Beyond Possession (Beyond #5.5)

by Kit Rocha

  Dallas squinted at the tablet with the sort of mistrust a man usually reserved for a potential enemy. "Counting stock at the end of the night's worked fine for a decade."

  Noelle smiled as she set the tablet into a stand behind the bar. "You were the one who wanted to work smarter instead of harder. Besides, the data syncs with Ford and Mia's new system. They can analyze trends and adjust trading priorities."

  "All right," Dallas growled. "You win, kitten. Tech all around."

  Zan couldn't help but grin. "You giving up the good fight, Dallas?"

  "Adapt or die, right?" He shook his head and leaned against the bar. "It was bad enough when it was just Noelle making big eyes at me—"

  Noelle, who had been as docile as the kitten Dallas had nicknamed her for only a few months ago, made a rude gesture.

  "—but now I've got Mia tearing through this place, wringing her hands at how inefficient we are. Sometimes I miss the days where all I had to worry about was keeping the stills and my skin in one piece."

  Zan would have recognized the words for a lie even in the early days. Dallas had never wanted anything more than he wanted to protect his people, and financial security offered the best opportunity for that. If streamlining their liquor business would help, Dallas would install a fucking computer in his own damn head.

  But their leader had a cranky, forbidding image to maintain, so Zan fought to keep his expression neutral. "Just think about the money."

  "Damn straight." Dallas grinned at Zan. "And maybe I'll think about watching Jasper spank this little brat's backside once for every time she's rude to me."

  Noelle made a much, much ruder gesture.

  Zan covered his face. "Hey, now. My virgin eyes."

  "Sorry." Noelle almost managed to sound contrite. "I have to go talk to Mia. I'll be extra rude to you later, Dallas."

  "I'm sure you will," he drawled, giving in to a chuckle as the back door slammed behind her. "I can't decide if Lex is a wonderful or terrible influence on that girl."

  "Can't be both?" Zan pulled out a stool and sank onto it. "I heard there was trouble at the merchants' meeting."

  Dallas's humor faded. "Yeah. That punk who took over Walt's shop has been waving his dick around, trying to get it twisted off."

  "How much of a pain in the ass is he gonna be?"

  "Christ only knows. Probably a bigger one now that he's managed to talk one of Stone's girls into fucking him."

  Matthew Stone had ruled Sector Four before Dallas ousted him, and having one of the man's daughters by Wallace's side would mean respectability among some of the old-timers. Not everyone was happy with the law and order the O'Kane reign had brought to the sector, but no one had dared to speak against him—yet. If Wallace could rally enough support around him...

  He wouldn't just speak out, he'd fight. He'd lose, no question about that, but crushing the rebellion could do Dallas more harm than the rebellion itself. It could make him look like a tyrant.

  "It's a bad situation," Zan mused.

  "It sure could be." Dallas tapped his finger on the bar. "Seems like Tatiana could shut it down. You've always kept a pretty close eye on her. You got any pull there?"

  She smiled when he came through her door. Laughed at even his worst jokes. Listened to his stories, and watched him hungrily when she thought he wasn't paying attention.

  But he was always paying attention.

  "No." His answer came too forcefully, and he shook his head with a sigh. "You know how it is. Too much attention can seem like a demand, so I keep my distance."

  "You may not be able to forever." Dallas's brow furrowed. "Not that I'm saying you should make like Wallace and hit that. But if this shit escalates, she'll have to pick a side. I really hope it's ours."

  All Tatiana wanted was to run her shop. "Then we need to stop it from escalating."

  "Can we?" Dallas grimaced and waved his hand. "Scratch that. The real question is, can you? I know your shoulder's still giving you grief, but we're spread awful fucking thin, man. Crazy shit is brewing, and I feel like I'm juggling knives."

  "I can talk to Tatiana," Zan offered. "Chances are good she doesn't like having her sister involved with Wallace, either."

  "Who the fuck would?" Dallas slapped the bar and straightened. "In a perfect world, I'd give you another week off your feet to mend up. But we need you."

