MALICE (A HOUNDS OF HELL MOTORCYCLE CLUB ROMANCE)

by Nikki Wild

  As I watched the expressions change on his face in rapid succession, that cold look toward me made me realize that Jackal himself was pondering that very same question. He flipped the knife over once, twice, three times, snapping the fingers of his opposite hand nervously as he stared at me, weighing his chances of doing me in before whoever was outside found him.

  Another crash echoed down the hallway—this one much closer than any of the others—and seemed to make Jackal’s decision for him as he turned his gaze from me. “Later. We’ll finish this later,” he said, and bolted out of the holding cell.

  And just like that, I was alone, feeling like I had just watched a scene from a foreign film with only half of the subtitles in English—and even those didn’t even explain what the hell had just happened. Why had Jackal been so freaked out? Who was out there making such a damn scene in the rest of the sheriff’s station? And why the hell was this shit happening now?

  The sounds of conflict outside of the holding cell had stopped and all that was left was an eerie quiet that left me with a cold feeling of dread. If whoever was out there was bad enough to have Jackal run off with his tail between his legs, I wasn’t sure I wanted to meet them, even if I did have them to thank for saving my life. For all I knew they were just as likely to slit my throat as Jackal or Sheriff Rigby was. And it was that sense of uncertainty that made me almost wish that Jackal would come back. At least then I would know how this would play out.

  A few moments passed in silence, broken only by the occasional—extremely muffled—sounds of someone speaking close by. The voices themselves were too distant to make out or even recognize if that were even possible, but something in my gut had me wanting to follow after Jackal, sure that whoever came through that door next wouldn’t be any friend of mine.

  If only I’d known.

  “In here,” a voice called from the hallway, the first discernible one I’d heard since Jackal had made a break for it. But as I began to hear more and more voices joining the first, I felt my stomach sink down into my feet. I could recognize most of the people in the hall—after all I’d spent the last few years practically living with them, drinking and wearing their colors on my vest.

  I’m so fucked, I thought, a cold sensation taking hold of my chest as I realize exactly who my saviors were.

  The light that had once poured in from the hallways was suddenly obscured by a mountain of a man—the kind of man you expect would need to duck in order to get through a doorway just from looking at him. I’d known him for longer than I could even remember, and that fact only made me more terrified of what would be coming next as the Sergeant-at-Arms for the Hounds of Hell stood before me, arms crossed and eyes narrowed as I sat tied to a chair.

  “Evenin’, sunshine,” Crush grunted, chuckling as he let his gaze wander over me. If I weren’t in such deep shit, I might have even shared in the chuckle with him, but the truth was that I wasn’t sure I was any safer now than when Jackal had pulled that knife on me. After everything that had happened between me and the club, I was sure that I wouldn’t be leaving this cell in one piece. “Looks like you had a rough night.”

  “Looks like it’s about to get worse,” I said, briefly casting my eyes toward the door where I could see a few more silhouettes of at least three of the other members of the Hounds of Hell, all trying to get a look at what was about to happen. “Not sure which one would have done a worse number on me before I kicked it, you or Jackal.”

  “Jackal did that to you?” Crush asked with an air of skepticism, his bushy eyebrows raised, tilting his head just slightly to get a little at me from another angle. “You don’t look cut up none. Jackal would have cut you good.”

  “He was about to before—” I stopped mid-sentence, staring at Crush and then the other club members gathered outside of the door. “Before you all showed up.”

  “Yeah, pieces of shit like him usually don’t stick around to get what’s coming to them,” the enormous biker said, shaking his head. “We’ve been tracking his sorry ass all over.”

  “Tracking him? Why? I thought that—”

  “What? That we worked for him still?” Crush let out a short barking laugh. “After what that bastard did, he’s lucky he isn’t dead already. Only reason he isn’t is because he turned tail like the coward he is the moment we found out about that little girl. We’ve been on his trail for days, and figured this would be one of the only places he knew well enough to try to lay low in… Didn’t expect to find you here though.”

