Draven

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Draven Page 8

by Patricia A. Rasey


  “Come back to bed, sweetheart.”

  He turned to his back and stretched. The sheet to dipped, barely covering his groin. Lord, he was magnificent. Even having recently loved every inch of him, her hunger to have him again continued to blossom.

  Brea paused, turning her head as she heard the slight rustle of foliage. Shit! “We need to go … now!”

  Draven sat, likely hearing the same stirring of brush. He stood and quickly moved to the bedroom’s lone window. Using his finger to nudge aside the curtain, he briefly peered out. The cloth fluttered back into place. Grabbing his discarded jeans, he stepped into them before jogging from the room. Brea wasted no time pulling on her pants and tank, following him. Thank goodness she’d had the aforethought and packed their backpack the night before. It sat on the table, along with the keys to the motorbike. Draven made his way to each window and carefully took in their outside surroundings, assessing the situation.

  Finished, he turned to her and whispered, “Three men. My best guess is left side of the cabin is unguarded since there is only a tiny window. One large enough for you to slip through.”

  “What do we do?”

  “You take the backpack. Head for the bike. The helmets are on the seat.”

  “What about you?”

  “Once I hear the bike’s engine, I’ll meet you where it’s stashed.” He gripped her forearms and pulled her to him, kissing her soundly. “It’s showtime, sweetheart. Once you get to the bike, you count to five then start the engine. If I’m not there, you head the fuck out of here.”

  “No—”

  He tipped her chin. “No arguments. Count to five and go.”

  Draven released her and turned her toward the table with the backpack. The sound of wood scraping against the aging frame sounded loud to her ears. She prayed it would go undetected by the men creeping up on the cabin. Brea returned to Draven’s side and allowed him to hoist her up. Tossing the backpack to the ground, she slipped silently through. Once her feet touched the ground, Brea did a quick sweep of the area and waited to hear fast approaching feet. Only the sounds of the forest thankfully greeted her. A quick glance back at the window, she caught a glimpse of Draven in his glorious vampire form.

  Her heart swelled.

  Don’t you die, vampire. I need you.

  And if she ever got them out of this mess, she planned on telling him just how much.

  Picking up the pack, she quickly stole through the dense foliage, ducking beneath low hanging branches and stepping over fallen debris. A couple hundred feet from the cabin, she came across the bike hidden from view of the dirt road. Thank goodness her godfather’s men had somehow missed it. She slipped her leg over the seat, shrugged on the backpack, and kicked up the stand. Pulling on the helmet, she tightened the strap beneath her chin.

  Her heart raced. Brea couldn’t stand the idea of allowing Draven to contend with Raúl’s men on his own. She should’ve never agreed to his cockamamie plan. If she hit five and he wasn’t there, fuck his plan. She was going back to get him. If they harmed one hair on his gorgeous head, she’d personally bleed every one of those fuckers out.

  Brea put the key into the ignition.

  “One.”

  A man’s scream had Brea’s breath catching in her chest.

  “Two.”

  The strong scent of human blood elongated her fangs.

  “Three.”

  Rustling of brush came from her right. Another scream was cut short.

  “Four.”

  The smell of blood was thick in the air. A third shout stopped her count when Draven rushed through the thick foliage, his white tee stained red. He jumped on the back of the bike and strapped on his helmet.

  “Go,” he shouted over the sound of the engine.

  Brea picked up her feet, hit the gas, and they sped down the dirt road. Now wasn’t the time to ask questions. Nor was she about to stick around to see if more of Raúl’s men lurked by. Pulling back on the rubber handle grip, the bike sped off down the dirt road.

  * * *

  Brea pulled the motorcycle into a parking lot of a rest stop along 1D. The last road sign indicated they were about ten miles outside of Ensenada. Following their mad dash, Brea and Draven had ridden in silence. The stench of blood clung to Draven’s shirt. She needed to get him out of his clothes and washed up before someone spotted them. The last thing they needed was to wind up in a Mexican jail.