  "I've got this." He was an O'Kane. It was his responsibility to take care of things, to handle whatever needed to be done—even if it involved Tatiana. "I won't let you down again."

  "Zan." His leader's expression was serious as he reached out to grip his arm. "You never have."

  He had to say it, because Dallas O'Kane wasn't the sort of man to kick you when you were down. Zan nodded again and slid off the stool. "I'll head over early so I can be back before nightfall."

  "Good. And, Zan? Watch your back."

  Chapter Two

  Even in broad daylight, Tatiana responded to a knock at her back door by reaching for a gun.

  It was a long-standing habit, one that had saved her life more than once, and it was such instinct that her fingers were already closing around the grip when she looked up from her lunch and saw Zan's unmistakable bulk through the narrow polycarbonate window beside the door.

  One of the half-dozen knots twisting concern and anxiety through her slowly unraveled. She let out a breath, eased her hand from the pistol, and rose to let him in. "Zan. It's nice to see you."

  "Tatiana." He glanced past her, scanning her tiny office from corner to corner. "Is this a good time?"

  "Of course." She pulled the door wide and stepped back. Her office felt smaller as he crossed the threshold. He was massive, with broad shoulders that barely seemed to fit through the narrow doorway and a height so impressive he ducked instinctively.

  He shoved both hands in his pockets. "Everything going okay?"

  "Jas told you." She made a face and rested her hip against the desk. "It wasn't so bad, Zan. I promise."

  "So you always have a gun at hand when you're answering the door?"

  There was no way he could have seen the gun through the window—but he'd known. Somehow he'd known, and she couldn't suppress a shiver. "I'm a woman living alone in the sectors. I'd keep a gun at hand all the damn time even if my father hadn't killed at least one friend or relative of everyone within fifteen miles."

  "Smart." Zan studied her face. "You know you can talk to me if you need to."

  No she couldn't. Not really. The delicate balance of her life—of her very survival—depended on careful, simple neutrality. She could be a citizen of Sector Four, could protect her sister and run her business and cherish her independence...but only if she kept everyone at a safe distance. Especially O'Kanes.

  But she couldn't piss them off, either. And, in truth, she didn't want to piss off Zan. So she smiled. "I talk to you all the time. You tell me stories about the world before the Flares, and I don't comment on how they all sound too ridiculous to be true."

  The tense set of his shoulders relaxed a bit. "You want to, though. Don't think you've got me fooled."

  "Who, me?" This was safer. Light and teasing, the only sort of interaction she could afford. "I'd never doubt you. I'm sure there were secret bases and soldiers with psychic powers."

  "I haven't even told you the craziest stories yet."

  "Now that I don't believe." She waved a hand toward the second chair tucked up close to her desk, a spindly little thing that looked fragile and frail with Zan towering over it. "Do you want to sit? I could come up with some coffee, if you want. And split my dessert."

  He shook his head. "You're working."

  Something small and sharp lodged in her chest. It took her a moment to recognize it as disappointment, and another to crush it into dust. She didn't have time to listen to his stories over lunch and linger over dessert, and the longing to do just that came from the most unprotected place inside her. The place that had her sneaking covert looks at his shoulders and his chest
and his square, bearded jaw and even his massive hands.

  She was lonely.

  She dragged her gaze away from his tattooed forearm and blushed when she realized he'd caught her staring. "I was eating," she replied, waving at the lunch next to her stack of paperwork. "But if you need something..."

  "Jas said you asked about me. How I was doing." He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "I'm better. I'm good."

  Oh, hell. That was far more embarrassing than being caught staring. Lust was an unavoidable physical response when confronted with a man like Zan. Worry was something else, a vulnerability that left her feeling exposed.

  It was instinct to deflect, to move to hide her weak spot with a laugh. "I'm glad. I miss having you around. Who else is going to pester me about moving all the heavy boxes on my own?"

  "Not me. Not right now, anyway." He laid a hand on his other shoulder and winced. "You might ask me to move them."

