Slater's Claim

by Amber Morgan

  “Don't worry about that tonight,” Slater said. “You're safe here.”

  “But we can't stay here!” she said, gripping Kayden's hand so tight he winced and pulled away.

  “I did,” Beth said, surprising her.

  “Did you have the Mafia chasing you?” Freya snapped.

  Tanner bristled, but Beth laid her hand on his shoulder, and Freya watched the flare of temper vanish immediately.

  “No, I had the leaders of a cult chasing me,” she said with a shy smile. “Close enough.”

  Freya wasn't sure she agreed, but the look on Tanner's face told her not to argue. The appearance of a new woman, swaggering over with a confidence that bordered on cocky, broke up the conversation anyway. She was tall and leggy, her hair a shining platinum cap streaked with black. Her tattoos were gorgeous, colorful and attention-grabbing, and Freya took an instant dislike to her.

  “Hi, Shelby,” Beth said, glancing down at her phone once more. “Alex, I think I want to head home,” she said, turning to Tanner.

  “Still no word?” he asked her. When she shook her head, face shadowed, Tanner kissed her cheek. “Home, then,” he said. “We'll figure it out, okay?”

  Freya absorbed their cryptic exchange in silence. Wild Blood business was not her business, after all. Once they'd said their goodbyes and taken off, Shelby took Tanner's vacated chair. She clasped her hands together and beamed up at Slater, sending a jolt of annoyance through Freya.

  “Hey, Nathan,” Shelby said. She flicked her gaze over Kayden and Freya. “So this is what all the fuss is about, huh? These two?”

  Freya opened her mouth, then fell silent when Slater gently squeezed her shoulder, as if he'd sensed the venomous reply rising to her lips.

  “You been with Nash?” he asked her.

  Shelby practically purred her answer. “For sure. He did say you should go see him if you were here. He's in his office.”

  “I'd go see him now, while he's still got that post-coital glow,” Punk said.

  Slater muttered something inaudible.

  Freya twisted in her seat to see him looking apprehensive, which kicked off a chain reaction in her, knotting her stomach and drying out her throat.

  “Are you going to be in trouble for bringing us here?” she asked him.

  Slater smiled down at her. “It'd be worth it.”

  Butterflies filled her stomach now, but the overall effect was mostly nausea. Especially when Punk and Shelby snorted in unison.

  “Go on, white knight,” Shelby said, easing her sardonic tone with a seemingly genuine smile. “He doesn't bite that hard. Unless you ask him.” She winked.

  Slater ignored her. “Don't go anywhere,” he said, giving Freya's shoulder another squeeze.

  She didn't bother asking where the hell she would go. She just watched him walk off, wishing his absence didn't leave her feeling so exposed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “So what is it you want to do?” Nash asked Slater.

  Slater suppressed the urge to shift in his chair. There was nothing in Nash's voice to indicate he was pissed off, nothing in his face that Slater could read. He lounged in his chair, cradling a glass of vodka and looking as cool as the drink did.

  Slater didn't let himself be fooled. Seeing Beth and Tanner together had reminded him of the trouble they'd brought to Wild Blood. Made him think of Wolf, and the ill-fated ride to New Orleans that had cost Judge his life. Women. The common denominator every time. Women brought problems. Nash didn't like problems. He liked the MC to fly under the radar, make no waves.

  But Slater wasn't just a Wild Blood prospect, and Freya's situation didn't just affect Wild Blood. ArcLight's reputation was spotless. He couldn't afford to have it tarnished by Benedict's shady dealings. That was the way to put this to Nash. Make it a business matter, not a personal one.

  “It's pretty obvious that Benedict is using the Hot House as a front for someone higher up the food chain. I bet if we dug down, we'd find there's definitely prostitution going on, and probably drug dealing too. I can't afford to have my company tied up in that.”

  Nash shrugged. “So pull the deal. Get our guys off the books and cut your ties with the club.”

  “That doesn't help Kayden or Freya,” Slater said, then immediately realized he'd made it personal. He bit his lip, rocking back in his chair as Nash laughed knowingly at him.

