Master of Salt & Bones

by Keri Lake

  “What lies?”

  “That we were in love.”

  “You didn’t love her?”

  “Never.”

  “Have you ever loved a woman?”

  He seems to hesitate for a moment, but shakes his head. “It’s the only brand of pain I refuse to inflict on myself.”

  “Why is that?”

  He sets the picture down and lifts my arm, tracing my scar with his finger. “When you cut yourself with a blade, there’s an open wound, and blood and pain, but the pain comes to an end and the wound seals to a scar. So you cut yourself again and again, because you forget how much it hurt the first time. The heart is a different animal. A caged, lonely scavenger that feeds on its own wounds. Its scars never heal, because you can’t mend the very thing it needs to survive. So the wound continues to fester, until what’s left of the organ is eventually consumed by its own self-mutilation.”

  I hate that his words penetrate deep, and that I know so intimately their meaning. The world would call his sentiments depressing and morose, but it’s the most honest definition of love I’ve ever heard.

  I run my thumb over the scars along his arm, the tips of my finger traveling over the jagged, irregular edges of wounds that didn’t seal properly. “You’ve hurt yourself, too.”

  “I’m not the devil they make me out to be. The heartless, callous monster. You can’t do this shit to yourself without feeling something. That’s the problem. I feel everything. I feel it very deeply.”

  Monsters and devils don’t keep drawers full of their son’s old pictures and toys. They don’t intervene when violent drug dealers make terrifying threats. And they certainly don’t kiss like the world might burn down at any moment.

  “You’re no monster,” I whisper, climbing over his body, urging him onto his back. Legs straddling him, I feel the warmth of his hands trail over my thighs to the curves of my hips and higher. My breasts, heavy and pulling at my shoulders, jut forward with his wandering fingertips, nipples hardening beneath the pads of his thumbs.

  His tongue sweeps over his lips, his eyes seeming to devour every inch of my body, as he pushes aside the edges of my borrowed shirt. “How can you be so fucking perfect? It’s maddening to look at you.”

  “Why?”

  “So many things I want to do to you. I never know where to begin.” He gives a tiny tug at my nipples, and I arch toward him, which seems to please him, from the way he bites his lip and grinds me against his erection. “You should be grateful that I don’t have a pair of cuffs at my disposal.”

  “I’ve personally found your hands to be just as effective.”

  His lips stretch to a wily smile, and before I can react, he knocks me to the mattress, flipping me onto my stomach with ease. In two rapid movements, I’m beneath him, lying on my stomach with my face smashed into the pillow. Big palms grip my wrists at either side of my head, pinning me to the bed. His cock glides between the cheeks of my ass, and the heat of his breath falls against the back of my neck. “If my hands weren’t occupied, though, they could hold your thighs apart while I eat your pussy for breakfast.”

  “You assume I’ll try to get away from that?”

  “Maybe not.” He licks the shell of my ear, the tip of his cock prodding my entrance. “But it’s better when you can’t.”

  From the nightstand, he tears another condom from the strip, two of which we’ve already used.

  Turning to the side, I watch him rip open the package with his teeth.

  “Do you always use condoms?” I ask, the self-conscious side of me rearing its ugly head. Back home, guys wore condoms with me because they assumed I whored myself out.

  “Yes. It’s nothing personal.” After sliding the barrier down his shaft, he grips the base of his stiff erection and moves up my body. “I’ve no intentions of becoming a father again.”

  “Ever?”

  “Ever.”

  It doesn’t hurt my feelings, as I don’t intend to become my mother, either--pregnant before I have my shit together. As he holds himself behind me, waiting and teasing, as usual, I raise my hips up and stir my ass against his groin to taunt him.

  A firm hand grips the back of my neck, squeezing hard enough to make me still. I try to lift my head, to see if I’ve pissed him off somehow, but he holds me down, like a lion affirming dominance over his female. He’s a man who likes to be in control of his body, and perhaps my teasing caught him off guard.