  I felt like everything that I’d based the last few weeks of my life on was suddenly crumbling around me. As I sat there, doing my best to process what was happening, Crush walked around to the back of the chair and slid the blade of his knife between my hands and the zip-tie that bound them to the chair. My wrists stung where I’d rubbed the skin raw pulling at the plastic but for the first time in the last few hours I was free… but was I safe?

  “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do,” Crush growled, coming back around to face me, knife still in hand. “And a hell of a lot to answer for—running off on your brothers…”

  “I get that,” I said, standing up tentatively from the wooden chair, rubbing at the red, chafed skin of my wrists. “But right now, I need a bike.”

  “What the hell for?” the Sergeant-at-Arms asked. “You got some hot fucking date to get to? I need some fucking answers, Leo.”

  “And you’re going to get them, I swear,” I promised, looking up into the mountainous man’s coal-colored eyes. “But right now I need you to trust me, Crush.”

  I swallowed, feeling the seconds of silence that follow pass by like they were hours, a snarl crossing the almost bear-like man’s face, his tree-trunk arms flexing as he considered my request. He had no damn reason to trust me, not one and for a moment I even expected him to tie me back to the chair for even asking.

  “Done,” he said finally, one simple syllable that I barely even registered at first.

  “Seriously?” I asked, shocked that he’d even considered it after everything that I’d done, as far as the Club was concerned I would have been persona-non-grata, completely cut off after I’d ran like I had… and he was just going to give me a ride without hardly any consideration?

  “You’re a brother, Leo,” he said, his expression stern, “you’ve always got our trust.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys that he threw in my direction, barely catching them. “You can take my ride. Just don’t make me regret this.”

  “I won’t,” I said, giving the massive man a nod before heading straight for the door. The other members of the club parting like the Red Sea as I approached.

  Outside of the holding cell, I began to get a better picture of what had happened while Jackal was torturing me. The unconscious forms of the deputies were currently all being dragged into what looked like an office just off of the main lobby, their hands bound by their own handcuffs as a few other members of the Hounds of Hell stood watch over them. Tables and chairs had apparently been the only real casualties of this little dust-up, and I was honestly surprised there hadn’t been more damage—though even I could admit that killing a bunch of deputies and a sheriff would have been a bad move even for guys like the Hounds of Hell.

  Crush’s bike wasn’t hard to spot, a Harley Davidson XL1200 that he’d won a few years back in a poker game—that damn thing was Crush’s fucking pride and joy, which made him giving it to me to use all the more unbelievable. The engine roared to life as I turned the key in the ignition and for the first time since my accident I was back in the saddle and damn did it feel good.

  “Don’t worry Lulu,” I said as I pulled the bike out onto the street. “I’m coming.”

  Twenty-Two

  Lucy

  “Of course,” Delfino said. “I understand.” His tone was even. Cool. There was nothing in his expression to suggest I might get even a hint of what had transpired between him and his employer. For most of the conversation, Delfino had replied with o
nly noncommittal answers. He listened far more than he talked. I supposed it was a sign of deference.

  And yet, as their call drew to a close, some unquantifiable variation in his tone made my pulse pound. I thought perhaps I sensed a note of resignation. A sigh of defeat, of failure. Clipped and professional, those four words were intoned in such a way as to remind me of a doctor issuing a terminal diagnosis. Get your affairs in order. It won’t be long now.

  He looked at me, just a glance, as whoever was on the other end of the line continued to speak. He was standing now, near to the window, occasionally pulling aside the curtain and looking out over the street. Apparently satisfied with whatever he saw—or didn’t see—he’d inevitably let go of the fabric and use that hand to card his fingers through his hair, pushing the silvery locks up and out of his ice-blue eyes. His forehead creased in a way that made him look even older than he was, as if every moment he had to remain on the line aged him exponentially. Delfino had never looked so ragged to me, so worn down.

  It reminded me that mountains could be moved by inches and degrees, eroded over time, their façades crumbling into ash and dust. Maybe on some level it was satisfying to watch Delfino fall apart, but on another, the landslide that came with it would surely be devastating. I pulled on my fingers, wringing my hands so as not to let him see them tremble.