  “So tell me why we owe anything to that pair?” Nash asked. He sounded more curious than anything else. Maybe Punk and Shelby were right, and this was Slater's best chance to get him on board.

  He didn't have a fancy or clever appeal, though. His burning attraction to Freya was his overriding reason, and there was nothing rational about that. He wanted her, and he wanted to help her. Save her. That meant helping Kayden too, even if he privately thought Kayden took a huge share of the blame for their situation.

  “It's the right thing to do,” he said finally. “You think so too, otherwise you wouldn't have sent Rattler for methadone for the kid.”

  Nash tipped his glass Slater's way, a silent acknowledgment. “I'm not gonna kick out someone like him,” he said. “The kid's in a bad way. But let's say Benedict is mob-linked, that this guy Sammy is a boss. Do you really think we can afford to get locked into a war with that kind of people? Because I don't. I don't think we'd win.”

  Slater thought of the Mancuso family and their mysterious, bloody disappearance. He thought of Liviana, whoever she was and whatever she meant to Nash. He contemplated throwing what he knew at Nash, seeing how he reacted. The temptation burned him like bad bourbon, but he stomped down on it. He didn't know enough to be sure it would be leverage.

  “I'm not looking to start a war,” he said.

  “Huh. I've heard that before.” Nash gave him a wry look. “What are you looking to do?”

  Slater searched his mind for a convincing answer, an argument that would shut Nash down completely, and came up blank. He threw his hands up in defeat, useless anger boiling up in him. There was no way he'd persuade Nash. Not a fucking chance, and the understanding hit him like a sucker-punch, sudden and slamming.

  “I don't know,” he said. “I don't fucking know.”

  Nash said nothing. The silence stretched between them, Slater's anger hitting Nash's calm. The soft light and warmth of Nash's office was suffocating, a cage of implacable reason. There was no argument Slater could make that would force Nash to care about Freya. It wasn't just about him being a prospect. After Judge's death, Slater doubted being a patched-in brother would have helped his cause.

  Nash was right. Wild Blood MC wouldn't win a turf war on the level that a true Mafia family could bring.

  Defeated and overloaded with impotent anger, Slater stayed quiet, waiting to be dismissed.

  Nash clinked the ice cubes in his empty glass together, unreadable. “They can stay here tonight,” he said.

  Slater didn't dare let himself seize on that. “And in the morning?”

  Nash shrugged. “In the morning, I'll either make a stupid decision or a smart one.”

  That was the dismissal. Slater nodded and rose. He didn't say thank you, in case restarting the conversation made Nash change his mind. He left the office, still struggling to control his emotions. Nash hadn't given him a hell of a lot of reason to be hopeful, but Slater's common sense was at war with his heart. Whatever the risk, he wanted to protect Freya.

  Could he do it without plunging Wild Blood MC into dangerous waters?

  He only had a few hours to figure that out, because he didn't think Nash made many stupid decisions.

  He went back to the bar, and alarm shot through him when he realized Freya and her brother were gone. Stomach lurching, he raced over to the table, where he found Shelby alone, nursing a drink and watching some of the brothers play pool.

  “Where is she?” he asked, slamming his palms down on the table.

  Shelby cocked an eyebrow at him. “Relax, superhero. Punk took them to bed. The kid got his methadone,
and they were both pretty done.” A hint of sympathy crossed her face. “He's in bad shape. They must both be exhausted.”

  Slater wasn't sure he'd ever relax again—at least not tonight. “Punk took them to bed?” he echoed.

  “Don't sound so outraged. I don't think he's planning a threesome. He'll probably bunk with Taylor and let them have his bed.” Shelby stood, stretching and yawning. “You should try to get some sleep too. You look wired.”

  “Which is exactly why I won't sleep.” Slater shook his head. He needed to see Freya, reassure himself that she was okay, that she was holding up. He waved Shelby goodnight and headed up to Punk's room.

  He ran into Punk and Rattler as he headed upstairs. Punk spread-eagled his arms and legs, blocking the passageway, and it took all Slater’s self-control not to kick his knees out.

  He growled impatiently at his friend. “Can you stop being a dick for ten minutes?”

