Iron & Bone (Lock & Key #3)

by Cat Porter

  He nodded, his lips a firm line. “Pieces.”

  “Are you still asking her why?”

  “No. Not anymore.” His clear eyes met mine. “Not anymore.”

  “I’m sorry I read them. I feel like I intruded on your privacy. The last thing I want to do is to make you feel uncomfortable.”

  “I’m glad you read them.”

  I pressed a kiss on his cheek. “I’m proud of the bones you smashed. I don’t care if that’s bad or wrong or foul. I don’t think it is. You took your revenge. You exacted your price of justice. You made your mark and torched it into the earth. In all that darkness, you did good things—for you, for Inès, for Dig, Grace, for me. For your club.”

  “It’s not all good.” His voice shook.

  Tears spilled down my face. “I know, baby. It never is.”

  We held each other, our choppy breaths mingling, as we wiped at each other’s tear-stained faces with our lips.

  He released me, took the poems from the box, and tossed them into the fire. “I don’t want them. Don’t need to hold on to them,” he said, staring at the blackened papers curling in the flames. He placed the tin box on the mantel and led me to the sofa.

  I touched his leg. “I have something else for you.”

  “Don’t get up—”

  “Wait.” I went to the front door where I’d left my handbag. I pulled out the suede pouch and gave it to him.

  His jaw tensed as he loosened the tie of the small black bag. The rosary fell into his hands.

  “I had it fixed,” I said.

  “Fixed?”

  “It was broken. I know the cross can never be replaced. Frankly, I didn’t think it should be. Its cross was unique, and it’s with your mom. It’s hers.”

  He held up the rosary, and the new pendant I’d found for it swung at the end. His hand went around it, holding it up.

  “It’s a new cross,” I whispered. “For you.”

  A silver cross made up of swords accented with bones and a skull at the top of it. My heart beat faster every second he remained silent, his eyes glued on the piece.

  “This is your cross, made of swords and bones,” I said. “You’re always ready to defend me, protect me, always ready to put yourself on the line for who you love. No hesitation, ever. You live what you feel. You feel what you live, and you take no prisoners. It’s a beautiful, powerful thing, and I’m in awe of you. You helped me see that I can bear the weight of an iron sword that I have to use to protect myself, to protect my child, to protect you. You gave me that.

  “Too many of us try to deny all the ugliness, to push it away. You don’t, Santiago. You stare it in the face. You always have. You break its bones with your iron sword when you have to. Yes, you destroyed lives with your crowbar. But now, you wield your sword with purpose. You wield it with a full heart and a strong arm, baby, and I love you.”

  “Firefly.” He crushed me to his chest and kissed the top of my head, pulling me onto his lap. “You always believe.”

  “I do, and I believe in you.” I pressed against him. “When I look at you, I don’t see some sort of guardian angel, and I don’t see gratitude or obligation. I see a man who needs me, like I need him. I see a man who’s brave and strong and extreme in how he feels and looks at the world. A man who loves fierce and hard and unforgiving. And in the very center of his big heart, there’s a fire burning.” I rubbed my hand over his heart and planted a kiss there. “And I want to be in there, burning and alive.”

  I wiped my eyes and took the rosary from his hand and put it over his head, moving his hair out of the way. I kissed the cross of swords against his chest, and with a groan, he took my face in his hands and crushed his mouth against mine.

  “I need you,” he whispered roughly.

  We peeled our clothing back, pushing it away, kicking it off. He moaned as he entered me in one long move. His hair teased over my skin, and his cross settled on my chest, stroking me, as he slowly thrust inside me, filling me with his sorrows, his hopes, filling me with his love. He planted himself deep, and I ground up toward him.

  “I love you, Santiago.”

  He drove inside me, joining with me. We were one. It was raw and honest and merciless, and there was purity in that, a purity that I had never known before.

  “I broke that bastard who hurt you,” he grunted in my ear as he moved inside me. “I did it. Broke his bones. Did it for Dig. Did it for you.” His one hand splayed across the curve of my belly against the baby. “You’re a fucking gift, a fucking gift.”