  “You love to taunt me. Yet, you tremble in my grasp.”

  “I can’t tell if you’re angry.”

  “I am angry.” Sliding my hands up to either side of the pillow, he holds me captive as he drives forward, filling the ache between my thighs. In slow and easy thrusts, he pumps in and out of me, jerking my body with each rough invasion. “I hate that fucking you has become my favorite thing in the world.”

  “Then, stop, if it troubles you so much.”

  “I can’t stop. Once I’m inside of you, and I can feel that tight little hole gripping my dick.” He bends my arms, and holds my wrists behind my back like that of a criminal about to be cuffed. His arm slides beneath my stomach, propping me up onto my knees, and with one hand holding my wrists captive, he grips the back of my neck again with the other. “It’s impossible to stop,” he grits in my ear, hips slapping against my ass as he pounds into me with fervor. “This is what you do to me. My head. My body. It’s madness. And I’m going to fuck you until I no longer feel this violence inside of me.”

  I don’t know where, or when, I developed a desire for rough sex, but everything about this sends a wicked thrill through my body. The idea that I’ve stirred this lack of control, made him want me to the point of savagery, it almost feels like too much power in my hands. Like I’m holding the reins of an untamable beast.

  Like I’m the one in control.

  It’s strange, the way he makes me feel this way, as comparatively small and inexperienced as I am.

  I turn my head into the pillow, breathing hard against the cotton, and my thoughts take me back to the night before, when his lips sealed off the oxygen as I climaxed. How exquisite it felt, the tug for air, the tightening of muscles, my body in a frenzy for release.

  Pace escalating, he grunts while he ruts against me, the force of his body knocking what little breath remains out of my lungs.

  I focus on his stiff length slipping in and out of me, the way my breasts jitter beneath me on each forward thrust.

  Oh, God.

  My head urges me to turn and steal a breath, but I can’t. I want the burn in my chest, the cramping in my womb, and the tremble of my muscles, as it culminates inside of me.

  “Keep your head in the pillow.” Lucian’s voice is ragged and strained, his fingers digging into my wrists, keeping me hostage as he drives into me.

  My body jostles like a ragdoll beneath him, helpless to his relentless assault, and I curl my fingers in his grasp, desperate for air, desperate for release, desperate for the pleasure he’s stirred inside of me.

  So close.

  Chest pulsing for one sip of breath, I bite the sheets, listening to the perpetual sound of slapping skin echo through the room over his grunts and growls.

  Long, labored moans escape my lips, captured into the pillowcase. The damp cotton fails to offer more than a small bit of air, not enough to fill my lungs.

  My muscles tighten. Toes curl. Arms tremble in his grasp. I’m so close.

  “Come for me, Isa.”

  The deep timbre of Lucian’s voice sends me flying over the edge, into the stratosphere where the light flashes in my eyes. I scream into the pillow, while pleasure rips through my body, the dizzying poison exploding through my veins.

  I turn my head to suck in a breath, drinking in the cool air that rushes into my chest. His palm slides beneath my throat, my wrists still bound in his other hand, and he squeezes as he lies across my back and runs his teeth over my jawline. Thrusts slowing, the groan in his throat is long and tortured, and he releases my ne
ck to push off of me. As cool air hits my back, Lucian’s curses bounce off the walls.

  As he jerks out the last of his orgasm, I lie weak and exhausted, reeling from my newfound thrill.

  “You enjoy the lack of breath.” He rests his head against my shoulders and kisses my damp skin.

  I nod, still panting from the exertion that has every muscle feeling like jelly. “I think I just figured out my new favorite thing, too.”

  “You and I are going to get along very well, my little raven.” Teeth nipping my skin, he tightens his grip around me, drawing my arms in and caging me beneath him. “As tragic as that may be.”

  Chapter 46

  Lucian

  Four years ago …

  Voices echo around me. Sterile scents invade my senses. I can’t tell if I’m awake or asleep. The incessant beeping in my ear grows louder, until I open my eyes to see white walls and a half-closed white curtain, enveloping me in with two men in white coats.

