by J, Bella
BELLA J
Contents
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note:
Prologue
1. Alyx
2. Alyx
3. Granite
4. Alyx
5. Granite
6. Alyx
7. Granite
8. Alyx
9. Granite
10. Alyx
11. Granite
12. Alyx
13. Granite
14. Alyx
15. Granite
16. Alyx
17. Granite
18. Alyx
19. Granite
20. Alyx
21. Granite
22. Alyx
23. Granite
Defiant
OTHER NOVELS by BELLA J
About the Author
Copyright ©2019 by Bella J
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual living or dead person, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
Acknowledgments
Editor: Lori Whitwam
Cover Design by Clarise Tan, CT Cover Creations
Cover Model: Ryan Pires
Cover Photography by Wander Aguiar
Dedication
Nikki, you made this happen.
So, this one is for you!
XOXO
Author’s Note:
Depraved is a dark MC novel. Don’t expect unicorns and fluff.
Enjoy the ride.
XOXO
Prologue
Fair skin. Petite build. Beautifully delicate.
She wasn’t something that belonged in my world, but I loved watching her. Every night she would be here, dancing under the stars. And I would be here too, hiding in the shadows, watching her. She was completely unaware of my presence, and I preferred it like that. This way I could see the real her. The girl she hid from the rest of the world.
But not from me.
She could never hide her true self from me. Not while I watched her in her most vulnerable moments—moments when she didn’t even know I was there.
This was our place. The one place she didn’t have to wear a mask in order to be what others wanted her to be. And the one place I could be the true me. A man who desired a woman in the secret of night. A man who was fixated on a girl wearing a pair of pink ballerina slippers. A man who staked his claim over her even if she didn’t know it yet. A man who longed for the day when the object of his obsession was ready to be corrupted.
A depraved man.
I blew out a cloud of smoke. No one else was around. No one was ever around. Only us, and my body hummed with the thrill of knowing she was dancing just for me.
The way she lifted herself on her toes—perfect posture, perfect balance—she seemed weightless, like a feather, lost and drifting in the wind. Where would she land? Where would the breeze take my perfect ballerina girl?
She twirled, arching a leg behind her, and I knew her nightly routine was about to come to an end. It was only for half an hour every night that she escaped to the farthest corner of her parents’ estate, the part covered with oak trees and lush grass. What she didn’t know, the abandoned building across the road was the perfect spot for me to sit and watch the show.
I flicked the cigarette butt out the broken window. Tomorrow I’d continue to do what I’d been doing for years.
Watch her. Mark her. Protect her.
I wasn’t delusional. I wasn’t in denial. I knew my fascination with her was toxic, but she made it impossible for me to fight it.
She was mine. She had been mine from the first night our eyes met as she stared out her bedroom window.
Only thing was, she wasn’t ready yet.
She wasn’t ready for my world and for the ugly depths of my obsession.
But she would be.
Soon.
1
Alyx
Midnight. The witching hour. The time evil came out to play. It was also the time when they arrived. The roar of engines sliced through the silence of night and set my heart racing. My skin tingled, and heat spread through me like wildfire.
It was him. The man I’d been watching from my bedroom window ever since they started coming around. He would come once a week, and always around midnight. Three motorcycles would be parked in the dark out front, and I would watch as he and two other men made their way to our front door.
Leather cuts, torn jeans, and shit-kicker boots set them apart from us and our designer label clothing. Even in the dark they looked mean and callous.
One of them had a clean-shaven head, and the other short hair, cut neatly. But him? He had longer hair. Dark—the same color as midnight—and it settled just below his shoulders. It was never styled, never neatly put in place, but always disheveled. There was this thing he did with his hair after taking off his helmet, pushing his fingers through the strands and pulling it back. It was like he tried to make it seem more…chaotic. Messed up. Perfect.
From the second floor of our house, it was easy to see his frame was bigger than the other two. Long body, broad shoulders, denim jeans clinging to thick thighs. During the last year, I had committed every inch of his frame to memory. Thinking about him. Fantasizing…my stranger in the dark.
His weekly visits were one of my father’s many secrets. A well-respected police commissioner’s reputation would be ruined if the public knew about his ties with one of New York’s most notorious motorcycle gangs. I never could figure out what kind of business my dad would have with these men. But while I stared from my window at the man in the shadows, I didn’t really care. The way my heart kept racing, my stomach filled with a kind of excitement I’d never felt before, I knew I had grown addicted to it. The thrill of watching him, studying him…desiring him.
He never looked around when he walked up to the front door. Under the dim light that came from the porch, I could make out the contour of his face and the shadow of his beard. But everything about him screamed business. Determination. Danger. Every step he took was calculated, confident, and undeniably dominant. He was the alpha, the leader—even I could see that.