  He raised himself up and stroked my clit in short tense pulses, and my body gave in to his binding grip, to his harsh rhythm.

  “Fucking gift,” he growled.

  We were one creature, surging with one need.

  An explosion of cries and sensations shuddered through both of us, melding us together.

  His arms tightened around me as he leaned over me. “Love you, Jillee,” he whispered against my skin.

  We lay there, naked on the sofa, my fingers tracing lines over his chest, over the cross. I moved down and laid kisses on the scar across his abdomen. I knew I couldn’t put his pieces back together again, the pieces Inès had ripped apart, the parts of him that so much of his life had made brittle, disconnected. But I could hold him, love him, give him the warmth and hope of us, while he tried his best.

  “I got lost in you,” his voice whispered in the shadows. “Just like you dared me to. You remember when you said that to me in Rae’s kitchen?”

  “Yes.”

  “I got lost, and I found things I’d never expected to find again—powerful, colorful, precious things.”

  His eyes met mine in the shadows seeping through the room, and I settled back onto his chest. Sheeting rain pelted the windows, hailstones battered the roof and the sides of the house. One of those sudden, unpredictable Dakota storms. It would be over quickly. Its startling, ugly, jarring violence would pass.

  “I NEED TO COME WITH YOU.” I wiped the hair back from my face.

  “What?”

  “I need to see Creeper. I need to—”

  Boner’s frown deepened. “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  I knew Butler and the men were going to bring Creeper into the club later this morning, and I wanted to be there. I had dropped Becca off at daycare and went straight to the club and found Boner.

  I had to face Creeper and look him in the eyes. This man had stolen my daughter months ago, treating her and us like she was a worthless commodity for his greedy bargaining and blackmail.

  In an act of both the Flames and the Jacks moving forward in a new spirit of cooperation, Butler had invited Catch in on finally putting Creeper into the ground. Butler had intended on making this move sooner to bring the clubs closer, but when Catch had taken Dig’s gun, that had blown up that plan in its tracks. Now it was back on.

  By helping the Jacks rescue Boner, the Flames had achieved what they’d wanted: severely weakening the Broken Blades and getting rid of the Calderas Group. The single bullet that had killed Alejandro Calderone couldn’t be traced. Assassin unknown.

  Compensation to the One-Eyed Jacks for Catch’s dishonorable robbery of Dig’s revolver had been fulfilled.

  There was satisfaction and excitement in the Jacks’ clubhouse. Butler was pleased that his plan for cooperating with the Flames was back on track. The Blades had been crippled, their property frozen by the Feds, their president in a rage. Only Jump didn’t share in the excitement, and the tension between him and Butler had intensified. Not to mention the awful tension between Jump and Alicia.

  Catch had stopped over to see Rae and Becca this morning, and from what little he’d told me, I’d figured out where he was headed after he visited with his daughter and mother. His anticipation was obvious.

  “He’s gonna pay, Jill. I got this,” he’d told me as he started his bike at the end of Rae’s driveway.

  Creeper had taken a piece of me when he’d kidnapped Becca. I h
adn’t known what he was doing to her, if she was crying out for me. Was she hungry? Was her diaper a mess? Was he hurting her? Was she scared? Did she miss me?

  I had become that sobbing helpless girl again, like I had been when Mole had taken me. Tied up, terrified, desperate, demented. Screaming on the inside, weeping silently, and shuddering on the outside. When Becca was missing, I’d been raked raw, and then I’d finally exploded in a rage. It was as if Creeper had tied me up to Mole’s fucking motel bed all over again.

  I had to do this.

  I held Boner’s hard gaze.

  “I’m very sure,” I repeated.

  He took my hand and led me into the clubhouse to the kitchen, through a short hallway to the left of it, and down a well-lit stairwell, our boots making noise against the metal steps.

  Bear stood in the open doorway, his arms folded. In the room beyond, Dready and Lock tied Creeper facedown on a long table, his arms over his head. Butler, Dawes, and Tricky stood to the side watching. Catch’s eyes narrowed at me.

