Before the End (Beyond Series Ultimate Glom Edition)

by Kit Rocha

  It was a magnificent sight. The ink alone would have made him stand out, but for all his joking about being a lover instead of a fighter, Ace had a lean, beautiful body. Not bulky or overly cut, but muscular and tough. Hard in all the right ways.

  "Cruz." Ace's frown deepened, though something flashed through his eyes--appreciation of Cruz's distraction, even a hint of dark satisfaction. Fair enough, since lust came so easily now, fraternization be damned.

  But there was pain under his words, so Cruz forced himself to pay attention. "What didn't I tell you?"

  The wrong answer. A furrow formed between Ace's brows as he crossed his arms over his chest again, flexing and hard and damp from the tiny droplets of water splashing off Cruz's shoulders. "So you weren't holding back, it just straight up never occurred to you. It still hasn't."

  Still vague, but a swift process of elimination brought him to the only thing that might matter to Ace. "That Rachel was the apparent target of the kidnapping?"

  "Apparent?" Ace slapped a hand against the mosaic tile, his eyes burning. "Someone says grab the blonde, and you don't think maybe that's information I should have?"

  Cruz shoved his damp hair back from his forehead and faced Ace head-on. "It wasn't information you could use," he said bluntly. "Would knowing have changed any of the decisions you made last night?"

  "Maybe," Ace snapped. "Knowing she knew might have. Why didn't you take five minutes to warn me?"

  "Because I assumed she'd tell you!"

  He hadn't realized he was throwing a verbal sucker-punch until it landed, and then he hated himself for it because for one terrible second, Ace was as naked as Rachel at her most vulnerable. Those dark, expressive eyes shuttered with pain, and Ace was already turning to leave when Cruz grabbed his arm.

  Ace tried to rip free with a growled curse, but one jerk and he crashed back against Cruz's chest, slick skin slapping together. "Don't. Don't run."

  "Fuck you, brother." Ace drilled his elbow into Cruz's ribs. "And if you think I won't knock your balls up into your ears because you've got a hard-on from staring at me--"

  Cruz shut him up by slamming him into the opposite side of the shower hard enough to drive a grunt from them both. "You won't. You're too busy feeling sorry for yourself."

  He expected retaliation this time, and he twisted before Ace managed to break his nose with the back of his skull. But Ace was fast when he was pissed, and he wrenched out of Cruz's slippery grip and knocked them both backwards.

  Cruz's back hit the wall beneath the shower spray. Ace pinned him there, smacking the showerhead to one side so the water bounced off the tile and soaked his jeans. "I'm just remembering my place," he hissed, wrapping a hand around Cruz's dick. "Not tactical decisions. Not emotional support."

  Ace stroked upward, and this time Cruz whacked his own head against the tiles, groaning as the slick, rough touch sparked pleasure up his spine. Ace was still pissed, still furious, but there was a different kind of heat in the growl of his voice, along with an undertone of pain so sharp and vulnerable, Cruz couldn't have pushed him away if he wanted to.

  Not that he wanted to.

  "Yeah, that's right." Ace pumped harder, his face inches from Cruz's. "I'm the one who makes it okay for you to shove your cock so far down her throat she can't breathe. I'm the one who makes it okay to fuck her so hard she feels you for days."

  The words landed painfully, just as Ace had known they would. Because Cruz could protest, could claim Rachel was the one who made it okay by wanting it, but she'd been telling him what she wanted all along and Cruz hadn't heard--or hadn't believed.

  He'd needed another man to tell him it was true. Fucking hell, he was a bastard.

  Rage burned in his chest, as hot as the desire. Ace read it in his eyes and laughed, slowing his strokes, squeezing Cruz's shaft. "Yeah, that's right. Not so fucking honorable after all, are--?"

  Cruz grabbed him by the throat and rolled them, putting Ace against the wall again, still grinning, still gripping Cruz's dick, because the flash of temper proved his fucking point.

  When he crashed their mouths together, Cruz told himself it was the only way to shut the other man up. And for a second, he thought even that wouldn't work, because Ace jerked away, and Cruz knew words would follow, words that would rip him open, show him for what he was. Dark and bent and anything but heroic.

  "Get your hand on my fucking dick already," Ace snarled instead, before sinking his teeth into Cruz's lip. He tasted blood, sharp and metallic, and growled against Ace's mouth as he fumbled with the fly of his soaked jeans.