The weekly visits usually lasted about an hour, maybe less. And I would wait by the window with so much expectation from the prospect of catching another glimpse of him, because this was the exciting part. The part where he left. It was the part I loved the most.
The front door would open, and first I’d see their shadows falling on the well-manicured lawn and cobble walkway. I would lean to the side of the window, my heart thumping erratically inside my chest…waiting…anticipating.
Then he would appear, his back toward me. The cut he wore told me who he was, a member of the American Street Kings—a wicked skull with the American flag proudly displayed on the leather. It was beautiful and threatening at the same time.
He’d reach his Harley, and I would straighten, my heart wanting to crawl out of my throat. My stomach would turn into a thousand knots within a split second as I watched him throw his cigarette to the ground, pressing on the little yellow coal with his boot. He would turn his head, glancing over his shoulder in my direction. Then, finally, the moment I had been waiting for ever since I heard the roar of their motorcycles coming down our driveway.
The moment when he turned around and looked right at me. I swallowed hard, equal parts excitement and fear running rampant inside me, but I refused to look away because it was all there. It was there, in his eyes. I could see it all the way from the second floor. The promise. The vow…the warning.
He would come for me. One day. Whether I wanted him to or not.
2
Alyx
Two years later
The bandages around my toes irritated me. One would think I’d be used to Band-Aids and bleeding feet after years of dancing. But judging by the throbbing pain at the tips of my toes and how I fidgeted with the bandages, obviously not.
I was only two weeks into my second year at Juilliard, and already the vigorous training was taking its toll. Hours and hours of grueling practice, the need for perfection fueling me to move past the point of pain, yet I still didn’t feel like I was able to accomplish anything.
The ache in my back made me lean over, rubbing my palm up and down my side. The bright neon lights shining in the reception area wasn’t helping the migraine that was starting to develop just above my eyes.
The sound of beads belting together drew my attention to the man emerging from the back of the studio, Red shortly on his heel.
“Make sure to keep that wrapping on for a few hours.” She opened the door and held it as the man with the wrapped forearm walked out with nothing but a nod.
“You’re welcome.” She closed the door behind him. “Asshole.”
I smiled. “Another friendly customer?”
She flipped her dyed, ruby red hair over her shoulder, and I caught sight of the row of earrings she had pierced all around her earlobe. “He’s not the friendliest, but at least he’s a regular. Comes here every month to get more ink done.” She shrugged. “I guess that’s thank you enough.”
With a half-smile, I slipped my shoes back on my feet and got up, grabbing my bag. “You’re the best artist in town, Red. He’d be dumb to get work done by anyone else.”
She nudged me with her elbow. “You’re just saying that because the best artist in town also happens to be your best friend for how long now?” She feigned a look of thought. “Seven years?”
“Six.”
“Nah.” She waved it off. “Who’s counting?” She placed her arm around my shoulder. “Have you decided what you want?”
I nodded.
Her face lit up. “And? What is it?”
I paused. “Do you promise not to ask questions?”
“Are you kidding me? I’ve been nagging your ass to get a tattoo for the last seven years—”
“Six.”
“Whatever. My point is, you’re finally getting a tattoo, and now you expect me to not ask questions? Are you insane?”
I pulled the rubber band from my wrist and tied my hair in a high ponytail. “I’m serious, Red. No questions.”
“Ugh,” she groaned. “Okay, fine. Let me see it?” She rolled her eyes and held out her hand.
I pulled a piece of paper out of my denim jacket, reluctantly placing it in her palm. No one knew Red the way I did, and I knew once she saw the drawing I wanted inked, her head was going to explode with a million questions.
Red folded it open, and I watched as a giant question mark formed right above her forehead. “Are you serious?”
“Very.”
“But wh—”
I held up a finger, silencing her. “Nah-ah. No questions.”
“Come on!” She stomped her wedge-heeled boot. “How can you expect me to not have questions now?”
“Oh, I don’t expect you to not have questions. I expect you not to ask them.” I winked at her, which only seemed to irk her more.
She pursed her red lips, green eyes swimming with curiosity. “Fine,” she conceded. “Now, go sit your ass down so I can torture you with a needle.”
I let out a laugh, trying to mask how nervous I was. This was my first tattoo, and I had no idea what to expect. Plus, I didn’t have a great relationship with needles. But who did?
I sat on the chair and eyed Red with suspicion. “You’re going to make this as painful as possible, aren’t you?”
“Can I ask a question?”
“No.”
“Then, yes. Yes, I am.”
