by Anne Malcom
“Of course I’m fuckin’ comin’ inside,” he growled.
I opened my mouth to retract that offer thanks to his macho-man speak, but my retort was silenced with a quick, closemouthed kiss.
“You’re coming inside,” I mumbled.
He chuckled before pulling back and hopping out of his truck.
I did the same, and he scowled at me, helping me down.
“It’s a broken arm, not leg. I can get out of a truck,” I informed him snippily.
No words as his hand grasped mine and his eyes darted around the front yard of my small but cute cottage on the outskirts of Amber.
He was silent and watching the shadows the whole way up the walk.
I didn’t say anything either, the chill of reality settling over me from the day’s events.
War.
Not like the one Keltan was chasing back, but the crux of it was the same.
“Keys,” he demanded, holding out his hand and standing slightly in front of me on the stoop.
I rolled my eyes. “It’s open,” I replied.
The second of silence was filled with fury that saturated the night air. “What?” he asked on a quiet tone that was rather foreign.
Or the fury behind it was.
“Oh, chill out, it’s Amber.”
I felt his body tighten next to mine. “You mean the town in which at least three kidnappings have taken place, multiple murders—one of your friend—and today a fuckin’ car bomb went off, nearly killing you,” he roared, whisper a distant memory. “What the fuck were you thinking, Lucy?”
I didn’t scare easily. Or I’d like to think that. I’d faced a car bomb today, as Keltan had just pointed out, and had more or less kept my shit.
But his raw and unrestrained fury had me flinching, on instinct.
Because it was so unrestrained, so raw, that it mimicked, for just a moment, the anger that had settled the ice around my heart that this man had set about melting.
He sensed it, the fear, but he didn’t address it.
His hands bit into my shoulders. “Stay the fuck here,” he ordered.
And then he disappeared into my house, the lights flickering on as he did so.
I didn’t stay there, of course. It was chilly, my arm hurt and I needed wine. What did he expect to find in there, anyway? A whole crew of insurgents?
I walked through the front door into the hallway, greeted by fresh flowers, as always. Something else my mother taught me.
“No day can be truly bad if you have good lipstick and fresh flowers.”
And it was kind of true. It had been a well and truly bad day, but the vision of the white lilies calmed me some. As did the smiling photo of me, Mom and Polly hanging over it. And the knowledge of the wine in the kitchen.
And Keltan in the kitchen.
Instead of battling my emotions against wanting him there, I decided to give myself a second to breathe before I headed that way, my heels clicking against the hardwood floor. I stopped halfway to yank them off and throw them in the direction of the living room.
I sighed in relief at the cool wood flat against the throbbing soles. Years of wearing heels meant I got used to the pain, not that it wasn’t there. Kind of the same with the emotional stuff.
The air turned wired with the thump of a boot against the wood. I glanced up, appreciating Keltan’s muscled form, and his face, even if it was contorted in fury at that point in time.
“What the fuck are you doin’ in here, Lucy?” he clipped.
I let out an exaggerated sigh. “I’m divesting myself of my fabulous yet painful footwear.” I pointed to the discarded shoes. Then I continued my journey into the kitchen. “And I’m under the distinct impression that I live here. So, I was going to pour a bottle of wine into a glass.”
My efforts to do just that were hampered when a calloused palm caught mine, roughly yanking me back and turning me around.
Keltan’s eyes were almost black.
He lifted his other hand so it grasped my jaw, not lightly but not painfully either.
“You think it’s a joke?” he asked quietly.
“What? You walking around my house like I’m the Queen of England and there’re assassins hiding amongst my coats?” I retorted. “Yes. I think that’s ridiculous.”
His grip tightened. “No. Your life. You think that’s a fuckin’ joke? Think that’s something ridiculous?” he growled. “’Cause I sure as shit don’t. And it just flashed before my fuckin’ eyes today because of that club that seems to be hurtin’ a fuck of a lot of women.”