  “Soon,” he rasped, looking out the window again. The half-light lingered on only one side of his face, casting the other in shadow. “I’m bringing the girl.”

  Bringing? I thought. Just when I thought my stomach couldn’t fall any farther, it plummeted to unfathomable depths. Bringing me where?

  Delfino’s boss must have said something he didn’t like, because the faintest twitch of a scowl pulled at his lips. “It’s non-negotiable,” he muttered. And then, seemingly without waiting for a reply, he terminated the call. The look in his eyes when he met my gaze—I wondered if he was going to terminate me too.

  He said, “Pack your things. Whatever you can carry. There’s a duffel bag in my closet you can use.”

  I gaped at him like a fish. “Pack? Where are we going?”

  “One of Don Carliogne’s safehouses,” Delfino tonelessly replied. “We’re bugging out.”

  My throat felt like it was going to close up. I was just dimly aware that I was sputtering as I spoke. My teeth were chattering that hard. “A safehouse? Where? When?!” And the unspoken question: Would we actually be safe there?

  Delfino was already moving past me toward the stairs, undoubtedly aiming for his room. He had so few personal possessions I wasn’t sure what he’d take with him from this place. Maybe he wouldn’t take anything at all.

  Except for me. Apparently, I was his personal possession. Cold dread skittered up my spine like a hundred spiders cascading over a xylophone.

  “Delfino!” I shrieked, stopping him in his tracks. If there was one thing that could make this situation any worse for him, it would be me drawing attention to it. He turned his head slowly, staring down at me over the banister. “Answer me!”

  “New Hampshire,” he said after a long moment. His voice was whisper-quiet, dead leaves grating against the sides of a gutter. Even in the silence of the house, I had to strain to hear him. “Now.”

  My stomach rolled, the sheer force of it threatening to take me off my feet. “It’s the middle of the night…” I said around a tight, quivering swallow. It was a weak protest. We both knew it. The look in Delfino’s eyes was almost pitying.

  “Just the one bag,” he reminded me. Then he turned away, down the hall. “I’ll bring it to your room.”

  I covered my mouth with both hands, trying to keep myself from hyperventilating. In the span of a couple hours, I’d managed to lose everything. My dignity. My shot at freedom. The prison I’d called home. Worst of all, I had lost Leo, a grief I hadn’t even had time to deal with yet. And now… now I was going to lose my life. I was sure of it.

  The hardwood slats beneath my feet felt like mud sucking me down, clenching around my ankles, rooting me in place. I was trapped, well and truly. There was no escaping my fate. Maybe there never was. I was sure that in time it would feel that way—like Leo had only ever been a dream. That was what had happened before, all those years he’d stayed away. Unable to deal with the loss, my mind had relegated him to a fantasy in order to protect me. To spare me that overwhelming pain.

  But I didn’t want to forget him. Not this time. I didn’t want to forget the hope he’d given me, and I didn’t want to forget how good it had felt those too few moments I’d been free. In fact, I wasn’t sure I could. The impact Leo’s love had on me, the impact of his attempting to save me… those things had changed me. Maybe irrevocably.

  Leo had come here with exactly one wish, one desire: to liberate me. He’d died for that dream. I couldn’t let his sacrifice go to waste. I had to make it a reality.

  Or die trying.

  I hauled in a few deep, shuddering breaths into my lungs. And then, while Delfino was still upstairs, I quietly made for the kitchen where the backdoor was. I wasn’t sure where I was going to run to, but I figured I could make it as far as the woods and then maybe disappear. It was cold this time of year. I wished I could grab a jacket. But there wasn’t any time.

  All I had at my disposal was the knife block near the stove. I pulled out the biggest of the lot, glancing down at my reflection in the blade. The hollowness of my eyes. The shade cast around them by both exhaustion and grim determination. There was a wild look about me, something not altogether human. This, I thought, was what a person became when they had only one thing left to lose. The only thing left that had any meaning to them whatsoever.

