Scarred_A Russian Mob Romance_Anosov Family Mafia

by Vivian Gray

  Silas hopped off his bike, adrenaline thrumming through him. If there was one thing he loved more than a high-speed chase, it was fucking taking down the enemy. The rider was groaning and on his side, jeans torn, and his thermal shirt ripped at the sleeve, scrambling to pull himself up and get away. Silas stormed over to him, feet crunching over gravel lining the side of the road.

  “Get the fuck away.” The rider was on his back now, pointing a gun right at Silas’ head.

  Silas slowed, his own gun just inches from his fingertips. “Don’t even try it.” Silas sneered. “You shoot me now, and it’s a death warrant for your entire crew. I’d think twice before taking out the Death Knells’ president. Or maybe you want to kill off all your brothers?”

  The spiel made the rider pause. In the moment’s hesitation, Silas pulled his own gun. Barrel facing barrel, Silas crept forward slowly.

  “You’re at a slight disadvantage,” Silas went on. “Your bike is wrecked, for starters. And these?” He kicked at the Spawn’s leg. “You won’t be able to use these ever again when I’m done with you.”

  “Fuck you,” the rider growled out. He had a mangy mess of black hair, falling over a large forehead set above an unsightly scowl. All of the Wicked Spawn were patently ugly. It seemed they screened their recruits for it.

  Silas made a slow circle around the Spawn. Like a cat playing with its food, he wanted to draw this pleasure out. Even if he just took out one of their crew, it would leave him feeling accomplished, like Stone might be smiling down on him from wherever-the-fuck.

  “You really want those to be your last words?” Silas paused, taking in the sounds around him. Really remembering this moment before he took the guy’s life. Highway traffic hummed from nearby. Honking from a few streets over. And in the distance, far away like in a dream, the twittering of a bird.

  Pain slashed through Silas’ leg. For a moment, he didn’t understand what had happened. He crumpled to the ground, shock making him stiff. His gun clattered to the ground beside him. But then it came together when he saw the sneer on the rider’s face. He’d shanked him; pulled a knife from inside his sleeve and cut the back of his calf.

  From there it was a blur of movement. Silas tackled him, pushing past the burn in his leg. He wanted to strangle the son of a bitch, but the rider slipped out of his grip. Punches started flying. Silas didn’t even know where he was hitting, just that his fists were pummeling a body. Once his knuckles connected with the ground. A punch in his groin. A dry cough. The two of them rolled over, dust flying behind them.

  And then there was another hot pain searing through him. The mother fucker had stabbed him again, lodging the small blade deep into his side. Rage bubbled up. Annoyance. Sadness.

  Silas punched the guy like he’d been the one to take out Stone. Bones snapped under his fists, but the hits came back just as hard. Silas could sense the nearness of his gun. If he stopped defending himself for even a second, the Spawn could get the upper hand.

  Silas grabbed the guy’s head, slammed it into the ground once. Then again. The rider’s defenses slowed. Silas pounded his skull against the cement one last time. Blood trickled out.

  Chest heaving, Silas watched the Spawn for a moment. Maybe this was a trick… a ruse. After a moment, Silas scrambled to pick up his gun. He cocked it and pointed it at the rider’s head, breathing so heavily he thought he might hyperventilate.

  No movement. Nothing.

  Silas wiped a sleeve against his face, trying to remove the sting of blood and gravel and anxiety. He deflated slightly, watching the rider as he caught his breath.

  After five minutes and no movement, he called it. Wicked Spawn: out.

  But just to be sure, Silas put a bullet between his eyes.

  Once the echo of the shot cleared the air, Silas heaved a sigh of relief. Then, and only then, did his heart rate truly calm. The danger was passed.

  Silas pushed himself up slowly, all his bones groaning with the effort. On the short hobble back to his bike, he assessed what sort of injuries he might be looking at… Definitely needed stitches in his calf. Hopefully, that shit hadn’t torn muscle. Who knew what awaited him on his side; all he could feel was a hot stinging that, in his ample wound experience, could be anything from a superficial laceration to a deep hospital-worthy fuckup.

  And then his ribs. One might be broken. He winced as he took a deep breath, just to test. It hurt. Bad.

  Silas didn’t even want to look at his face. He just needed to get home. Get cleaned up.

  The guys might not be back at the clubhouse for a while. He needed someone to help him immediately. The hospital was out of the question… so where to?

  He gingerly pushed his bike upright and eased the helmet over his head. After a deep breath and plenty of focus, he started off down the road.

  At this point, he only had one place to go where someone even cared: Jessa’s.

  ***

  Jessa didn’t normally laze around on a Saturday, but after Silas’ stern directive, given to her in a voice that she might actually pay money to hear again, she didn’t feel like testing his boundaries again.

  If any boundaries were to be tested at all, it would be her own. As in, how much longer until she scrapped the whole do not fuck Silas rule?

