Reckless Road

by Feehan, Christine

  The double gates loomed up in front of them. They were closed but not locked. Czar had made certain of that. He could control them electronically from his home, and when Player had texted him that he was coming with Zyah and it was important, Czar hadn’t hesitated to tell him he’d be waiting up with his wife. He hadn’t asked questions, he just said he’d be waiting. That was Czar. Always available to them. Always a constant.

  The gates were a work of art. Lissa Prakenskii’s work. She had gained fame as a glassblower, her chandeliers in demand throughout the United States and abroad, but she also did metalwork. Anything to do with fire and art. She was married to Casimir, one of the Torpedo Ink brothers. He was an actual blood brother to Czar, but not one of the original eighteen members. Player supposed he was going to have to get used to thinking in terms of nineteen, to include Destroyer. Destroyer had survived their school as well.

  Player slowed the Harley and then brought it to a halt, indicating for Zyah to climb off. “We’ve got to talk.” Another conversation he didn’t want to have with her. One he didn’t want to have with Czar, but there was no question. He had no choice. It was imperative that Zyah understand what could happen when he exposed his secret.

  Zyah put her hand on his shoulder and slid off the bike, her movements graceful. Flowing. Just like always. She wasn’t in the least affected by the experience of being on the back of the machine, and for a moment jealousy welled up. He’d wanted to be the first man to give her the experience of riding with the wind.

  He studied her face as she turned back to him, watching him come to her right there at the ornate gate. Her hand gripped the beautifully twisted metal, and he realized she wasn’t nearly as unaffected as she wanted to appear. Her fingers trembled just a little. He walked right up to her and removed her helmet, needing to see her expression clearly.

  “What is it, Player?”

  Did her voice tremble as well? Zyah didn’t show weakness, but she was aware if they took this step, if they talked to Czar, there was no going back. She had seen too many things in his head to pretend.

  He took a deep breath and then framed her face with his hands. That beautiful face. Those dark eyes. “I know you’ve seen inside my head. You know what kind of man I am. Look beyond the fucked-up one. See what kind of traits I have, Zyah. It’s important you know.”

  Her long lashes fluttered. He let go of her reluctantly. She had to work it out on her own. There was too much between them, and she had to decide—now, before they went through those gates—if she could fully trust him. She didn’t have to believe in him as her man. He’d rejected her so often over the last five weeks—he knew he might have a long road ahead of him to get her to look at him as anything but the man who had tossed her aside—but she had to know he would stand for her if he gave her his word.

  Zyah moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, and Player did his best not to groan. Not to let his thoughts go south. This was too important to fuck it up with sex. Zyah was too important. She had to know she could count on him.

  “Tell me what’s happening here.”

  He reached for her free hand because she wasn’t letting go of that gate. Even through the combined thicknesses of their gloves, he felt her tremble. He ran his thumb over the back of her hand. “I have no choice, Zyah. I have to tell Czar about the side effect of my psychic talent. He doesn’t know. The rest of the club doesn’t know. Not even the doc. You’re very aware of that, or you wouldn’t have been so insistent on staying so close to me.”

  He made certain to keep his tone strictly neutral. “This bomb isn’t one I ever built before. I’ve never seen it. The ones I fall back on, I fill with harmless things, nothing lethal. This is very different and I can’t seem to stop it. If you weren’t there with me, something very bad could have happened. On top of that, the illusion has always been the same. Always. There’s been the White Rabbit and then Sorbacov. Now I’m beginning to detect someone else in the shadows. Someone waiting I can’t make out, but he’s aware of me. And he’s aware of you, baby. That makes this situation very, very dangerous.”

  Her dark chocolate eyes hadn’t left his the entire time he gave her his truth.

  She nodded slowly. “I’ve felt someone looking at us, like a big bloated spider in the corner.” She gave a little shudder. “I hoped it was that horrid man you call Sorbacov.”

  Player hated to crush the little note of hope in her voice. “No, babe.” He kept his voice as gentle as the fingers he used to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Sorbacov is dead. That’s why his figure is always blurred. He can’t come back from the dead. The White Rabbit is an illusion, just like when I created him for my brothers and sisters to amuse them. Whatever or whoever is watching is beginning to blur illusion with reality.”

  “How?” Zyah challenged. “Why would reality start taking over the Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland illusion? I’m right there with you, making sure you wake up and you’re pulling out of it.”

  He had to be honest, because it didn’t make sense to him either. “I don’t know, baby. That’s the problem. Nothing like this has ever happened before. I don’t know if that bullet did more damage to my head than we thought . . . I just don’t know.”

  “When you start dreaming, what’s happening?”

  He shrugged, his first instinct to shut down, but that wasn’t fair to her. She’d come with him. Seen him through night after night. Now she was risking her life, prepared to walk into the lion’s den with him. She had the right to ask any question and get the truth. She was everything he could want, standing with him. His warrior woman, nothing like him. Not hard. Not honed into a weapon. She was soft and gentle, a woman of the earth, but nevertheless his equal, a woman to walk beside him, everything he could ever want.