  Am I dead?

  A flash of blinding light hits the back of my head, making my eyes instinctively screw shut, and I feel the flames burning my skin.

  I jerk awake, but when I try to sit up, my body doesn’t move.

  “Relax, Lucian. Your heart sounds as if it might gallop away any minute.” The voice is foreign to me, in this place that feels like a dream.

  “Where am I? What is this?” The words arrive stiff and clipped through an ache in my jaw that pulses in my ear.

  “I’m Dr. Thames, and this is Dr. Mayer,” he says, gesturing to the shorter, stocky man beside him. “He’s an expert in the field of reconstructive surgery.”

  “Wh-what are you talking about?”

  “You’ve been in a coma for about a week. In that time, we’ve done some minor patches to your face and jawline, but wanted to wait until you were stable before taking you to the OR.”

  “Patches? For what?” A fog swirls inside my head, dancing around the dull throb that beats through my sinuses.

  “You were in an accident and sustained some fairly serious injuries, particularly to your jawline, shoulder, arm and thigh. Your shoulder took the brunt of the impact, but you have a number of broken bones in your face, collarbone and ribs. There was quite a bit of head trauma, as well. The coma was induced to reduce some of the swelling on your brain. We placed a drain that, I’m pleased to report, we were able to remove yesterday afternoon, along with weaning you off the vent. You’ve remained stable since.”

  My mind replays the last thing I remember. The lights. The fire. Roark holding his teddy bear. “My son. Where’s my son?”

  “Your mother tells me there was an accident at home? That was the nature of you hopping on a bike with no helmet.”

  “Accident?” I say the word aloud, and the movie reel inside my head rewinds further. Roark sleeping. The pill bottle. No pulse. My chest expands as the panic blooms behind my ribs, until I can’t breathe.

  Something beeps inside the room.

  “Hey, hey. Calm down, Lucian.”

  A hand touches my shoulder, and I want to throw it off me, but can’t. Nothing moves. I can’t feel anything but the agony tearing through me. “He’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. As difficult as it may be, the best thing you can do right now, Mr. Blackthorne, is focus on your recovery.”

  Tears distort his form, as I stare up at this man I don’t even know. One who thinks he knows what’s best for me. “What’s the point?”

  Two weeks have passed since the accident. Two weeks of rehab. Caring too little. Thinking too much. Drowning in the misery and guilt of having failed my son. It’s there every time I look into the mirror. The mangled remains of my face, so riddled with scars and metal plates that I don’t even feel human anymore. My punishment for being a shitty father. For putting myself first, when it should’ve been Roark.

  His body was eventually returned to us and buried in a small sarcophagus down in the catacombs. It’s a place I can’t bring myself to visit. Not for a while.

  “It was an accident. That’s all. An oversight,” my father says, sitting in his chair across from me, Amelia, and Mayor Boyd. “No one is really at fault here.”

  At my father’s words, I lift my gaze from the condensation trickling down the glass of water that I’ve been staring at for the last twenty minutes. “He got his hands on her fucking pills. How is she not at fault?”

  “I have told you repeatedly, Lucian.” Amelia’s voice has grown weaker, more fragile than before. “I would never--”

  “But you did.” My jaw remains stiff, with more titanium in my face than a Russian submarine. “And now he’s dead.”

  “And you’ll just keep punishing and punishing me and punishing me,” she whispers.

  “All right, all right.” My father waves his hands in the air, the tone of his voice laced with irritation. “Enough of this bickering like children. We have a much bigger issue to contend with, which is what to tell the media. They’ve been all over us since Lucian’s little circus sideshow.”

  “Sideshow? Look at me. Can you even look at me?” I tip my head to catch his gaze, a zap of electricity striking my skull as I grind my teeth. “This is what you wanted of me, remember? To be a father. A fucking monster, like you.”