  Opening the backpack, she pulled out a new tee and pair of jeans and tossed them at him. He caught the clothes, remaining annoyingly quiet. Brea was dying for the details. What he had done had to be weighing heavy on his mind. He’d need to talk about it. Setting the helmet on the bike, Draven barely spared her a glance before heading for the men’s room at the end of the long sidewalk. Minutes later, he emerged carrying a plastic sack containing his soiled clothes. He stuffed them into the side satchel of the motorcycle. Later, they’d need to ditch them.

  “What happened back there?” she finally asked, no longer able to take his silence.

  His face hardened. “What needed to be done.”

  Draven no doubt thought of himself as a cold-blooded murderer, even if it had been done in self-defense. Her heart ached for him. He’d not likely think it made much of a difference. And truthfully? She couldn’t imagine what was going through Draven’s mind since she had yet to take a human life herself.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Not particularly.”

  He grabbed his helmet, but she placed her hand on it and prevented him from placing it back on his head, shutting her out. “Talk to me.”

  “What the fuck do you want me to say, Brea?” he all but growled. “That those three men back there won’t be hurting anyone again? Because they won’t. By the time I finished, it looked like a brown grizzly, or some other wild animal, tore out their throats.”

  He looked to the pavement with a slow shake of his head. Her chest seized all the more. Brea prayed the fun-loving man she had first met still existed somewhere within him. She’d hate to be the reason his nature had been forever altered.

  “I’m sorry.” Tears welled in her eyes, moments away from becoming a blubbering mess. This was certainly not the time for her to lose her shit. “I’m so damn sorry.”

  Draven stepped around the bike separating them and framed her face, running the pads of his thumb beneath her eyes. “Don’t waste your tears, sweetheart. Not for me. I did what needed to be done to protect you. I will continue to do the same until I draw my last breath. Understand? We’ll find a way out of this.”

  Brea worried her lower lip as she sucked back the tears. “You deserve better.”

  “I deserve you, sweetheart. You say that one more fucking time and I swear I’ll throw you over my knee and spank that sweet ass of yours. Right before I fuck you. Now how about we get the hell out of here. Once we find Raúl, we can do what needs done and head back home.”

  He tipped her chin, then slanted his lips over hers, slipping his tongue into her warmth. She tangled her fingers in his hair, returning his kiss, showing him what her words had not yet expressed.

  When he stepped back, his gaze held hers. “Our home.”

  Chapter 17

  Raúl Trevino Caballero sat at the end of his ten and a half foot dining table. Ten ladder-back chairs flanked the long sides while two, gray cloth-covered chairs decked each end. The sun colored the horizon red, making for a stunning ocean view as he peered out the large picture window. He sat alone, drinking from a 1951 bottle of Dalmore Selene whisky. He loved the combined tastes of coffee, chocolate, marmalade, and cinnamon and only opened the bottle on special occasions.

  Today was once such occasion.

  The last he’d heard, his men had found Brea … his Brea. The bar owner traveling with her was a mere inconvenience. Just as the biker she considered herself married to had been. He had been easy pickings. Raúl’s marksman had aimed for the T-box on his face and planted the bullet right between the fucker�
��s eyes. The man dropped like a rag doll, not standing a chance.

  Pulling a Cuban cigar from the wooden box before him, he ran the stogie beneath his nose. It smelled much like the rain-soaked earth—rich soil. Raúl picked up his personalized cigar cutter, a present from Fidel Castro, as were the cigars, and cut off the tip. The two had been introduced about a decade ago and had been friends ever since. Picking up his butane lighter, he toasted the end of the cigar until it began to smolder. Raúl placed the large stogie between his lips and took short puffs until the cigar tip glowed red.

  Smoke rings left his lips, floating toward the ceiling, while he envisioned the moment Brea Gotti stepped over his threshold. If she refused to stay as his guest, Raúl wasn’t above keeping her prisoner. Eventually, she would come to realize, due to family obligations, that she belonged with him. Raúl was not a man to be denied. He had allowed her insubordination for far too long. Her lithe body would be a welcomed addition to his king-size bed.

