by Jo Raven
Like they did to you.
He winces and buries his face in my neck. “Yeah. I want to know, even if you think it’s stupid and unimportant. It’s important to me.”
My throat closes at his admission. I reach up and stroke the side of his head. He’s shaved it again, and there’s a small white scar there I never noticed before. So much I want to ask him. I want to know everything about him.
“Collin and I dated for a year. He played in a punk rock band, and I auditioned. That’s how we met. I was fourteen. He was seventeen. I loved his tattoos.”
“Mine are better,” Zane says, muffled in my neck.
I laugh. “Yeah, they are.”
I feel him smile on my skin. “Go on.”
“It was a weird relationship. I wasn’t picked for the band, but we still mostly met during their rehearsals, concerts and parties. He never kissed me. We…” I stare up at the ceiling. “We had sex a couple of times. In the bars where they played, in the bathrooms. He had me stand and took me from behind.”
Zane stiffens and lifts his head. “Hot damn. If I’d known… Did he hurt you?”
I shake my head. Not really. Nor had it been pleasant. “I thought it was normal. He was a musician. A bad boy. He was older. He was busy and didn’t have much time for me. He was my first boyfriend.”
Zane’s hand inches up from my stomach and rests between my breasts. “What did the fucker do apart from throwing you into a pool?”
I swallow hard. “I found out he cheated on me. Well, as he put it, we never did say we were dating, so technically he wasn’t cheating on me. Just fucking. He fucked every female in the vicinity, including me.”
Zane’s eyes narrow, darkening to charcoal black. His jaw clenches so tight his teeth grit together. “Motherfucker.”
“I was so upset. I thought I loved him.” I frown. “I think I was in love with the idea of being in love. With the idea of him falling for me. Anyway, I was disappointed and confronted him during the party after one of their concerts. We had an argument. He was drunk. He pushed me into the pool and…”
I inhale and force the words out. “The pool was very shallow. I hit my head and back on the bottom. I don’t remember the details. I think I remember floating underwater, unable to move, panicking. But it may be dreams I remember. Doctors said I lost consciousness the moment my head cracked on the tiles of the pool bottom.”
“Christ, Dakota.” Zane’s breathing picks up, and his hand slides up to my throat, to my jaw, cupping it. “Were you okay?”
Tears burn behind my brow. After all this time, just retelling the story makes me want to cry. “No, I wasn’t. I had swelling in my brain, and I hurt two vertebrae in my back. My right arm was broken in three places. They operated and took out the disc shards, drained fluid from my head, repaired my arm. But they couldn’t wake me from the coma.”
“Coma.” Zane’s voice is strangled. The color drains from his face. “You went into a coma?”
I take strength from his hand on my jaw, its warmth and its solid weight. “For five weeks. I had a feeding tube stuck into my stomach. Here.” I reach down, touch the spot over the cloth, where I know a small scar remains.
“Five weeks. Holy shit.” He worries the barbell in his tongue, sucking on it. “And then you woke up, like me.”
“Not like you.” This is the hardest part. “When I finally woke up, I was told I was paralyzed. Two of my vertebrae were damaged. I couldn’t feel much from the waist down, but I felt my toes, and I insisted I’d be able to walk again. They didn’t believe me. But I proved them wrong. I threw myself into physiotherapy and exercise. Worked my body to exhaustion every day, so that I slept fourteen hours every night. It took me a year to walk again properly.” I chew on my lip. “My left side is still weaker. But I can walk, and dance, and run. I’m a survivor. Told you.”
I wait for Zane to say something. But he’s silent, his eyes hooded. Maybe he’s processing what I said. Besides, I’ve gone through the story as fast as humanly possible, not wanting to linger on what was one of the worst times of my life.
His hand on my jaw shifts, sliding down my neck, over my arm, to my side. At the same time, his other hand is slipping under my back, gathering me to his chest. Before I know it, I’m rolled on my side and enfolded in Zane’s embrace, my head tucked under his chin, my chest resting against his heart.
