by Lana Grayson
Glass.
They meant to destroy the entirety of the warehouse. My ears still rang from the gunfire. My body bled from the pulverized light bulbs. My lungs hardened with ash, soot, and chemicals.
I should have died.
The only reason I escaped, the only reason I lived, was because Exorcist wanted it.
I had no doubt once I did the jobs they asked they’d probably kill me. Then they’d kill my brothers and Thorne.
I gripped the handles on the bike and accelerated to the highway. We raced down the strip that would deliver us across the bridge, to where we’d be safe.
Safety didn’t exist within Anathema, only the peace-of-mind of knowing when an enemy wouldn’t interfere in club business. No one talked about how they achieved that peace, but everyone knew how to get it.
I stared ahead at the road. My dress—buttercup yellow, stained with blood and fuel, scorched and ripping in the battering wind of the open highway—didn’t belong in the formation. The demon on their backs trapped me within the hellish underworld.
But it also protected me.
I stared at the scarred monster patched on Thorne’s cut. The horned demon represented fear and distrust and every horrible promise lingering in nightmares. But this time, in that moment, racing to a childhood home-away-from-home and seeking the security of men hardened by prison time, violence, and a blood brotherhood, I was never more thankful for Anathema.
It’d be the only force possible to save us from what was to come.
Thorne relaxed our speed after the bridge. We crossed off the main roads and kept to the lesser traveled paths as the sirens wailed across the river and helicopters circled overhead. The prospects waited for us at Pixie’s gates, and Thorne drove us into the secured compound.
I parked the stolen bike and ripped the wires from the ignition. It choked and died. I kicked it over to ensure it stayed dead. Thorne took his helmet without a word. Brew shouted enough for both of us.
The bar’s door opened. My vision burst into blinding haloes. I shrieked as a pair of arms grabbed me around the midsection, jostling everything bruised, potentially broken, and seeping blood.
“Keep!” The pain dissolved the air from my lungs. “P—Please.”
Thorne grabbed his shoulders and tossed my brother back. I crumbled to the ground. The pained gasp echoed, and I whined over the horrifically rough gale in my breath. The coughing cleared most of the smoke, but the crushing rawness of my throat would haunt my nightmares until I grabbed a piano and ensured my pitch hadn’t been completely destroyed.
I blinked through tears and flinched even as a pair of gentle hands rested on my arms. A whip of blonde hair coiled over Jocelyn’s shoulders, and she forced my chin up to examine the cut on my forehead.
“Are you okay?” She asked. “Jesus Christ. Were you riding Luke’s bike?”
I didn’t know whose bike I stole. I sighed. Ex forced Luke and his crew to split before dumping the diesel, breaking the lights, and smacking me around. I hated everyone in Ex’s Coup, but I regretted stealing Luke’s bike.
Keep dropped to his knees. “You look like shit.”
Lyn stared him down. “I could say the same about you an hour ago.”
“Get inside.” Thorne gritted his teeth and offered me his hand. Keep did the same.
I refused them both and groaned as I crawled to my feet.
“What the hell happened?” Lyn followed close. She swore as Brew pushed her from his path.
“Did they hurt you?” Brew asked.
I glanced to the mirror behind the bar but didn’t recognize the dirty, matted, bloody woman staring wide-eyed. Scotch emerged from the office and cursed his Hail Mary. He rushed to grab us drinks and pushed whiskey toward Thorne. I was offered a bottle of water. I would have preferred the alcohol if only to pour over my head. At least it might have cleared the reeking stench of fuel from my skin.
Lyn pulled a first-aid kit from behind the bar, but she tapped her nails against the hard plastic. “She needs to go to a hospital.”
Brew pushed her aside. “She’s fine. What the hell happened, Rose?”
Without the roar of the bikes and the rush of the wind, the quiet erupted in my head. I flinched as Brew stomped to face me.
“Someone jumped me after the show.” I swallowed over my aching throat. “He threatened me. I tried to get away.”