  His dick hardened at the thought.

  Christ! She looked as if she had a tight little pussy.

  Raúl would take great pleasure in breaking her in. He’d gladly take and possess every hole of hers and wipe away the memory of the dirtbag she lived with, not to mention the bar owner if she had made the mistake of fucking him as well.

  No matter. He looked across the darkening horizon. By now, the Blood ‘n’ Rave would be orphaned and looking for new ownership. A smile crossed his lips. Raúl was used to getting his way.

  Correction. He always got his way.

  It was time Brea Gotti realized that. After all, knowing the big heart his godchild had, she wouldn’t want to be responsible for any more young men’s deaths. Didn’t she realize he could give her the world? He took great pleasure in knowing he was among some of the richest men in the world. He could and would buy his wife anything she asked for, anything her heart desired.

  A quick glance at the clock had him wondering what was taking his men so long. By now they should’ve checked in, apprised him of the situation. The last time he had talked to Jon, they were only a few hundred yards from the old cabin. Jon had personally sneaked up on the shack and spotted Brea and the bar owner in residence. He had retreated to call Raúl and to retrieve his orders. They were simple. Kill the bar owner, and take Brea unharmed, but by any means necessary. To come home without her meant they signed their own death certificates. Raúl wasn’t a forgiving man. He was a man of action.

  His gaze dropped to the burner phone lying beside the cigar box. He hated the weakness sluicing through his veins, for surely with uncertainty came shortcomings. Raúl needed to get Brea beneath his rule. He couldn’t allow the lapse in his control a moment longer. Picking up the cell, he punched the number to Jon’s phone. Several rings later, the call went to voice mail.

  “Son of a bitch.” Raúl tossed the phone to the table, the clunk echoing about the vast empty room. He was quickly losing his patience.

  Louis, his close second in command walked into the room, obviously hearing the racket and coming to check on him out of concern. One of his dark, bushy brows rose. “You okay?”

  “Have you heard from Jon?”

  The man ran a hand through his loose curls, pushing the black hair from his face. At six-foot-six, two-hundred-sixty pounds of muscle, very few men were brave enough to piss with him. That’s why Raúl liked having him at his side. That and there weren’t many who were as loyal.

  “Not a word. You worried?”

  “Last I heard they had found her. What the fuck is taking them so long? I swear if they come back empty-handed, I’ll personally cut their hearts out. How fucking hard is it to take a five-foot-two, one-hundred-pound little slip of a girl?”

  Louis remained silent. Not that Raúl expected an answer from him. “How many men are here?”

  “Three.” Louis rested his hand on the M16 draped over his shoulder. “We left the rest back in La Paz. Since we hadn’t heard from Jon and his men, I sent three more to check on them.”

  Raúl chuckled. “For a fucking bar owner? How hard can it be to kill the son of a bitch? I swear I’ll cut their balls off if they’re fucking around.”

  “That leaves the three here for your protection, including me.”

  It was Raúl’s turn to raise a brow “You think that was wise?”

  “It’s been a quiet night. I think we’re good.”

  “You stay here in the dining room with me.” He reached into his cigar box and tossed Louis one. “Share a drink with me.”

  Raúl grabbed a clean glass from the buffet behind him and slid it down the table. Louis grabbed his cell from his holster on his side, punched his finger onto the gorilla glass a few times, then placed it to his ear. A few moments later, he set his cell on the table, took a seat a few down from Raúl, and helped himself to the whisky.

  “They took the Hummer. They should be to the cabin in less than a half hour.”

  “Good.”

  “You all right?”

  Raúl narrowed his gaze. “Why the fuck do you ask?”

  “Because normally nothing fazes you.” He took a sip of the whisky, then smiled in appreciation. “That’s smooth.”

  “At twelve-thousand a bottle, it best be.”

  “So what has you bugged?”

  Raúl took a pull from his cigar and blew smoke rings again, watching as they dissipated. “Normally, I’d say you’re correct. But something about this doesn’t sit right with me. Jon should’ve checked in long ago.”