It’s racing a hundred miles an hour, and his arms tighten around me until I can’t breathe.
“Zane…” I choke. “Zane.”
His hold relaxes marginally. His body is so tense it’s trembling. Muscles shift on his chest as he twists until he lies on his back. He pulls me up, so that I’m sprawled half across him.
“Better?” he asks, and I nod. I lie still, listening to his heart thump, noting when it starts to slow.
“I’m okay now,” I say, because I have a hunch he needs to hear it. “It’s been three years since the accident. I’m fine.”
“Did he call the ambulance? Did he take you to the ER?”
“Collin? No. He left the party.”
His hold tightens again briefly. “I’ll kill that motherfucker.”
My chest clenches painfully. “He’s already dead.”
Zane’s heartbeat picks up again, drumming under my ear. “How did that happen?”
“He crashed with his bike while I was lying in a coma. He was…” I close my eyes. “He was thrown off and broke his neck on landing. Died on the spot.”
Silence stretches, marked by the beating of Zane’s heart and my own painful breaths.
“I’m not sorry,” he finally whispers. “He deserved worse.”
Maybe. What it means is that I can’t hate him. Not for being a coward. Not for freaking out and running when I was brought out of the water, unconscious. I don’t hate him, but I can live with his death.
“I won’t let you fall again,” Zane says quietly, his voice rumbling in his chest.
He’ll fight the monsters. He’ll wrap his magical dragons around me to keep me safe. “I know you won’t.”
“I’ll give you wings.” He strokes my back, along the bumps of my spine, and I wonder if he feels the surgical scar under the colors of my tattoo from fixing my broken discs. “I’ll help you fly.”
“And you’ll fly with me,” I whisper, warm and content and comfortable on his chest.
“Maybe.” There’s an odd note in his voice, a catch. Somehow I don’t think he’s talking about flying anymore. I look up into his beautiful eyes, and I see the ghost of a doubt.
“No,” I say and reach up to touch his face. “No maybes. I’m with you. This is for sure.”
And that’s a promise I’ll work on making him believe every day of my life.
Epilogue
Dakota
A month later
Rafe accompanies the last notes of the song with a wicked drumroll, and even that is soon drowned in the applause of the small crowd gathered in Halo. The bar is dimly lit as always, but that doesn’t deter me from scanning the sea of faces for my friends as I let go of the mike and struggle to catch my breath.
Audrey’s red curls and Tessa’s platinum tresses catch the light. Then I see Dylan, standing like a pillar behind her, and Ash, then Tyler with his arms around Erin.
Zane isn’t with them. I don’t expect him to. I wave, and bow, and then turn around to get my stuff from the back.
A dark silhouette leans against the wall, arms folded over his broad chest, the crest of his hair casting a shadow over his face. He’s at his usual place, and I smile. He has my back. He’s always there to catch me.
And then his lips turn up in a wicked grin. He pushes off the wall and lets his gaze rake my body from head to toe. Shivers wrack me when he grabs my hand and tugs me through a door into…
“What’s this place?” It’s a small room with a couch and armchairs. Cozy.
“Private room. Kenneth said I could use it.”
“You know the bar owner?”
“Who do you think inked him?” Zane winks and closes the door, latching it. Then he turns toward me.
Holy crap… He’s dressed in low-slung gray jeans and a black T-shirt that molds to the hard planes of his chest, leaving his tattooed arms bare. He looks… delicious. And dangerous. In a good way.
His eyes burn through me. He stalks toward me, and I take a step back, my heart hammering. My back bumps into the wall, and I gasp.
“Where do you think you’re going?” He’s still walking toward me, and the swagger in his step… Holy shit.
My whole body is tight with want. My breasts tingle, and I’m wet just from watching him move.
He leans over me, bracing one hand on the wall beside me. “Hey, babe.”
I swallow thickly. “Hey.”
He touches my chin, then trails his hand down my neck, grips my waist and pulls me against him. Another gasp escapes me at the feel of his hard cock pressing into me.