“I told you.” Brew pointed at Keep. “She needs to carry a gun.”
“I don’t want a gun.”
Brew ignored me. “What did Exorcist do?” His words weren’t questions. He demanded his answer. Thorne knocked back a shot of whiskey and waved a hand to calm him down. No dice. “Did he say anything? What did he want with you?”
I shook my head. A burst of glass glittered out of my curls. My eyes itched. That was probably bad. As were the cuts spanning my body and the bitterness of fuel in my mouth. The concussion. The agonizing breaths.
Now that I sat still, breathed, relaxed, the injuries ruptured through my body, undulled by my panic and fear.
Why didn’t Brew care?
“Rose.” He stared me down. “What happened?”
The truth poisoned me as much as the diesel. I shook my head. Exorcist played me for a rat. Someone who would betray the club.
Except I had to do it.
The meet-up. The exchange. The money and the drugs and the gun to my head that forced me to deal with the monsters who only ever trusted my father.
I had to stay quiet. Ex would try to kill them anyway. At least hiding my forced job would keep them alive until I figured out what the hell I could do to stop Ex from securing all the money and all the influence and all the goods he needed to run the city and destroy Anathema.
“Nothing,” I said. “They wanted to lure you to the warehouse. To try to kill you.”
Brew didn’t believe me. He frowned, just like Dad. The same temper, same frustrated mannerisms. His jaw twitched.
“I told you going to sing was a bad fucking idea.”
He stole the whiskey from Thorne and took a swig. The bottle slammed onto the counter. It shattered. Lyn groaned and jumped before the drink spilled over her corset. Thorne threw back the last drops of what remained in his tumbler.
“You had to fucking fight us.” Brew pitched a rag at the mess. “Every fucking thing we say. Take the money. Get the guitar. Stay in Pixie. Don’t sing. Every goddamned thing. Jesus Christ, I don’t know how Dad got you to fucking shut up and behave, but I wish he taught me how to make you obey your fucking family.”
I stiffened. I doubted my brother would have mimicked Dad’s preferred punishment.
Lyn and Thorne studied the scene, their gazes meeting for the briefest of moments. My cheeks flared.
I clenched my teeth. “Are you blaming me for this?”
Brew held his arms out. “You tell me. You think long and hard about what we told you to do, and what would have happened if you listened.”
“Like I had a choice. You voted on me, remember? You dragged me here.”
Keep rubbed the inside of his elbow. I ignored the spreading bruise from whatever vein he missed.
“For your own good, Bud,” Keep said. “We only want you to be safe.”
“You can’t keep me locked in a bar forever.”
I looked to Scotch and Gold for help. They ducked away. Lyn crossed her arms and smiled. At least one show of support.
Thorne stared only at my brothers. At Keep. His gun-metal eyes darkened like he already pulled a trigger. My stomach flipped. His silence frightened me more than Brew’s shouting.
“I’ll lock you wherever I want.” Brew didn’t just threaten. Not this time. “You’re my responsibility.”
“And you’re supposed to be my brother.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Act like it! Give me a hug. Tell me you’re glad I’m safe.”
“You would have been safe if you listened to me in the first place.”
I sucked in a brea
th if only to stave off the tears. It didn’t help. The air crowded my aching ribs, and I winced. It gave Brew more courage.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I said.
“You wandered off after the show.”
“To get paid.”
“I told you to wait for us.”
“How was I supposed to know Ex had guys waiting?” I asked.
Brew wasn’t used to me arguing with him.
First time for everything. This wouldn’t be the last.
“Did you even try to fight? Did you even think what would happen if Ex got a hold of you?” Brew ran out of ways to blame me. He pointed a finger toward my head. “I fucking told you never to hotwire a bike!”
Like it was fair to chastise me for things that happened five years in the past. I pointed back.
“You said not to hotwire your bike again.”
Lyn, Scotch, and Gold laughed. Brew tensed as I turned away from him.
“You listen to me when I’m talking to you.”
