wore until my eyes watered.

  Gripping Chase’s shoulder, I did my best performance as good buddy. “Sorry ’bout that. Shit day. FUBAR week in fact. How about I man the bar, and you go get laid or something?”

  Now the probie looked truly offended. “You think I’m a virgin too?”

  I almost barked a laugh. The kid was twenty-two. I hoped he wasn’t still carrying his V-Card around.

  “Nah. ’Course not. But it’s Halloween. Great for an anonymous fuck. Although I’d advise staying away from Raggedy Ann because who wants yarn in their teeth after going down on her?”

  Well, at least that made Chase smile.

  He hopped around the bar and joined the crowd, beer in hand. For once he was cheered instead of jeered by Revenge, Saint, Angel, Lennox, and the other MC dudes.

  We couldn’t help getting all up on his shit. He had to buck up and learn to take it. Getting crapped on as the Blood Legion prospect was a goddamn right of passage.

  While I was slinging more
drinks to the customers who kept filling the ranks of Thunder Road, Demi slinked over. The edgy babe—a regular biker cherry—had definitely done it up for Halloween.

  She was the foxy Cleopatra. I just hadn’t recognized her until she got all up close and personal . . . with her cleavage in my face.

  Hard not to notice those tits.

  “Hi, Slade.” Fake eyelashes floated down to her cheekbones.

  “Demi.” I nodded. “Get you another drink?”

  “Sure. But what you can really give me is a hot, sweaty endless fuck.” Reaching over the bar, she drew her fingers along my jawline.

  And she was inviting me to do her.

  I tried not to flinch.

  I didn’t exactly wanna hurt her feelings.

  Also, she was pretty hot.

  Way hotter than Raggedy Ann.

  “Sorry, honey.” Taking her hand off my face, I stuck a beer in her grasp. “I’m not much in the mood.”

  Saint cruised up just in time to stick his nose into everything. “When was the last time you got your dick wet?”

  I gave him my most killer glare. “Like I said, not looking for tricks or treats tonight.”

  The truth was, I didn’t take sex lightly. Not anymore.

  I’d done more than my fair share of fucking around, taking random babes to bed just to cut loose and forget. At the age of thirty, I now knew getting close to a woman meant a world of pain.

  Caused an open wound.

  Hurt like hell.

  And that was why this sitch with Grace was such a head-fuck.

  I wanted her.

  How could I not?

  She was a bombshell. A smokeshow. A sensual beauty.

  Why shouldn’t I fuck her?

  I’d paid for her time. She’d personally taken my money.

  Asshole.

  Just because maybe she was allowed to keep some of the cash didn’t mean everything was peachy-fucking-keen or hunky-fucking-dory.

  My cock didn’t understand her predicament though. And my conscience clearly wanted to go on leave.

  But I wasn’t gonna lay a hand on Grace.

  And that was why continuing this mission to save her was gonna be the end of me.

  Demi left with a sweet wink to hunt for her next conquest. I didn’t need to worry about her. She’d come out on top.