I bristled, yanking away from his touch. “That club is my family, so you’ll be very careful about how you speak about them,” I warned.
He glared at me. “About them? How I speak about how that club nearly got the girl I consider to be my little sister kidnapped, after she’d already almost died at the hands of some fucker? How it almost killed her? How it made her have to know what it’s like to take a life? Have that shit tattooed on her soul?” he hissed.
I sucked in a breath. “Yeah, but that same club saved her. That man, the president of that club, gave her a daughter. He is a husband who would find a way to pluck a star from the sky if she asked; he loves her that much. It’s not human, what they have. You’re tarnishing it with your insinuations.”
He stepped forward, his hands fists beside him. “They’re not insinuations if it’s not a fuckin’ lie,” he half yelled. “How about Amy? The woman my best friend fell in love with. Died loving. That club took her too. Almost killed her too. Made her taste death too. And Mia. And Lily. And now fuckin’ you. I’m not watching you get tangled up in this shit too, Snow. You know I’ve seen you in danger twice. Once when bullets were flying, another when a car blew up that you were meant to be sittin’ in. Both those times, the flag with that reaper was flying.” His eyes were resolute. “I won’t let you taste death on your tongue.”
I rolled my eyes. “I already have, and it wasn’t the club that gave me the ugliest life has to give. But if you feel so strongly, why are you here? There’s the door.” I pointed to the hallway.
He stayed in his spot, breathing heavily.
I cocked a brow. “What? Need a map?”
His eyes darkened. “No, I need you.”
Thoughts of wine and car bombs and even broken arms went out the window, replaced by one simple one.
The need to feel alive.
We both came at each other at the same moment. His hands tangled in my hair roughly and exquisitely.
I moaned at the pain, and the pleasure of his kiss, melting into it. Letting it wash over me and banish everything else.
“Snow,” he growled against my mouth. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
I glared at him. “Well too bad. I want you to. Hurt me so I don’t remember the rest of the pain.”
His eyes flared, and then he yanked my hair back and crushed his mouth to mine. Before I could properly gauge what was going on, I was on the kitchen counter with Keltan between my legs, his hardness pressing into my core.
He continued to kiss me like my mouth was his only source of oxygen.
“I need you inside me,” I rasped between kisses.
His black eyes flared with desire, need and worry.
“Only way you’re going to hurt me is if you don’t,” I hissed as he roughly tweaked my nipple through the fabric of my T-shirt.
He didn’t need more than that. My tee was quickly history, and his mouth settled on my nipple.
I cried out with the building in my stomach, the lightning bolts of pleasure that came with the gesture.
He didn’t hesitate to move down, to lift me—taking care with my awkward arm—and drag off my pants and panties. I was exposed to him on the kitchen counter, my eyes glued to the apex between my thighs.
“Keltan,” I pleaded.
He hissed out a breath when I used my uninjured hand to yank him between my legs and fumble with his belt.
It may not have been graceful, b
ut I got the job done. And the job of exposing him so he could plunge into me was a job well done.
Very well done.
The rest of it, including the consequences of said job, would wait until the sun set on this day.
For the time being, nothing existed but this.
And nothing would.
Until sunrise.
Getting almost blown up by a car bomb was rather like drinking twelve of Laura Maye’s cocktails and doing tequila shots after—or rather the result of that the next day. Everything hurt. Even my hair hurt.
The only ache that was bearable, pleasant in fact, was the one between my legs. But that came with the side effect of the ache in my heart.
My bed was empty, apart from tangled sheets and the scent of him that reminded me of the night before.
And the bad decisions that followed the car bomb. I didn’t quite think they were the worst decisions considering my sleep was nightmare-free, Keltan’s weight at my back chasing away the worst of the demons.
I let myself have a couple of moments to wake up properly and try to run over the events of the previous night. I checked my phone for all of the messages from Rosie and the rest of the crew, worrying about me. I sent off a quick mass text ensuring them I was breathing.