  She hadn’t put pants on, partly out of laziness, and partly because of her plan. The whole afternoon she’d flipped between empowerment and mortification as to the little sexy trick she’d pulled earlier that morning – waiting for Silas with her crotch hanging out, like a common hooker. Or like a woman who knew what the fuck she wanted.

  Oh well. Silas had liked it. He couldn’t hide it. And she swore she’d seen the hint of a boner there. Her cheeks heated up just thinking about it. So she wanted to be ready for him when he came home. Half-naked and tantalizing. A siren waiting for him in the living room.

  Come on, Silas. Get home so I can act like I don’t want you and then jump your bones once I get enough beer in me.

  She groaned, flinging her legs out over the couch. She was a grown woman for God’s sake. This could not be her only game plan. It was just that Silas’ involvement in the MC complicated things way too much. Her only goal after her brother’s death was to never again be affiliated with the Death Knells. Fucking the president, of her own volition, seemed like a giant middle finger to her brother’s memory.

  Or did it?

  Jessa sighed, eager to distract herself from these thoughts. She grabbed the vacuum cleaner from its spot in the front hall closet and began cleaning the carpets and rugs. This helped clear her mind for a bit. But after the monotonous hum had settled into the background, her thoughts veered right back to Silas.

  If she were honest with herself, her brother probably would have been excited about her hooking up with someone like Silas. Jakey had always been a little hung up on the idea of her marrying into the club. Like being Stone’s child wasn’t enough. Jake had just as much of a father’s pride when it came to Jessa, and he would have been happier than shit at that wedding two weeks ago.

  But that’s just it. He couldn’t be there. The club got him murdered.

  Jessa jumped when she sensed a movement from the corner of her eye. She turned and then gasped.

  Silas hobbled in the front door, a weak smile on his busted, swollen, and bleeding face.

  She snapped the vacuum cleaner off. “Silas. What the fuck happened to you?”

  His boots made uneven clomps against the wooden floor as he came into the house. “Nothing. I just…” He wheezed a little. “I got into a fight.”

  Jessa stared incredulously at him for a moment, a whole swarm of emotions descending upon her. But above the din was one thing: this was just like her late teen years. When Jake would get into shit, get beaten up, and come home broken and bruised. She would always clean him up, nurse him back to life, then tell him not to keep prospecting for the Knells. Yet he’d continue doing it anyway. Wash, rinse, repeat.

  Silas toed off his boots, but not w
ithout stumbling around.

  Jessa sighed with exasperation, eyeing the bloody mess of his pants leg. “Listen, we should get you to the hospital.”

  “No.”

  It sounded so final, she wasn’t sure how to respond. He limped into the kitchen, moving slower than she’d ever seen him.

  “Fine. Then tell me what happened.”

  Silas paused, drawing a heavy sigh. He leaned against the dining table, sending her a shrouded look. “I got my hands on one of the Spawn. And it didn’t end well for him.”

  “It doesn’t look like it ended so well for you either.” She flicked her fingers up and down in front of him, heading for the medicine cabinet in the kitchen. “Jesus. Can we at least get you cleaned up?”

  Silas grunted, collapsing into a chair at the table. She returned a moment later with the first aid kit and plenty of gauze. Memories came flooding back to her. Her hands moved on autopilot, a groove worn raw in the early years. She looked him up and down. Dirt streaked his face, blood cakes his hands. She let a weary, disappointed sigh.

  “I suppose this is normal for you.”

  “Protecting Stone’s legacy? Getting revenge for that attack the other day? Yeah. That’s normal for me.”

  Jessa didn’t appreciate the bite in his tone. Frowning, she tugged at the back of his kutte. “Take this off. Don’t you sass me when I’m trying to help you.”

  He winced as he leaned forward, gingerly pulling his arms through the kutte. Jessa was about to fling it aside when his stern voice reminded her, “Don’t put that on the floor.”

  She rolled her eyes, though he couldn’t see. She slung it over the back of the dining room chair next to him. “Sorry. Almost forgot. You guys protect this thing more than the American flag.”

  He shook his head, and she felt the unspoken retorts in the air between them. She came around front, noticing a gnarly gash at his side. “We gotta take this off, too.”

  Silas nodded, holding his breath as she rolled the shirt up and then popped it off his head. Gleaming abs stared back at her; a sculpted chest that begged for Instagram followers and an agent. But her gaze didn’t linger long there. He had a nasty cut on his side. She bent down to inspect it; his breath came out in short spurts as she gently pressed the flesh around the cut.

  “It looks mostly superficial,” she said after a minute. She reached up onto the table, groping for the gloves. “I’m gonna clean it out and get you stitched up.”

  A brow shot up. “You do stitches, too? What are you? A nurse?”

  “Not exactly. Just a lifetime of sewing up my loved ones when they go gallivanting around the county doing stupid shit.”

  Her words reverberated in the air between them, urging a response, but he gave none. She cleaned the wound and prepped the tools. Within ten minutes she had sewn him up to the best of her ability. It wasn’t pretty, but it would do the trick.

  Silas looked brighter after she covered the wound with gauze and taped him up. “Anything else?”