  “What, you wanna go watch her sleeping? That’s creepy, Slater.” Punk shook his head and clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “They’re fine. Kayden needs to sleep and Freya’s about as safe as she can be. You lurking outside my room all night is just weird. You’re not Batman.”

  Slater closed his eyes, a red mist descending. “I just want—”

  “No,” Rattler said, his gravelly voice as final as the tomb. “Give the kids some fucking space, prospect.”

  Slater opened his eyes again, ready to protest that he wasn’t interested in Kayden, that he had a responsibility to Freya, that Rattler and Punk didn’t get it… But he let the words die in his throat, because the cold light in Rattler’s eyes said he wouldn’t give a tin shit what Slater had to say.

  Punk dropped his arms, leaning against the stairwell wall. He scraped his fingers through his hair, flashing the tattoo on the back of his hand that read Fight? He had another on his left hand reading Flight? He’d gotten them when he was fifteen, after a particularly brutal weekend alone with his parents. Slater had gone with him to the parlor, not sure he really understood Punk’s mind set, but knowing getting the ink mattered desperately to his friend. Punk knew a lot about fear, a lot about losing it all, and a lot about surviving.

  So he probably did get it. He probably got it a lot better than Slater, whose family was a chaotic nest of love and support. Slater had never been alone. He’d never had to make the kind of choices Punk and Freya had. It galled him, irrationally, that Punk might have a kinship with her that he didn’t, but the sight of that tattoo stilled him anyway.

  He sagged, giving up. “Fine, I get it. But I’m crashing here tonight.”

  Rattler shrugged, pushing past them both to head downstairs. “Do what you like. Within reason.”

  Punk watched him go, then placed his hand on Slater’s shoulder. “They’re a package deal, you know.”

  “What?” Slater asked, fresh irritation rising.

  “Freya and Kayden. You wanna start something with her, you’ve got to understand her brother will be there.”

  “I’m not…” Slater stopped himself. He tried never to lie to Punk. “How bad is he?”

  Punk shrugged. “He’s a heroin addict, Nathan. He needs professional help. Keeping him locked up here and pumping him full of street-level methadone isn’t going to fix anything.” He gave Slater a resigned pat on the arm. “Get some sleep, man. Nothing else is gonna change tonight.”

  He disappeared after Rattler. Slater sat on the stairs, head in his hands, trying to calm himself. Fear and anger buzzed around his brain like hornets, leaving sleep out of the question. What if, what if, what if? What if this Sammy guy really was a mobster? What if Nash refused to help Freya and Kayden? What if he lost her, before he even got a chance to have her?

  Slowly, the muted thump of the music in the bar and the soft darkness of the stairwell began to lull the roaring in his head. Punk was right. Nothing else would change tonight, and there wasn’t a hell of a lot of the night left. Did he want to spend it agonizing over unknowns? He’d be better trying to conserve some energy, muster up some fresh, compelling arguments to bring to Nash in the morning.

  He stood, a dark part of him whispering that the real solution would be to drive back to the Hot House and beat seven shades of shit out of Benedict.

  Damn. That really was tempting. His fists itched at the thought of it. He could picture it perfectly, blood and bruises blooming on Benedict’s face as Slater cracked his knuckles into it over and over…

  He inhaled deeply, pushing the violent image away. Tempting, yeah, but it wouldn’t help any of them. Fighting to ignore the spark in his blood that demanded action, he headed up to look for an empty room. He felt like he was moving through molasses, resenting the chains holding him back. Nash, Rattler, Punk, they all stood between him and what he knew, what he believed, bone-deep, was right. It ate at him that he couldn’t go solo, couldn’t make a decision without someone else’s permission, but that was what he’d signed up for, right? Wild Blood wasn’t just about the Harleys and the girls, or the bonfires and beers.

  It was family, and being part of that family meant he had to think of the whole fucking family. Just the same way he’d never gone out and decked Izzy’s cheating ex-husband. Just the same way he’d never called the cops on Punk’s deadbeat parents. Because it wasn’t just about what he wanted, what he thought was right. And that was painful and suffocating sometimes, but that was family.