  It was a sharp blade. A good blade. I’d used it many times before, though never to defend myself. Never to draw blood or to kill, if I had to. I wondered if I could do it. I wondered if Leo’s death had killed something inside me too, killed the part of me that might have hesitated. The part of me that could feel anything but completely and utterly numb.

  I shifted the knife, and the glare of the track lighting off the steel momentarily blinded me. I squinted past it and found darkness—a shadow in the doorway behind me. I spun, fingers wound so tight around the handle it hurt. Delfino’s eyes were just as cold and metallic as that blade was. Just as deadly. Just as sharp.

  I tightened my jaw. Leveled the weapon at him. He said, “You don’t want to do this, Lucy.” Like he knew. Like he could sense what I was planning. Like he understood what I was feeling at all, like he had the first clue what this was like for me.

  I shook my head. My hand was trembling. Adrenaline, not fear. I wet my lips but found my tongue just as dry. “Yes,” I said with all the conviction I could muster. “I do.”

  Delfino tried to talk me down no further. He simply moved, his stride quick and long, upon me in a single step. I slashed, broad and clumsy, and felt the edge of the knife connect with something. It might have been only fabric. I didn’t want to linger too long to find out.

  I dashed as he recoiled, slipping under one of his arms and running for the door. My fingers shook as I turned the lock, grasped, and pulled it open. The night air hit my face in a frigid rush, a pins-and-needles slap that blurred my vision. I could smell the trees.

  Delfino slammed his shoulder into the wood right next to my head. I yelped as the door snapped shut and tried to spin away from him again, but he grabbed the back of my collar and tugged. Hard. I reeled back onto my heels and he got his arm tight around my midsection, pulling me up off my feet. I kicked aimlessly, hoping to make contact with his shins.

  “Lucy—” he began, and I remembered how he’d said, just a few minutes ago, that he wouldn’t kill me. Except he was squeezing so hard my ribs felt like they would crack, and I remembered too that there were things far worse than death. I was certain that getting in a car tonight with Delfino would be one of them.

  This time when I used the knife, I jabbed. Hard enough that the tip sliced between the bones in the back of Delf
ino’s hand and nearly came out his palm. I was lucky it didn’t. The last thing I needed was to accidentally eviscerate myself.

  He roared and let go of me, and I lost my knife in the process. It jutted from his flesh, wedged only an inch deep, but even that was gruesome. I tried not to let my eyes linger, tried not to get lost in the realities of what I’d just done—that I’d stabbed someone. That I’d stabbed Delfino. If I let myself think about those things—things like who Delfino was, especially to a man like Don Carliogne, who was waiting for us, expecting us—then this was all going to go sideways.

  I had to keep moving. And that meant I had to stop thinking about it and just run.

  I pushed away from him and sprinted, making for the front door now, but he was faster than me. He cut me off, the knife discarded, his ruined hand held tight in the clasp of his good one. Blood seeped from the gash, dripping between his fingers. Was I still willing to believe he wouldn’t kill me, now that he had such murder in his eyes? Now that I’d drawn first blood?

  “Please don’t make me hurt you,” he growled—or was that thunder in the distance? It reminded me of the purr of his Chevy’s engine, of that sound I’d come to dread over the years I’d been kept prisoner. Cold sweat immediately beaded on my nape. “I don’t want to. But I will.”

  “I’m not going with you,” I said, stalking in a half-circle toward the stairs, all the while trying to keep as much distance as possible between me and Delfino.

  “You are,” he replied, taking a single step toward me. He’d shed his robe and stood now in only his white t-shirt and pants, barefoot and bleeding. “One way or another, Lucy. I’d prefer it if you chose the painless way.” He stopped. “But I have no control over that. Only you do.”

  “Bullshit,” I snapped. “That’s bullshit, and you know it. No one has ever had any control here, except for you. And whether or not you hurt me—that’s your choice. Not mine. I’m sick of you blaming me for your violence. For your abuse.”