  “Careful, boy. Now’s not the time. The point of this meeting is to discuss next steps. If word gets out that Amelia’s pills were the cause of his death, she’ll be strung up like a Salem witch by this town. It’ll be bad for her, for Mayor Boyd, and for us. Everyone who had contact with Roark that night, down to the goddamn dispatcher who took the call, has been informed to remain quiet.”

  In other words, threatened to be buried six feet under. The beauty of money and power.

  “You think you can keep this from getting out? Someone is going to talk. They’re going to slip.” In spite of the pain, I steal the opportunity to chuckle. “I hope they do.”

  “And we’ll address it when the time comes. For now, we’re going to inform the media that Roark has gone missing.”

  “I’m not lying to the media about what happened to my son.”

  “You don’t have to. I’ll be speaking on behalf of his distraught and grieving parents. There will be a reward for anyone who has information about him. All you have to do is keep your mouth shut and play along. Sheriff Townsend has agreed to do the same.”

  Of course he has. He’s one of my father’s little cult buddies, and will, without question, take the secret to his grave. They all will, because that’s the Blackthorne curse. That’s what’s earned us the reputation of crossing paths with a black cat. That’s why no one will dare dispute a word of this, and Roark’s death will forever remain a mystery.

  I turn my gaze away from my father, from Amelia, and Mayor Boyd. “This is wrong.”

  “Welcome to the world of power, my boy.”

  Chapter 47

  Isadora

  Present day …

  Freshly showered, Lucian exits the bathroom, wearing only a towel wrapped around his lower half, the perfect V disappearing into the crisp white fabric. He leans in to kiss me, where I lay on the bed, having left the shower ahead of him. This is the moment I’ve dreaded. When we part ways and the awkwardness settles between us. I almost wish he’d been a dick afterward and ditched me last night, because at least then I’d be familiar with this. I’d know what to expect between us.

  “You’re welcome to stay here today, if you’d like,” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “No sense packing up, just to turn around and come back.”

  The idea of staying seems even more awkward, especially when I haven’t figured out if this was just a onetime thing between us. A weekend of sex, and we’ll be back to boss and employee come tomorrow, when the work week starts over. “I can’t. I have to run a quick errand in town, and I told my aunt I’d have lunch at The Shoal.”

  “I see.” The disappointment in his voice almost sounds as if he’d prefer that I stay. “I guess I’ll see you when you get
back, then.”

  “You could come with me.” I flinch as the words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  Again.

  Especially when the expression on his face is what I’d expect if I’d just eaten a bowl full of maggots in front of him.

  “Have you seen the crosses along the road? They call me the devil, in case you’ve forgotten. The mere sight of me will have them all believing the apocalypse has arrived.”

  The thought of such a thing brings a smile to my face. What I wouldn’t give … “I don’t blame you. They treat me like shit, too.” With a sigh, I sit up on the bed, holding the crumpled sheet to my breast, and glance around the room. “If I lived here, I probably wouldn’t want to leave, either.”

  “They treat you like shit, too. Why?”

  Shrugging, I pull my knees up to my chest. “Because of my mom, mostly. I guess I inherited her reputation.”

  “Isn’t that always the case.” It’s not a question, and there’s a kindred spark behind his eyes as he studies me.

  “It was really bad, my first couple years of high school. The other kids and their parents, teachers, they all treated me like I was some kind of plague.” Memories of my first day filter in, when I sat eating lunch under the staircase, just looking for a place to breathe. “It gets easier after a while. Almost like their hate becomes part of your skin.” I run my finger over the tiny ridges of scars along my forearm. “Surface. As long as it stays on the surface, it can’t touch who you are inside.”

  “On second thought, I would like to accompany you today.”

  A zap of surprise washes over me with his sudden change of heart. “Really?”

  “Really. I’ll drive.”

  Expecting to see Lucian dress casual is like expecting a star to be less brilliant. No matter what he’s wearing, he always looks like a million bucks.