I push my hands under his T-shirt, skimming his firm abs. My mouth waters at the thought of getting him naked here, in this borrowed room, touching him everywhere, tasting him…
His gaze smolders. “What am I gonna do with you?” he breathes.
“Anything,” I whisper back.
“I have a few rules,” he says as he lowers his face, and his lips brush over mine.
“You do?”
“Yeah. I don’t take girls home. I don’t kiss them. I don’t look into their eyes when I fuck them.”
I shudder.
“But you…” He nips at my mouth, making me moan with need, and grins. “I don’t know. For you I could make an exception.”
I laugh and throw my arms around his neck to kiss him properly. There’s that tiny flinch like every time I touch his scars, but he’s working on it, and he relaxes again.
I open my mouth to ask if he’s okay, and his tongue thrusts into my mouth. It strokes and licks at me, until I have to close my eyes and surrender to his kiss.
When I finally resurface for air some time later, he’s breathless like me, his cheekbones flushed, and his hard-on hot where it’s trapped between us.
“I want you,” I gasp. “I want you right here.”
“Naughty,” he pants, grinning again. It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful. And oh so sexy. “I wanna do it my way.”
I smile. “You just get off looking at my new tattoo, don’t you?”
“Hell yeah.” He grabs the hem of my blouse and pulls it up, over my head, and I lift my arms to aid him. His eyes darken when my bra is revealed, a black triangle bikini top. He growls softly and puts his hands over my breasts, then nips at my mouth again as his thumbs flick over my stiffening nipples over the soft cloth.
A second later he’s undoing my pants and pushing them down my legs, along with my black panties. I toe off my sandals, and I’m left only in my bra, squirming under his hot scrutiny.
“So pretty,” he breathes and pulls me to him, his hands smoothing down my sides, down the back to grip my ass. “Smoking hot.”
I don’t fight it when he turns me around in his arms to face the wall. I splay my hands on its surface willingly, bending over slightly. I glance at him over my shoulder. “Like this?”
“Yeah. Oh fuck…” His hands stroke my upper back where his tattoo now spreads, having my deathmoth as a centerpiece. “My girl.”
“Yours,” I whisper and shudder when his hands travel down my back to my ass and then lower, spreading me. “God, Zane…”
“Just Zane is fine,” he says, predictably, and then buries his fingers in me, making my back bow and drawing moans from my throat. “So wet. Oh Christ…You’re ready for me.”
I am, more than ready. I’ve been waiting for his touch all day. “Please, Zane.”
I hear his zipper, and then he’s nudging my entrance, slowly slipping into me. He grips my hips as he slides in deeper, and I shake with the pleasure of it. Nothing compares to Zane’s cock inside me, the feel of him.
His voice, hoarse with arousal, saying my name.
The pleasure spreads like liquid fire, licking my spine, rising up to my breasts, and I come with a cry, rocking on his hard-on. His hand slams on the wall by my head, his colorful tats swirling in my hazy vision.
I’m vaguely aware that he’s drawing out of me, still fully hard. His hands turn me around and tug me in, so that I’m flush against him, pressed to the front of his body.
“I’ve seen enough of your tattoo,” he growls. “Now I want to see your face. Your way.” He kisses me, long and deep. “I love all your ways.”
He pulls me to the sofa and sits, dragging me onto his lap. When he enters me again, it’s even more intense than before, his cock stroking me deep. He unties my bikini top and throws it off me, then bends to suck on my breasts. I’m already clenching again around him, squeezing him so hard he gasps. He licks my nipples, and I clench again, moving, riding his cock.
“Oh fuck.” His head falls back. He leans into the cushions, his hips thrusting upward. His face is flushed, his eyes closed, dark lashes shadowing his cheekbones, his beautiful lips parted. Breathtaking.
My orgasm takes me by surprise, slamming into me, forcing a keening moan from my lips. My eyes are closing, but I manage to keep them open, to see him as he comes.
His head falls back all the way, his neck arching, and he pulses inside me. “Dakota,” he whispers, and I’m lost, riding on the wave of pleasure that shakes my body. I crash on his chest, and we hold on to each other as the final tremors fade.