He grabbed my arm. The adrenaline surging through my body snapped the fragile hold on my sanity. I didn’t hesitate.
I slapped Brew across the cheek. Hard. Quick. With enough force to leave a vibrant red streak over his jaw.
Keep jumped between us, but I was smacked around enough in the past hours. I expected Brew to do it too. Just like Exorcist. Just like Dad. Just like every other testosterone-fueled, drug-addled, violent criminal who used me for their agenda or entertainment or disgusting purposes.
“Bud.” Keep’s eyes dilated. He blinked hard, but the veil of whatever pleasure he pricked at the end of a needle separated me from whatever comfort he offered. “We’re just worried about you.”
“Bullshit.” I pushed past both of them, though each step drove a shard of glass deeper into my heel. “Where the hell were you, Tristan? You were worried about me? Why weren’t you at my show? Why didn’t you come support me? Why couldn’t you spend two freaking hours cheering on your sister without having to shoot up first?”
Keep bristled. The drugs tempted his rage, and I was grateful I slipped toward the stairs before provoking him.
“I made a mistake,” he said. “That okay with you? You pawned a guitar. I had a bad night.”
“Every night is a bad night. At least I only pawned the guitar once!”
“Careful, Rose,” Brew warned.
“Or what?” My voice charred the word like I still carried the fire with me. Even Gold lost his telltale smirk and busied himself behind the bar. “You’ll put me back in the burning building? You’ll hand me back to Exorcist? You certainly won’t let me go back on stage.”
Brew’s profanity echoed through Pixie. “That’s it, Rose. It’s all about the music. Every-fucking-thing revolves about the goddamned music with you. It’s a fucking obsession!”
“It’s all I have.”
Keep punched the bar. I doubted he felt the sting. “I’ll tell you where to shove that guitar.”
Brew took his side. “You ever want to sing again, you change your goddamned attitude real quick.”
“Because you two are the perfect managers for my act?” I pointed to Keep. “You didn’t even come to my show. And you!” I held Brew’s stare. “Keep can’t fight his own addiction, but I knew you wouldn’t help me. You’ve never protected me before. Why start now?”
The brutal honesty hit him harder than any slap, but he didn’t understand anything I said. And I wasn’t about to explain it. Not now.
I escaped the tears until I slammed the door of the only damned room that offered me any peace.
But Thorne’s bedroom wasn’t a good place for me to hide.
And a terrible place for me to feel safe.
I ripped off the ruined dress. The stench of the night clung to my skin. Smoke. Fuel. Fear. I hobbled to the bathroom. My foot bled over Thorne’s floor. It wasn’t the worst to ever stain his room. Thorne wasn’t a gentle man. A little bruising and dirt probably made him feel alive. I caught sight of his bed in the mirror before I shut the bathroom door.
A man like Thorne probably knew just how to recover after a night like this.
My stomach fluttered, but it wasn’t injuries. I pulsed far lower, and that wasn’t something I ever, ever thought I’d feel.
Especially not now.
Especially not for him.
I ducked into the shower. The water instantly steamed, and I stood under the blistering stream if only to ensure the heat settled over my body and didn’t linger in the confusion between my legs.
I closed my eyes and let the water wash everything from me. Usually I would sing in the shower. Hum. Plan a set or drum a beat. The quiet padding of the shower scared me more than the crackling fire. I forced the song from my burning throat.
I was no opera singer, but nothing else felt hard enough to distract me from what happened. Mozart wasn’t Joan Jett. My voice cracked before I sang even a full line. I didn’t care.
The water turned to slurry, but I preferred rinsing away the dirt to the never-ending pinkish stain as I washed the matted blood from my hair and pulled slivers of glass from my cuts. I worried about the gash in my thigh. The water only stung it. I couldn’t clean the wound without my stomach swirling as badly as my head.
I clamored out of the water as the bleeding didn’t slow. It needed stitches, but it wasn’t like a Darnell to voluntarily head to the hospital. Cuts were stitched at home, Mom had more than enough pain medications to treat most bumps, sprains, and gashes, and, unless one of my brothers stopped breathing, Dad usually kicked them in the ass and told them to be a man.