  He cleared his throat, shifting in the chair. He grabbed his left knee. “He got me on my leg too.”

  The bloodied jeans were the only path she needed. There was a bad stab wound on the back of his calf. She sucked at her teeth once she was able to reveal part of it and examine.

  “Silas, I can’t help with this one.”

  His face fell. “Come on, nurse. Of course you can.”

  She flattened her lips. “I’m not a real nurse. I’m just the kind that helps in back alleys. You know, where you can still get hepatitis C or something.”

  He snorted with a laugh. “Can’t you just clean it out like the other one?”

  She let a weary sigh. After fiddling with the cuff of his jeans, she knew they’d have to come off. Leaving him naked. In front of her. If she weren’t so acutely aware of MC life, she’d accuse him of staging all this just so she’d have to work on his naked body.

  “Listen, let’s take this into the bathroom. I need to get a better look at this, and I need running water to get everything cleaned up.”

  “Done.” He pushed to a standing point, grimacing slightly as he clutched at the taped wound at his side.

  She offered her arm, helping him hobble to the bathroom step by step. Inside the small, white tiled bathroom, Silas made quick work of his jeans. They crumpled to the floor around him, leaving him clad only in tight black boxer briefs

  “Ohhhkay.” She tried to fight the flush in her neck as she started filling the tub up with water. “Let’s check this out.”

  Silas propped up his foot on the edge of the bathtub so she could get a better look. She squinted while she gently squirted sterile solution on parts of the wound, clearing off the blood-stained skin to get a complete picture of what he was working with.

  It didn’t look good. This one was definitely worse than the wound on his side.

  “You should go to the hospital for this one,” she said, sitting back on her heels. She already knew what his answer was, but he had to at least try.

  “Do what you can. I’ll figure out the rest.”

  She shook her head slowly, mapping out the plan. “You owe me, you know?”

  “I know.” His voice was a sexy growl. He sounded sultry even when he was bleeding and hurt. How was that possible? “Trust me. You’ll get what you deserve.”

  She blinked, selecting a few tools from the first aid kit. “I can’t tell if that’s a threat or not.”

  Silas only smiled in return, wide and mischievous.

  Jessa rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t ignore the prickle of excitement inside her. She was desperate to know what he might repay her with. And it better not be anything ridiculous like flowers and a stuffed bear.

  She knew what he wanted from him; the one thing she’d never admit to.

  Chapter Ten

  Later that night, Silas was all sewed up, and Jessa hoped to God she never had to confront any knife wounds like those again.

  “You’re probably gonna heal all weird,” she said as she tucked away the first aid kits and washed her hands one last time. “But hey, creepy scars add character.”

  He smirked, stretching back on her bed. Once she’d finished sewing him up, he’d taken a shower, during which she fought to not think of all the strong lines of his body. The way those abs flinched whenever he took a damn breath. She’d granted him the luxury of recuperating on her bed, like he’d won the privilege or something. She sat gingerly on the other side of the plush queen, unsure why it felt so good to see him there.

  Maybe just because a body, any body, on the other side of her usually cold and lonely bed was a pleasant sight.

  Or maybe because she had a very real, bona fide pussy crush on this man and only one thing would satisfy it: seeing what was inside those boxer briefs and remembering it this time.

  “Now I’ve got a piece of you to carry around with me forever.” He looked entirely too pleased by this. “Wifey.”

  She tried to roll her eyes, but a giggle escaped instead. Was she fucking crazy? She could not be amused by a hardened biker calling her “wifey” and meaning it. He’d probably just killed a man. She was afraid to ask and find out.

  But even more than that, she was afraid that if she found out, it still wouldn’t change the fact that she wanted to fuck this man’s brains out.

  “You need anything else? A pillow fluff? Aspirin? A shot of whiskey?”

  “What about a hand job?” He sent a devilish grin her way.

  A laugh escaped her. “That’s not on the menu, buddy. Sorry.”

  “I wouldn’t be a man if I didn’t try.” He crossed his hands behind his head, grinning up at the ceiling. She could get used to seeing a sight like this in her bed. Maybe she’d been single so long that she’d forgotten what it was like to have a real male presence at her side. It was impossible to ignore how he lit her up, like every nerve ending in her body was alert and waiting for something, even just for him to glance her way.

  His phone buzzed from the bed
side table, and he groaned, reaching for it. He sat in tense silence as he assessed whatever came through, while she took the opportunity to look him up and down, just in his boxer briefs, since he’d claimed – and she’d agreed – that healing would work better without clothes on. Now, it was just one more excuse to keep ogling him. One less defense against his sexy body and damnable charm.

  While he listened and occasionally grunted in response to whoever had called him, Jessa decided it was time for bed. She’d had enough biker repair for one day. She headed for the dresser, trying to decide what might strike the perfect balance of practical sleepwear and unabashed sluttiness for her newfound bedmate. After all, it’s not like she could kick him out of her bedroom with two stab wounds and an indeterminate amount of injuries.