  “We’ll find them. Maybe they just dropped their cell.”

  He supposed that was a simple enough explanation. Brea could be a real hellcat. He had seen it in her as a child. “They get back here, they best hope that’s what the fuck happened. Failure is not an option.”

  “I think you’re letting her get the best of you, boss.”

  Raúl’s gaze heated. How dare Louis question him? “You watch your mouth, boy.”

  He held up one of his hands in front of him. “No disrespect meant. I only meant that your men have your best interests at heart. I’m betting they will be walking through that door with her in tow in no time.”

  “You better be right.” He reached down and adjusted the crotch to his fitted dress pants. “I plan to be fucking her by midnight.”

  Louis smiled as he took a puff from his own Cuban. “You’ll probably be fucking like rabbits all night.”

  “You can count on that.” Raúl laughed robustly. “It will be your job to keep the men from my wing of the house. I’m going to take my time fucking that pussy.”

  “Excuse me.” Antonio stepped around the corner. “You have company, Raúl.”

  “Who the fuck—”

  “Well hello to you too, Raúl.”

  Spike, the new president of the Devils MC, strode into the room as if he owned the place, followed by a few choice words from Raúl. He was the last fucking person he had expected to see.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure, Spike?” Raúl grumbled.

  “I need a huge fucking favor.”

  Raúl puffed on his Cuban, eyeing the scrawny biker. He was a scrappy little fucker with a set of huge cajones. “Exactly why would I want to grant you one?”

  “You hated Tank. I took care of that for you.”

  “How so? My sources told me that big biker from the Sons of Sangue took him out. I believe his name was Rogue.”

  “Had it not been me convincing the DEA that I was Tank, he’d still be alive and in jail, singing like a canary. Me? I’m all about working with you.” The biker tossed a duffle to the table. “Money Tank skimmed from your profits. You’re welcome.”

  Raúl nodded to Louis, who grabbed the bag and unzipped it. A grin split his face at the large stacks of US dollars filling the bag, earning Spike his favor.

  “So why are you standing here and not behind bars?”

  “Because the feds didn’t have shit on me. All their evidence pointed to Tank and he’s ash. When they realized they had the
wrong guy, I walked.”

  Raúl indicated the man should sit. Once he followed the directive, Raúl said, “It appears I might be in a giving mood. What is it you need?”

  He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms behind his grimy blond head. “You hate the Sons of Sangue.”

  “I do.”

  “They have something that belongs to me. I want it back.”

  “You have an MC of your own. Why not take the Devils and go get it?”

  “I lost quite a few men to the DEA, not to mention the ones Rogue took out. And since I’m a few men short, I thought you might lend me a hand.”

  His gaze traveled to the bag of money. There had to be at least a half a million in there. Spike could have run off with it. Instead, he chose to bring it back. Whatever the Sons of Sangue had, must be worth a lot to Spike to return that kind of cash.

  “You have my word that we’ll help you get back what it is they have of yours.” Raúl paused, carefully eyeing Spike. “You fuck with me, and I’ll see you as dead as Tank.”

  The burner phone on the table rang, taking his attention from the biker. Raúl snatched it up. “Talk to me.”

  His man on the other end cleared his throat. “Sorry, boss. You have three dead men out here. Looks like their fucking throats were ripped clean off. The girl and the bar owner are nowhere to be found.”

  Raúl didn’t wait to hear any more. He whipped the phone against the plastered wall, where it shattered into tiny pieces. Standing, the chair he had been sitting on tipped and fell to the floor with a thud.

  He quickly dismissed the biker and addressed Louis. “Get him a room upstairs, make sure he stays put, and lock this fucking place down. No one gets in and no one leaves. Got it?”

  Louis gripped Spike by the biceps, pulling him from the chair. “You can’t fucking keep me here like a prisoner.” Spittle flew from his mouth.

  Raúl narrowed his gaze. “I can do as I please. Get the fuck out of my sight. We’ll talk again later. You want to live, then do the fuck as I say.”

 

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