  But I only had eyes for Creeper. That bitter rage I knew so well coursed through me now, like acid instead of blood. That sour swell rose in my chest, buckling my veins. It compelled me forward into that stifling room. I hungered to smell Creeper’s blood, his fear, his helplessness, his desperation.

  Boner squeezed my hand, and I squeezed it back.

  He brought me to the table where Creeper lay bound. The men stopped what they were doing around the table and stared at me. Boner let go of my hand and ripped Creeper’s shirt, exposing his back, exposing the great tattoo of the glint-eyed skull of the One-Eyed Jacks. Disgrace, dishonor, shame would all be paid for at last.

  Creeper’s battered eyes blinked up at me and slackened.

  “You took my girl,” I said to him. “You were going to rape Tania and Grace.”

  Knives had been planted on the edge of the table, alongside his torso, like weeds in a junkyard. I took a knife in my grip and yanked it from the old wood table.

  Catch darted forward. “Jill, what the fuck are you doing?”

  “No,” said Boner, his voice low and steady, the authority of it stopping Catch. “Leave her alone.”

  My eyes rose to meet my old man’s.

  “Do it,” he said.

  He knew what I needed to do. He understood what I wanted to do, no matter how low or bad or dirty, and he was giving it to me.

  Creeper’s body tensed then jerked, his one bloodied eye glaring at me, his breaths short and ragged.

  “This is for my daughter.”

  And for me.

  I thrust the knife into his side, and he let out a moaning hiss. I twisted it and pulled it back. My arm shook, my heart pounded. I handed the blood-covered blade to Boner, and he leaned in closer to me.

  My bloodstained fingertips touched his cheek. “Break his bones for us, baby,” I whispered.

  A large hand went around my forearm and pulled me back. Lock walked me to the door and handed me off to Bear. All I saw as I left the room were my old man’s incredible eyes holding mine and gleaming.

  TODAY, IN AN EFFORT TO WIN SMILES FROM BONER, I’d made him flan. I’d wanted to prepare something special for him, so I’d decided on the caramel custard, which was practically the national obsession of Argentina. It was a simple enough recipe. Eggs, milk, sugar, and a real vanilla bean with a dash of lime juice and lots of whisking. Luckily, Rae had a top-of-the-line KitchenAid mixer, and it had made the entire process of making the custard a snap. I’d also bought a special round pan to bake it in. And as Argentineans paired their flan with dulce de leche sauce, I’d made that, too. That was a lot of caramel in one sensual dessert.

  Grace and Lock had come over to Boner’s and surprised us with a dinner of barbecued ribs and fries from a local joint.

  A couple of hours later, Lock rose from the table after Grace and I had cleared the dishes. “We’re off.”

  “Aren’t you going to stay for dessert?” I asked.

  “We’ve got to hit the road early tomorrow. I’ve got a lead on a 1970 El Camino and a ’68 Corvette up in Bismarck.”

  Boner’s forehead puckered. “That be serious.”

  “That be right,” replied Lock, stretching his arms over his head and then circling them around his wife, who stood in front of him.

  “And I’m going with,” Grace said, stroking her old man’s arm. “It’s been way too long since we’ve done an overnight bike trip, and I’m really looking forward to it.”

  “Do what you can before this one arrives.” I laughed, pointing at my belly.

  Grace’s face lit up. “Exactly.”

  We said our good-nights, and I locked the door after them.

  I touched Boner’s arm. “You have room for dessert?”

  He rubbed at the back of his neck with a hand. “I’m beat, gonna head on upstairs.”

  There was that gloominess again.

  “Please, Boner. I made it special for you. Just have a taste?”

  I brushed his lips with mine, determined to nudge at that moodiness of his.

  “You go relax on the sofa, and I’ll bring you your surprise.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Surprise?”

  “You’ll see.”

  In the kitchen, I extricated the custard from its pan onto a large plate, the caramel sauce dripping down the custard tower and pooling in the dish. I poured the thick dulce de leche into a small bowl and added two spoons. I figured personal dishes were unnecessary.

  I brought everything into the living room, setting it on the coffee table before Boner.