Red busied herself tracing the image on a piece of stencil paper while I grew more nervous by the second.
“One,” I said, and Red slowly turned to face me. “You can ask one question.”
Red bit her lip, green eyes glancing all around the room while I heard the wheels turning in her head. “Okay, I do have one question.”
“Yeah?”
“And it’s by far the most important question I can ask right now.”
“Yes?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You better give me the truth.”
“Of course.”
Red scooted closer, her face hard with an immense amount of seriousness. “So, my question is…does your mom know you’re getting this tattoo?”
The heaviness of the moment lingered for a split second before I burst out laughing. “Are you serious? Is that your question?”
Red shrugged. “It’s a legit, important question, my friend.”
I snickered. “No, Red. My mom doesn’t know. And she won’t know either.”
Red threw her hands in the air. “Are you trying to fucking torture me?”
“You know she can’t find out.”
“Are you telling me your mom won’t know that her perfect little ballerina got her skin inked…permanently?”
“Geez, Red. You look disappointed.”
“Fuck, yeah, I am. This is like the best way ever to piss your mother off, yet you deny me the pleasure of seeing the look of shock and disgust on her face for the first time ever.”
I shimmied out of my tights, placed them on top of my bag, then slipped back onto the chair. “My mom would kill me if she finds out, which is why I want it here.” I pointed to my inner right thigh, and Red’s gaze followed.
She rolled her green eyes. “I’d much rather we tattoo this baby on your forehead so mommy-dearest won’t ever be able to miss it.”
“Shut up.” I chuckled. “Now, hurry up. I have an early class tomorrow.”
Red studied me with curious eyes. “You sure about this?”
“I’m sure. Now get a move on before I change mind.”
“Okay, then.”
It took Red about twenty minutes to trace the image on the stencil paper. While I watched her work, I thought about what my mother would do if she ever found out. Perfection was my mom’s religion, and she had spent my entire life making sure it was mine too. Ever since I could remember, my mom had always talked about me following in her footsteps, becoming this perfect ballerina. How I would perform around the world, be the star attraction as the beautiful Odette in Swan Lake. Dancing was my mom’s life, and she had managed to make it my life as well.
“All right, let’s do this.” Red pulled on a pair of gloves and cleaned the area on my thigh. “I’m not gonna lie, it hurts like a bitch.”
I snorted. “Have you seen my toes lately?”
“Oh, God. Fucking masochist. I still don’t get why you torture yourself so willingly when it’s not even something you want to do.”
“It is.” My words didn’t come out as strong as they should have.
Red just cocked a brow at me as if to say, “Who are you kidding?”
It wasn’t that I didn’t like ballet. I did. As a little girl, I loved dancing around in the garden, letting my own music guide my steps. But my mom’s obsession with dancing took the music inside me away, and now it was merely the steps that remained.
The buzzing of the machine started, and without warning, Red grazed the needle across my skin, all along the traced image.
I cringed, the scratching pain burning my flesh. It was as if a thousand needles pierced my skin, pricks of torture marking me. But after a few seconds, the pain started to dissipate—or my skin got used to it. Either way, it wasn’t as bad as I expected it to be.
The more Red moved the needle over my skin, the more I started to like the burn. It wasn’t like the ache throbbing in my toes. Maybe because the pain was a result of a decision I had made, and not bleeding blisters because of something my mother wanted me to do.
I leaned back, lifting my gaze to the roof
while Red continued inking my inner thigh. Metal music played in the background, and I closed my eyes, imagining the steps if I had to dance to the rhythm of it. My mom would die a slow, painful death if she had to witness me dancing to metal music. Nothing but classical music was played in our house. Even as a kid, my mom would let me listen to Mozart rather than nursey rhymes.
With a sigh, I placed my arms over my eyes, feeling just a little sorry for myself stuck in the gilded cage my mother had put her little swan in. Good God. I was becoming that girl. The girl who would carry psychological scars because of her control-freak mother. I was already living with a borderline eating disorder because I was taught how to count calories since I was eight.
“And that’s a wrap.”
I sat up abruptly. “Are you done already?”
“Dude, I’ve been working on this baby for the last two hours.”
I glanced from her to the bright purple clock on the wall. “Wow, who knew pain would make the time go by so fast?”
Red placed the protective wrapping over my freshly tattooed skin. “I’ve said this a million times, and I’ll say it again. You are a fucking weirdo who’s in need of a good old-fashioned fucking.” She pulled off her gloves with a snap, and I pulled on my tights.
“I tried that, remember? And look how that turned out.”
Red held out two painkillers in her palm, her gaze pinned on mine. “Don’t kid yourself, my friend. That wasn’t a good old-fashioned fuck.”