  She lifted her hand before she could stop herself, and she covered by crossing her arms over her chest. Zan was an O'Kane, and O'Kanes had doctors. The urge to push him down into a chair and strip off his shirt so she could examine the wound was nothing but her thwarted protective instincts struggling for an outlet now that Catalina had flounced from her life.

  The idea of her protecting an O'Kane from anything was laughable.

  Even though she'd checked the gesture, she couldn't seem to hold her tongue. "You're healing up all right?"

  "Doc says no worries. Just takes time, that's all."

  "Do you need anything to help? I have—" She bit her lower lip against the offer and shook her head. "No, I'm sure whatever the doctor can give you works better than homemade salves and massage oil."

  The corner of his mouth tilted up in a smile. "Believe it or not, Doc hasn't offered to massage me. Not once."

  He was teasing her. Worse, it was working. Blatant come-ons were easily brushed aside, but this—this was dangerous. Tatiana knew her way around a good, satisfying fuck, but she liked her men agreeable and easily controlled. Men her own age, who were so horny they'd do whatever she said for the chance to get inside her, and go away when it was over, relieved she didn't want to cuddle.

  Something told her Zan wouldn't be manageable.

  "Stay here," she ordered, jabbing her finger in his direction. She didn't give him a chance to reply before pivoting to push through the swinging door that separated her office from the main storefront. She half-expected to hear his footsteps behind her before she reached the shelf of salves, but when she'd gathered up what she wanted and turned, she was still alone.

  Which didn't prove he was manageable. Just that he knew how to bide his time.

  She retrieved a recycled paper sack from behind the counter and returned to the office. "For sore muscles," she said, holding up the silver tin before slipping it into the bag. Then she lifted the bottle of massage oil and forbade herself from imagining what lay under his clothes.

  Of course it didn't work. She'd seen him shirtless once or twice—fight night made that an inevitability—and she could conjure the memory without trying. He was big, broad, and strong. Not just hard, but solid, like a tree with roots that went deep. He had tattoos, lots of them, some in vivid colors and some in elegant black and gray, all etched into skin almost the same light brown as her own.

  She'd inherited her coloring from her mother, whose great-grandparents had come from Mexico. Her mother had traced her family history back generations for her once, teaching Tatiana about the wars men had fought in the world before the Flares. About countries and constitutions, about politics and betrayal. All the things a good princess should understand.

  Maybe that was why she loved Zan's wild stories about the world that had died when the lights went out. It was a secret, shared language. Something that made her feel less alone in a world where no one else remembered what Mexico was.

  He met her stare full-on, unblinking. Then he began to unbutton his shirt.

  Oh, Christ.

  She'd meant to shove the massage oil into the bag, too, but this was what staring got you. It got you into trouble your pride wouldn't let you back out of, because Zan had revealed his chest, and her fingers itched to touch him. So much that she cleared her throat and pointed to the chair. "Sit."

  One of his eyebrows quirked up, the one bisected by a scar over his brow bone, but he obeyed, sliding the fabric down off his shoulders as he moved.

  His chest was glorious. So was his back. But it was the scars that froze her breath in her lungs. There had been rumors, of course, the usual gossip that accompanied anything an O'Kane did. She'd heard the shooting had been bad...

  The scars on his chest were thin and white, proof that whatever had happened had required regeneration technology just to keep him alive. The ones on his shoulder were still red and angry, healing with the help of med-gel but undoubtedly still painful. And the rest of him...

  He had older scars everywhere, the kind you wouldn't see from far away but couldn't ignore up close. Her father's inner circle had looked like this, their bodies recounting the history of every sector war, every attempted coup.

  Security came at a price. Zan had been paying it with his body so others wouldn't have to, and she wasn't fooled by the fact that the latest scars were the only new ones. Dallas O'Kane hadn't stopped fighting. He'd just become successful enough to put his men's bodies back together cleanly and efficiently so they could go out and bleed some more.

  Zan was still watching her, so she hid her worry and anger behind a smile. "Don't go getting ideas. I'm just doing what your doctor should have."

  "No ideas," he rumbled as he sat. He was so tall that he loomed above the back of the chair, affording her easy access to the muscled lines of his shoulders.