  “It’s always that first bombing, on my birthday. I despise birthdays. I’ve never celebrated one since.” He confessed it fast. “Your grandmother has one coming up. Alena’s been talking to her about it and asking what kind of cake and frosting she likes.” He added the last, unable to stop himself from revealing the guilt and shame he felt in not being able to join in with the others looking forward to the celebration.

  “Player.” Zyah finally pried her fingers off the gate and slid her palm up the front of his jacket, over his chest and wildly beating heart. “Don’t do that to yourself. Trauma can cause triggers. You’re intelligent. You must know that. You can’t beat yourself up because you have a very real one. You were five. You couldn’t possibly have known what Sorbacov was planning to do. I would have done anything to keep from being raped and tortured.”

  “Each time I successfully built a practice bomb and beat my time before, he raped me. If I didn’t beat the time, he whipped me until I couldn’t breathe.” His body shuddered before he could control it. That door in his mind had creaked open, the one he kept bolted closed for self-preservation. “None of the alternatives were very good.”

  She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her face against his chest.

  “Don’t pity me, Zyah, that’s the last thing I want,” he said gruffly, but he cupped the back of her head and held her to him. He didn’t want her pity. He wanted a lot of other things from her, but not pity. He didn’t feel sorry for himself. He’d done enough of that when he was a child. According to Anat, he might still be doing it, but he was determined to win Zyah. To be good enough for her. Soliciting pity wasn’t going to cut it.

  “It isn’t pity when we’re sharing the same mind and I need comfort, Player. You’ve lived with this a long time. I haven’t,” she reminded.

  He hadn’t thought of it like that. He plunged his fingers into the thick hair at the back of her scalp. She had that long braid, but the back of her head was covered in the thick, silky layers he loved so much.

  “I don’t understand where the bomb is coming from when I’ve never seen those materials before or the schematics. I’ve never built that bomb before, and I’ve gotten very good at building a good
number of them. I have no choice. I have to take this to Czar. It’s too dangerous not to. When I do, he’ll know that you’ve been in my head, Zyah. There’s no way to keep you out of it. The things you’ve seen about me, my childhood, the way I was raised and the things I did, the assassinations—those are all things not another living soul knows outside of the club members.”

  She tipped her head up to look at him. He had no choice; he had to let her, even when he didn’t want to. Her eyes met his. She was a very intelligent woman. “Not even Blythe?”

  “I don’t know how much Czar tells his wife, but I doubt very much. He doesn’t lie to her, though, so if she asks him, he’ll give her the truth. It isn’t the same as really knowing everything, the way you do, Zyah. You know our childhood. You know everything done to us. The way we were trained. The way we were used as assets for our country. The people we killed to stay alive.”

  “That’s not exactly true, Player,” she denied. “I know what happened to you. I know some of the things you did. I saw that the others were tortured and raped, but not the specifics, nor do I want to see. I never saw a single thing they did in order to survive. I see your memories, not theirs, and I’m grateful for that. As to what you had to do to survive in that place, I’m glad you had the strength to do it.”

  “I’m a killer, Zyah,” he said quietly. “You can’t very well deny that.”

  “You killed to survive. You killed for your country. That’s considered reasonable under the circumstances, Player.”

  He refused to look away, staring down into her dark eyes, daring her to continue. He felt like he was falling. Drowning. A man could get lost there. She didn’t say anything else, but she had to know the killing hadn’t stopped once they’d gotten out from under Sorbacov. They had taken back kidnapped women. They had chased pedophiles. They weren’t nice about it when they caught up with the ones they were looking for, and they didn’t take prisoners.

  “We’re very careful, Zyah. We always make certain we don’t make mistakes. Czar drilled that into us when we were kids. We’re patient. We let our quarry walk away if we’re not one hundred percent certain they’re guilty. We make sure there are no innocents that can be harmed or are around to witness. We don’t act until we know there aren’t witnesses.”

  He felt her body tense. Her lashes fluttered and then veiled her eyes. The tip of her tongue moistened her lips and she tried to pull back. He locked his arms around her, refusing to relinquish his hold now that he’d told her the truth.

  “Because you don’t leave witnesses behind.”

  “We make certain there aren’t any witnesses,” he reiterated. “We’re careful to ensure no one innocent is ever a witness.”

  “Unless they’re like me and can see into your head.”

  He stroked a caress down the back of her hair. All that silky hair. Her braid was thick. He wrapped his hand around it, a peculiar, unfamiliar ache in his chest. “I don’t think there’s anyone like you in the world, baby.” He couldn’t keep the raw admiration out of his voice. The stark respect and desire. “The thing is this, I have to tell Czar the truth, and once I do, he could view you as a liability. Either way, I’m betraying you or the club.”

  “Player, how can you be betraying me if we’re standing here together in front of these gates and you’re laying it out for me? You’re giving me this information because you know I can walk into that house and either text Jonas myself or ask Blythe to drive me straight to him. No one in the world will get me to believe that, even for her husband, she would commit murder or allow him to, not if she knew I was innocent.”