  Up on the landing, a door clicked open. Slater was almost at the top of the stairs, and he saw a slender figure slip from one of the rooms, heading for the bathroom down the hall. The officers’ rooms all had en suites, but the rest were without. It was a pain in the ass, but plumbing in the old mill wasn’t going to be upgraded any time soon. Hoping a shower would wash away the last of his grim thoughts, Slater waited by the door for the other person to leave the bathroom.

  He was startled when Freya emerged, a glass of water in hand. She jumped at the sight of him, splashing water over herself. She was still wearing Tamsin’s borrowed clothes, and she sighed as she examined the dripping wet sleeve of the hoodie.

  “Sorry,” Slater said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “You didn’t. I was just … miles away.” She whispered it, but the hallway was silent and he heard the exhaustion plainly in her voice.

  He should let her go to bed, but there was something inviting and intimate about the hush and the shadows up here, and he wanted to cling onto that, selfish as it was. He leaned against the wall, not wanting to crowd her, wanting her to come to him … if she would. “I know today has been fucked up, but it’s going to get better.”

  Even in the darkness, he could see her cynical smile. “I like your optimism.”

  “I’m pure sunshine,” he said, once again picturing his fists smacking into Benedict’s face.

  She laughed now, soft and low. “Thank you, for tonight. For all of this. I know … I appreciate it. I don’t know what would have happened to me without you.” She shuddered.

  “You’ll never have to find out,” he said, realizing a few seconds too late how possessive and domineering that sounded. But he wasn’t sure he cared. She had to know already he was hooked on her, surely? She had to at least have guessed the effect she had on him.

  She was quiet for a long moment, and he was afraid he’d overstepped, pushed her back. Then finally, with a too-light, too-sweet voice, she said, “Well, get me and Kayden out of this mess and we’ll call it even, huh?”

  “Even for what?” he asked, confused.

  “You know.” Impatient now, she poked him in the chest. The contact sent electricity arcing through him, brief and hot, and sizzling out too quickly as she walked away. “For the dance.”

  The dance? She could only mean that dance, that first night, just before Zeke went ballistic. But how were they not even on that? “I paid…”

  She was already shutting the door to Punk’s room, cutting his words off with a sharp click as the lock fell into place.

  “…for the danc
e.” Slater laughed, slapping his forehead. Yeah, he’d paid. He’d given the cash to Benedict, hadn’t he? Freya had probably never seen a dime. Shit.

  He clawed his hands through his hair, laughing at himself. A few of Freya’s sharper comments made sense now. He headed for the shower, in need of a cold one despite the fact not a fucking thing had happened between them. And now he knew why. She must think he was a complete asshole.

  He showered quickly, leaving the tiled room smelling of sea minerals and shaving gel. Then he cleaned and tidied up like a good prospect, laying out fresh towels for whoever came along next. He’d need to be the world’s best fucking prospect from now on if he was going to win Nash over. And who the hell knew what he’d have to do to win Freya over. Paying her for the dance would be a start, but… Shit, that would feel sleazy now.

  With a groan, he shut the bathroom door and went to find an empty room to crash in. He’d figure it out. He had to. Losing Freya without ever kissing her, without ever touching her the way he ached to, was just not going to happen.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Freya slept fitfully, with Kayden tossing and turning beside her all night. Punk's bed was luxuriously comfy, but his room smelt of pot and petrol, and she could hear people moving around in the hallway and the rooms on either side of hers. Shrieks of laughter and cries of passion, and the low, distant throb of music downstairs. By the time the mill fell silent, the chill of pre-dawn had crept into the room, and Freya finally dozed off to dream of Harley Davidsons chasing her through the Hot House, their riders invisible and laughing.

  She was startled awake when Kayden kneed her in the back. Heart hammering, she rolled away from him with a curse. He snored, undisturbed. He'd always slept like the dead.

  She'd never appreciated how sinister that phrase was until now.

  Yawning and rubbing her aching eyes, she swung herself out of bed. She crept to the window and peered through the blinds. Bright autumn sunshine flooded the mill's grounds. She had no idea what time it was, but guessed it was still morning. A peaceful hush lay over the building, but Freya knew she wouldn't get back to sleep now.