Or was I?
Was I really drowning?
I sucked in a strangled mouthful of oxygen to prove myself wrong and got out of bed. Keltan’s shirt lay discarded on the floor and I looked at it wistfully, tangled with a nightgown of mine which had lasted exactly nine seconds.
I picked up the tee, sniffing it and Keltan’s pleasing scent.
Then I thought better of it, dropped the tee and clothed my naked body in the slinky nightgown.
My feet took me in the direction of the kitchen, and the coffee, and the Keltan, by the sounds of it.
His back was to me, facing the stove. And what a back it was. Corded with muscle, caramel latte tinged, marred with scars that I did not appreciate.
Because he was a badass male, and badass males had weird and creepy powers. He turned, sensing my presence.
He scowled at me, spatula in hand. “You’re meant to be in bed.”
I raised my brow. “No, I’m meant to be where the coffee is,” I countered, padding over to the pot and pouring the delicious java into the cup that sat beside it.
Keltan moved the sizzling pan from the heat so he could move closer to me, his eyes on my hand. Or more aptly, the cast covering it.
“You in pain, baby?” he asked, his voice soft. As was his touch when he gently ran his hand along the black fabric encasing the broken bone.
I took a sip of the coffee in order to stave off the sleep. And the dream. But even after the sip, he was still there.
“Only a little,” I admitted.
He rose his brow.
“Or a lot,” I confessed.
He leaned in to kiss my head. “Yeah, and you’re not supposed to take those meds on an empty stomach. I’m making you breakfast.”
He gave me a look before stepping back to the pan and putting bacon and eggs onto a plate.
I lifted my cup. “I’m having breakfast.”
He frowned. “Coffee is not a food group.”
I frowned back. “Maybe not in your world.”
He directed me to the kitchen table I never used, putting the plate down and a knife and fork beside it, then taking my coffee cup and placing it down. “Just eat the fucking eggs, Snow,” he said.
I sat, glaring at him. “Just so you know, I killed the last man who took coffee from my hands.”
He grinned in the face of my wrath, kissing the top of my head. “Willing to take my chances with death if it means my girl is in a little less pain.”
The joking of before was gone, and those nasty consequences found their way in.
Because I wasn’t ready for that on two sips of coffee, I picked up the knife and fork. “I want the record to show I’m doing this for pain meds, not for you,” I told him.
The grin remained, but the eyes had a glint that told me he was thinking of consequences too. “Noted.”
It was after eggs and drugs that consequences came.
Wasn’t that always the way?
I had stood up to take my plate to the sink, and Keltan had followed, snatching the plate from my hands with a glare.
I rolled my eyes.
“I’m actually fine. A broken arm isn’t going to hamper me from living my life,” I told him. “Though it will stop me from wearing some great tops.”
Instead of grinning like he had been for the meal, during which we kept to safe subjects that didn’t have any chance of bringing reality in, he glowered.
“Yeah. A broken arm might now. Could have been a fuck of a lot worse.”
I gave him a look. “But it wasn’t.”
He turned from the sink, his face a mask. “But it fucking could have been. Because of that club. Because of the shit tangled up with it.”
I put my hands on my hips. Well one hand. The cast kind of fucked with the pissed-off-woman stance. “That wasn’t the club’s fault. They would never put anyone in danger on purpose. Not Bex, not Rosie. Not me. Those men would die first. They almost have. Many times.”
Keltan’s eyes glittered, mind working over something as he stared at me.