  His woman. Intelligent. He nodded slowly. “That, and I want you to be aware that if I tell you we have to leave now, you don’t hesitate, you just come with me, no trying to argue, and we go. Your grandmother will be safe. The club would never hurt her. I have money stashed. I have ways to disappear, and I can put you somewhere safe while I try to fix this.” He slid his gloved thumb along her cheek. “I’m sorry I got you into this. None of this is your doing. You were just trying to help me out and you landed yourself in the middle of a huge mess.”

  “Actually, you were helping me out. You kept me from getting kidnapped, remember? That’s why you got shot. Come on, let’s get this over with. You believe in this man. You’ve always looked up to him, and I did see his face when he was a child, watching over all of you, Player. He cares deeply. He’s protective. He actually loves you.”

  “I know, baby, that’s what I’m afraid of.” Player reached out to run his fingers along her tightly woven braid, feeling the thick silk of it. Without warning, feelings welled up out of nowhere, intense, like a volcano. So unexpected. So powerful, shaking him.

  “You know our relationship isn’t about sex, Zyah.”

  Her long, thick lashes veiled the expression in her eyes, and she shook her head. “Don’t. We have to do this thing with Czar and worry about everything else later. I mean it. I can only concentrate on one thing at a time right now.”

  He found himself smiling, his fingers on her stubborn little chin. Anat was so right. This woman was well worth fighting for, and he was going to fight with everything in him. He was a survivor. He’d fought every damn day of his life to survive. Being with Zyah meant surviving. Not because she would save his sanity, or because he’d have the best damn sex in the world, but because she made him happy. It was really that simple. He was better with her. And he hoped she would be better with him. His campaign was starting immediately, and thankfully, he had an entire club that would back him.

  Leaning down, he rubbed her lips softly with his. The contact was barely there, but he felt it all the way to his toes. She was potent. They were potent. She was perfect. His. Their chemistry was off the charts, and electricity instantly arced between them, a bright, hot connection so strong he thought he could see little sparks dancing off their skin. Zyah hesitated for the briefest of moments, and then her arms slid around his neck and her body leaned into his. She simply surrendered, giving herself to him, her lips parting, letting him in, while dynamite detonated between them.

  He let the explosive chemistry catch them both on fire and then deliberately gentled the kiss, keeping the heat, the flames, but introducing tenderness, something he’d never known with another human being. That foreign emotion felt as necessary to him as breathing, adding to the fire of their kiss, turning it into something he’d never expected. The heat rushed through his veins and settled in his groin, but at the same time, it took over his body, moving through him to encompass his heart, embedding there, digging deep, deeper still, until he swore she was in his soul.

  She gasped, her hands sliding to his chest, palms applying pressure to try to separate them. Obediently but with great reluctance, he lifted his lips and leaned his forehead against hers. “You felt it. I know you did.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s just go and get this over with. You’re getting tired. I am tired. I have to work tomorrow, and we’re keeping Blythe and Czar up,” she reminded.

  Player gave in to the inevitable. He wasn’t going to repair the damage he’d done in one night. He’d held her at arm’s length due to his own stupidity. Now he had to make a confession to Czar and find a way to keep her, as well as his club, safe. Then, with Zyah, figure out just what was happening to him.

  “Thanks for sticking with me,” he said as they once again got on the Harley. “Very few people would have.”

  She wrapped her arms around him. “Very few people had Mama Anat as an example.”

  Player knew that much was true.

  Czar answered the door, his gaze moving over them, taking both of them in, seeing too much. It didn’t matter that Player had cultivated the mask that every club member had—no expression, flat, cold eyes—Czar knew him too well. He saw that he was stressed. He could read possession and the protective way Player kept Zyah close beneath his shoulder. Worse, the way he held himself, ready for trouble. That told Czar more than Player wanted him to know
, but then Czar was president of Torpedo Ink because he had earned their respect for a lot of reasons.

  “Cold tonight. Blythe has something hot for you, Zyah,” Czar greeted. “And a fire going in the other room. Let me take you to her.”

  Player started to protest. He didn’t want them separated. Czar flashed him one look that stopped him cold. Zyah turned her face up to his. “A hot drink and a fire sound perfect, Player. And visiting with Blythe would be wonderful. I’ve heard so much about her. I’m sorry we came so late, Czar.”

  “No worries, we’re used to the late hours,” Czar assured her as he led the way through the house to a room a few doors down.

  Player had been to the house numerous times. This was the designated music room. It had a piano for the children to learn to play, as well as several other instruments. Blythe rose immediately as they entered. Player went to her and bent to brush a kiss on her cheek.

  “I’m sorry we disturbed you so late, Blythe. This is Zyah.” He had his arm around her shoulders. “Zyah, Blythe. Blythe’s the heart of our club, baby. None of us knows why she puts up with us, but as you can see, she does, even when we disturb her in the middle of the night.”

  Zyah flashed her gorgeous smile, and Player tightened his arm around her, proud of her. It took courage to be so gracious and calm knowing Czar was deliberately separating them.

  “Blythe, I’m so happy to meet you.” Zyah’s tone was genuine. Happy. Perfection.

  Player realized Zyah meant it. She had wanted to meet Blythe, and even under the tense circumstances, she was happy to do so.