Of course, Dad told me something different.
Doctors asked too many questions. He didn’t want me talking to anyone but him.
Especially if somewhere hurt.
I shoved the towel too hard against the cut, but the sting cleared the darkness from my thoughts. I changed into a clean shirt and hopped onto the sink for a better view of the injury. It was red and ugly, but the sink’s cool tile helped center my stomach to the task.
My hands shook as I removed the towel. A few bits of cotton fuzz stuck to the cut’s ragged edges. That was it. My stomach wimped out.
The bathroom door rattled with a hard knock. The nausea fled in fear of my anger.
“Go away!” I didn’t care which brother attempted contact. They deserved nothing but silence.
Thorne didn’t acknowledge my tone. “How bad are you hurt?”
“Oh, sorry, I thought...” My voice faded as I doubted he cared one way or another about the display downstairs. “I’ll be fine.”
“There’s blood on my floor.”
I winced. “I’ll clean it up when I’m done.”
The doorknob jerked. I yelped.
“I’m not dressed!”
Thorne grunted. “You think I haven’t seen a naked girl before?”
“You haven’t seen me naked before.”
“Do you want my help or not?”
I tucked the shirt lower, but the pink of my cotton panties peeked between my legs. I shifted the towel before the door lurched open and Thorne invaded the tiny bathroom.
He didn’t wear a shirt, and his chest glistened with rivulets of water still dripping from the dark hair licking at his broad shoulders. I didn’t know what was more impressive—the strength tensed beneath the aching muscles of his chest and abs, or the streaks of raging ink wrapping his arms, shoulders, and sides.
Black. Fierce. The same demon patched onto his cut bled through onto his back. The men in the MC weren’t subtle. Anathema possessed each and every inch of them. Their minds. Their hearts. Their families. Their tempers. Even their flesh.
It should have frightened me. The tattoos weren’t beautiful images, and he didn’t sculpt them around his muscles. He scarred himself. It marked him as someone more than a man and every bit the demon of Anathema. His jeans hung low on his hips. The tattoos disappeared under the denim.
I looked away before I wondered what else he hid
under the jeans.
“You’re bleeding.” Thorne stepped too close to my bare legs.
I panicked and countered. “You’re wet.”
“I jumped into Keep’s shower.” He reached for the towel. “Let me see.”
“No, really—”
He swore when he saw the cut, knocking my hands from the wound. I tucked them over my panties. Like that was any better.
“You’ll live,” he said. “Did you clean it?”
“I tried. I think there’s still glass in it though.”
“Shattered over top of you?”
My voice hollowed. “No. The scarred man rubbed my leg with a handful of the shards.”
Thorne’s jaw tensed. “He try anything else?”
“There wasn’t time.”
His profanity wasn’t polite. He exhaled before reaching under the sink for a first-aid kit.
“His name is Bounty,” Thorne said. “He’ll be the first to die.”
I didn’t answer, though the appropriate thing would be to refuse vengeance, plead to end the bloodshed, and be grateful I was finally safe.
Except Anathema stole my innocence and my excuse for naivety.
When danger and safety were offered from both sides of the gun, life limited one’s choices.
For as much as I begged, wished, and prayed to free myself from the club, I didn’t have a veil of ignorance to shield me from the violence. My name marked me as Anathema just like a cut. Just like any ink that might have colored my skin.
I’d never be safe if I left the club.
I had one option. One recourse. One desperate attempt to live another day, sing another song, and forget the past which shadowed my every movement.
I needed someone stronger, fiercer, and more dangerous than the darkness that pursued me.
And that man was Thorne.
I lived my life fighting fire with fire but had no idea how to survive the brimstone cloaking Thorne. Or how to escape it.
Or if I even wanted to run from it.
“This might hurt,” Thorne warned.
If he only knew. I braced for pain for the last twenty-one years. Now I expected the final blow.