  She set the bag aside and broke the wax seal on the glass bottle. The scents of vanilla and chili filled the air, growing stronger as she spilled the oil into her palm. "This will warm up on your skin, but if it burns or itches or anything else, let me know. Some people have sensitivities."

  "Hmph." He stretched and leaned his head forward. "I think I'll make it."

  He might, but her survival instincts were in serious question. She had an hour at most before people would expect the store to open back up. She usually spent that time choking down a hasty meal and rushing to pack her afternoon orders. If she wanted to fall into bed with enough time for a half-decent night's sleep, she needed to get ahead of the work.

  Instead, here she was, putting her slick palms on Zan's back and fighting a shiver of pure carnal appreciation. She was getting ideas now. Ideas about all the other ways these muscles could flex, and what he could be doing to her while they flexed.

  Lord, she had to find some safe little street punk to ride before she did something stupid—like convince herself she could fuck an O'Kane and walk away a free woman. There were always chains with the O'Kanes, even if they weren't the literal kind.

  Though those seemed to show up often enough, too.

  He sighed and rolled his head to one side, giving her more room to work her hands over his injured shoulder. "You were right. Hot."

  Hot was right. She was plenty flushed—and fervently grateful that her leather vest hid the damning evidence of her tight, aching nipples. She worked her way gently around the worst of the scarring, feeling for points of tension and reminding herself with every touch that it was wrong to take pleasure in the feel of him under her hands.

  She found a particularly stubborn knot and returned to it, bracing one hand on his good shoulder. "Tell me if this hurts too much."

  Zan sucked in a breath, but he didn't flinch. "No worse than punching Cruz in his steel-plated jaw."

  "Cruz? Is he the one who fought three men in the cage and won?"

  "Yeah. His jaw isn't really steel-plated, though. Probably."

  Zan's jaw was so close. Especially with the way his head was tilted, exposing his throat. She didn't really make the decision to touch him, it just...happened. She skated her knuckle
s over the underside of his chin, savoring the rough rasp of his beard. "Yours feels suspiciously tough. Remind me not to punch you there."

  "If you punch me at all, I have a feeling it'll mean I fucked up. Bad."

  "Probably." It was a terrible idea, but she trailed the backs of her fingers along the side of his neck on her way back to his shoulder. What would it be like, having all this strength at her disposal? Heady. Intoxicating. A girl could get reckless with a man like Zan around, every flexing muscle its own silent promise. You're safe. You're protected.

  But knowing history meant knowing how swiftly the balance of power could change. Hell, she was living proof of what happened to a woman surviving on borrowed safety when the man with the muscles fell.

  He was an enchanting temptation, but he wasn't for her. So she worked the last knot out of his shoulder and let her hands fall away. "I'll put the rest in the bag. I'm sure you can find someone willing to give you another rubdown tomorrow."

  He turned impossibly fast and caught her wrist. "Maybe you can do it."

  Tatiana tensed, but her body betrayed her. If any other man had grabbed her without warning, she'd already have her knife out of her boot. But Zan was under her skin, making her stupid. And—worse—making her want.

  "Oh, is that what you're after?" She kept her voice light. "Damn, Zan. You should have just said so, and I could have told you that you're not my type."

  His fingers tightened for a fraction of a second before relaxing. Even then, he didn't release her, just rubbed his thumb over the inside of her wrist.

  He didn't say a word, but it was there in his eyes, burning. Certain.

  Liar.

  Fair enough. She would have called bullshit on it, too. Her heart was racing, and it was too easy to imagine giving in. She'd heard that no one did rough and wild like an O'Kane. Zan could have her bent over her desk and coming on his fingers in five minutes—if you listened to rumors. Or maybe he wouldn't even fuck around. Maybe he'd find out how wet she was and just go for it, driving his cock so deep she'd feel it for days.

  "Complicated." She covered his fingers with her own, tugging lightly in an attempt to free her wrist. "That's what you are, sugar, I don't care how much you crank my engine. And complicated isn't my type."