  He stared at it.

  He stared at me.

  He stared back at the dessert.

  “It’s flan,” I said.

  “Flan?”

  “Flan.”

  The word was beginning to sound ridiculous. It reminded me of when I was a kid and I would repeat words hundreds of times over on purpose with my best friend. The words would lose their meaning and familiarity and simply turn into a silly tumble of sounds, making us laugh.

  “It’s a custard,” I said.

  Another blank look.

  “You know, like pudding? They call it créme caramel in France and flan in Spain and Latin America.” I shifted my weight. “I thought you’d like it.”

  Mission Status: Epic Fail.

  He picked up a spoon and sliced into the glistening wobbly mound of creaminess, scooping a generous helping into his mouth. His eyes widened, his thumb wiping at the corner of his lips. He scooped in another huge spoonful.

  “Bone, have you ever had flan before?”

  He shook his head as he dipped the spoon into the thick dulce de leche and licked at it with that tongue of his, his eyes on me. “I like it. It’s a winner, baby.”

  “It’s a favorite in Argentina. I thought—”

  “You thought I’d had it before?” He rested a hand on his thigh and aimed his gaze at me.

  “Yeah, I thought you might like—”

  His green eyes flashed, his fingers tightening over the spoon handle. “You ever made flan before?”

  “No.”

  He dropped the spoon in the plate and held out his hand to me, and I went to him. He pulled me down onto his lap, a hand cupping my jaw and then sliding around my neck.

  “You made it special for me? Looked up a recipe for me?”

  I nodded, my fingers combing through his short dark beard.

  His mouth crashed on mine, and a caramel, cream, and Boner infusion exploded on my tongue. He pulled me in closer to his chest, his arms wrapping tighter around me, as if he couldn’t get enough of me, of our taste, our heat, our kiss.

  A whimper escaped my throat.

  I pulled away from him and caught my breath. “I thought maybe your mom used to make it for you, and you’d enjoy it.”

  His forehead slid against mine. “She cooked a lot, but making desserts like this, not so much. She wanted to learn American shit. She used to make a lot of puddings, brownies, and cakes from boxes. I
nstant was a whole new concept for her, and she was fascinated by it. I sure didn’t complain, but I don’t remember a flan or this caramel sauce.”

  “Dulce de leche.”

  An eyebrow lifted. “Say it again.”

  “Dulce—”

  His eyes went to my mouth. “Slower.”

  “De leche.”

  He made a noise in the back of his throat. “Baby, you gotta try your flan.”

  His pronunciation of the word made my insides ping. He brought a spoonful to my lips, and I took it in my mouth.

  “Good, huh?”

  I nodded, my gaze never leaving his. “Mmhmm.”

  He fed me again. “Did you take Spanish in school?”

  “No, I took French,” I replied.

  He licked caramel from the corner of my mouth, and my eyes fluttered closed.

  “Do you remember any Spanish?” I asked.

  He fed me another spoonful, and the cool custard melted in my mouth, my throat burning with heat.

  “I remember a few things.”

  “Tell me,” I murmured, watching his lips take in a spoonful.

  “My uncle had a few favorites he used to say to the women he brought home to fuck. One in particular used to make me laugh.”

  “What was it?”

  “Abre las piernas. Spread your legs.”

  “He had to tell them that?”

  Boner laughed. “That fucker was always telling people what to do. Never let up. You’d think that one was a little obvious, right?”

  His brows drew together, and I rubbed my finger over the indents, smoothing them out.

  “I remember nice ones though,” he said, his voice softer. “Really nice.”

  “Tell me.”

  He gently kissed the smile forming on my lips. “Mi corazón.”

  “My heart.”

  He nodded. “Mi cielo.”

  “Don’t know.”

  “My sky or heaven.”

  He fed me another spoonful, and I stared into his eyes as I swallowed the luscious sweet custard perfectly scented with vanilla.

  “Mi vida.”

  “My life?”

  “Yeah.”

  He put down the spoon and kissed the edge of my lips, and my head tilted back, as if some magnetic force emanating from him had willed it.