“I love you,” he says. “God, I…”
His eyes widen, and I look over my shoulder to see what he’s seeing.
There’s a full-length mirror on the wall behind me, and in it I see the tattoo Zane inked on my back, in its full glory.
Two dark wings, folding so they brush the small of my back, each feather perfectly drawn and inked into my skin. Between my shoulder blades is a charm, a spider web, and the deathmoth is caught in it. A fear-catcher, Zane called it when he first showed me the drawing.
I’ll give you wings, so you can fly.
And he did. As I twist to see better, the wings seem to shiver and move, ready to unfold. They’re magnificent. And of course, below the spider web…
“You had to sign it, didn’t you?” His name is there in big letters between the wings, artfully woven in the design. I turn back to Zane and give him a mock glare.
“Of course. The world needs to know you’re mine.”
I smack his arm, but I have to laugh. “I love you, Zane Madden.”
He smiles warmly, then glances again at the tattoo and looks smug. It’s so funny. Smug and aroused, which isn’t funny at all.
No, not funny, I think as his cock swells again inside me, and he groans, shifting underneath me.
So I grab his face and kiss his mouth to stop from smiling, even as my heart soars.
-=Do you want to read MORE Inked Brotherhood? You can find the rest of the series here: Inked Brotherhood=-
Micah
Damage Control 1
There’s me: Micah Owens. Tattoo artist at Damage Control. No parents or siblings. A past that still gives me nightmares.
And then there’s her: Evangeline, the girl who saved my life and haunts my more pleasant dreams. Only she doesn’t know who I really am, and telling her might well send her fleeing for the hills. She deserves better than a loser like me. She’s pretty. She’s clever. She’s goddamn sexy and has a heart of gold.
Which is why I can’t tell her. A smile from her and I’ll do all I can to make her mine – including pretending to be someone I’m not, someone worth having.
Isn’t love weird?
Chapter One
Micah
A flash of red and black catches my eye. A slim silhouette darts out of the donut shop right across the street, limping slightly, and I turn for a better look. She’s here. I pause, the tattoo gun buzzing in my hand, and curse inwardly. She’s late. Later than usual, that is, and my break is over, so I can’t wat
ch her like I’ve been doing for the past week.
And now I sound like a stalker… Shit.
“Are we done?” my sullen customer demands to know. He’s young—doesn’t look older than twenty—but his expensive clothes and haircut scream money, something that places him galaxies apart from me.
“Not yet.”
“Well, hurry up, will you? And keep your eyes on that damn thing you’re waving about. I don’t want you making any mistakes.”
I clench my jaw, grip the tattoo gun more tightly and force myself not to reply. I continue inking a bleeding heart on the guy’s flabby back. I’ve never once made a mistake. Inking people is my life’s passion, and I was taught by one of the best.
Zane Madden.
Focusing on work shouldn’t be an issue. My job, the tattoo shop, this is everything to me. Literally. It’s all I have and I know I’m goddamn lucky to have it. It’s all I need.
Or at least it was, until she started showing up every afternoon. The first time I saw her as I stretched my legs outside Damage Control, the tattoo shop where I work, I just about fell over. I think it’s her. Ev. I haven’t seen her in more than half a year, but I’d never forget her face. No way in hell.
I think. Though Ev’s hair had seemed darker... Is it her? I just wish I could see her from up close to make sure.
Frowning, I concentrate on putting the finishing touches on the bleeding heart and thorns that pierce it. It’s a simple design, easy to ink. As I add the colors and details, I lose myself in a trance, one I usually enter when I’m one hundred percent immersed in my craft, in the art of creating something beautiful.
It’s some time later when Zane passes by my booth and nods in greeting I realize the light outside has faded. I step back and take in the finished tattoo. Crimson and black intertwine, blood and pain.
“Good work, Micah,” Zane says, giving the tattoo an appraising look. He’s still here, his tall Mohawk a startling blue.