“Yeah, and so have you, Bex, Gwen, Amy, Lily, Mia,” he listed. “It did kill a woman, Snow,” he murmured. “And a man. Part of him, anyway. Don’t know the fucker well, and I know he’s found it now, but when I first saw him, I saw it. That yawning chasm that was ripped out of him when he lost her. His woman. It’s filled now, but I don’t doubt that poor bastard has battled through the nine levels and then some to get where he is.” His breathing turned rough. “That ain’t gonna be me. I’m not letting you have the same fate as—”
“Stop!” I screeched, my voice rough even to my ears. “You don’t get to say her name because you don’t know her. You don’t know anything about her death or her life. And you don’t know that she was a light that only shone so bright because she had her other half. I know for a fact that if she knew her fate the moment she laid eyes on Bull, she wouldn’t have done anything differently. As much as I wish and pray my friend would’ve, if time machines or magicians were ever real. I know it. Because she was a princess. Not the ones in the books, but the kind who believed in that nonsense. She lived for it. Breathed for it. And she found it. In this ugly world where not enough fairy tales are even begun, she found it. Her end was as ugly as anyone could conjure up.”
I paused, flinching at the memory of that horrible day the sun didn’t shine quite as bright. Still did. “But I still know, as much as it kills me, that there was no other option for her.” I eyed him. “Don’t you dare talk about my dead friend like you know what path she could have taken. Because you don’t. That would be like me telling you that the army is evil and wrong because of the amount of lives it takes. Because it killed your best friend and left Gwen with her own gaping hole. Telling you that would be fucking cruel,” I hissed.
He gave me an even look. “Might be cruel, but it’s the truth. And I got out. Because I couldn’t live with the fact that the path I’d chosen cost my best fuckin’ friend his life. Because he followed me to enlist because that’s what he did. We were brothers, and he told me no way in hell would I be doing something like that without him watching my back.” He paused, breathing heavily. “And he did watch my back. And that’s what killed him. My choices. No way in any kind of hell, in this world or the next, will I have a decision like that on my conscience.”
My heart hurt for him. For the blame he put so wrongly on his shoulders. Despite my rage at his earlier words, I couldn’t stand to see the guilt in those irises. “Ian wasn’t your fault,” I whispered. “We don’t have control over the universe. Over who it tries to take away from us.”
My words washed over him and brought his hands to my hips, yanking me to his body. “Yeah, but I’ve got control over who I have in my hands.
Who I’ll always have in my life until the universe takes me to whatever waits for me in the next.” His hand moved to cup my jaw lightly. “But I can’t have that, what I hold in my hands, being somewhere that her life is filled with car bombs and kidnapping and drive-by shootings. I won’t survive that shit.”
His words, the way they wove around the promises and tender declarations and other statements, worked both with chaos and stillness. I stared at him a bit, letting the stillness take over.
Then I purposefully stepped out of his arms.
“Don’t give me ultimatums, Keltan,” I warned. “I don’t do well backed into a corner.”
He narrowed his eyes, stepping forward so he both figuratively and literally had me in a corner. “You know what I don’t do well with?” he asked quietly, fury an undertone beneath the stillness of his words. “Snatching you out of the air as a bomb explodes behind you!” he roared. “I left the fuckin’ warzone that cost me my best friend, my brother. I’m not walkin’ into another one that has me losin’ you. No fucking way,” he gritted out.
“It’s not a warzone. It’s my life.”
“Well your life has too many fucking shootings and explosions for my liking,” he hissed. “And it’s not havin’ any more. I’ll stay in it to keep an eye on Gwen, for Ian. But for you, you’re not stayin’ in that shit.”
“That shit? That’s my family.”
“Jesus, Lucy! They’re a fuckin’ gang that has a history of getting women killed.”
I went still. “Don’t,” I choked. “Don’t you say another word about shit you know nothing about.” My voice was ice. Pure ice even he couldn’t melt.
“You know what I know?” he said, stepping forward so he was close but not touching me. “That what I feel for you is something more. More than anything. Special. The kind of special that people fight wars for, kill for. Die for. Write fuckin’ poetry for. I’ll do all that for you. In the blink of an eye. But no fuckin’ way am I going to stand by and watch while you do it for someone else.”
I glared at him. “It’s not someone else. It’s the only family I’ve ever known. My whole world. You’re asking me to give that up for you?”