  The fabric wouldn't give, so Cruz ripped off the button. Ripped the zipper, too, and he didn't give a shit. Nothing mattered but crossing every line that was left and spiking the same furious lust in Ace's blood that raged through his own.

  It was fast. Rough. Ace's tongue slicked over his, thrusting into his mouth in challenge, and his hand sped up like they were in a fucking race. They were under the spray again, hot water pounding against Cruz's shoulders, sliding down his arms, the steam turning everything slippery and hot.

  He tightened his grip on Ace's cock, working him from root to tip as he shifted his mouth to the other man's ear. "You're the one who makes it all about her. When do you start telling me it's okay to shove my dick down your throat until you choke on it?"

  He'd expected shock. God knew why, because Ace just laughed, low and taunting, his breath hot on Cruz's cheek. "Like you could choke me."

  Joking, like he knew it could never happen, because Ace had been careful not to touch him without a woman around. Jeni, Rachel--that safe buffer standing between them, the plausible deniability that must be eating Ace up from the inside out, because Cruz knew what it felt like to be the intruder in someone else's epic love.

  He caught Ace's wrist, pried the other man's fingers from his cock, and slammed his arm back against the mosaic tile. He ignored the grunt of protest and caught Ace's other arm too, pinning both against the wall as he sank to his knees.

  He'd sucked cocks before, but not in a long time, and not like this, with a man he cared about staring down at him, naked disbelief over crazy, soul-deep longing.

  Ace swallowed, his wrists flexing in Cruz's grip, and he knew it was serious when the first word out of Ace's mouth wasn't an endearment or a tossed off brother. "Cruz, you don't have to--"

  "Shut up." He had to release one wrist to grip Ace's shaft again, and he glared up at the man with the same forbidding look that always turned Rachel sweet and pliant. "For once in your goddamn life, Santana, just shut the fuck up."

  It could have been the look or the words or the fact that Ace couldn't tear his gaze from Cruz's lips. Whatever it was, it was a goddamn miracle, because Ace kept his mouth shut as Cruz opened his.

  It wasn't smooth. Christ knew he didn't have Ace's practice--he didn't even have Rachel's practice--but from the stunned expression on Ace's face, it wasn't going to take finesse. Just passion and enthusiasm, and he had plenty of both.

  He had attention to detail, too. He'd already begun to map Rachel's responses. Now he made note of Ace's, cataloging how fast and how deep, when he should suck and how firm a grip he should use. And Ace didn't speak, but he was still talking, with hissed groans and grunts, with the free hand that dropped to Cruz's head, fingers pressing hard against his scalp.

  Next time would be better. He'd know how Ace liked to be touched, and Rachel would be there, too. Maybe chained, forced to watch, getting wetter and wetter as she watched Ace's cock disappear into Cruz's mouth.

  The fantasy spun out as easy as breathing, and with Ace's harsh words echoing in his skull, he made himself revel in every detail with the same loving attention he was lavishing on Ace's cock.

  Rachel--naked, her arms above her head, her legs spread wide. Decorated, because Cruz could see the appeal now that Ace had opened his eyes to it. Jewelry sparkling from her tight nipples, her clit, her ass. But nothing in her pussy, because she'd be watching Ace's cock, watching Cruz slic
k his tongue up and down, just like he was doing now, watching him suck the head until it glistened, and she'd feel empty, needy. Desperate to have him inside her.

  But that was Cruz's fantasy. Hers would be deeper, darker. Ace and his flogger, driving her outside herself when pain bled to pleasure. And people watching--that was what she needed most. An audience, someone to witness her vulnerability, her submission, her bliss.

  Maybe Ace was right, and they were still relying on him to push them where they knew they wanted to be. But he wasn't a corrupter, slinking into their lives and forcing them into sin. He was a liberator, reaching inside them to draw out what they really needed.

  Just like he did when he laid someone's ink.

  That was Ace's purpose--pulling truth from darkness and giving it form. A thankless job sometimes, especially when someone wasn't ready to face that truth. So Cruz sucked and stroked until Ace lost it and came with a stuttered groan, then rose with Ace's taste lingering on his tongue and wrapped both of their hands around his own straining cock.

  "I'll tell you what I want to do," he rasped, pressing his forehead to Ace's as the first shiver of pleasure whispered up his spine. "And you don't need to make it okay."

  He only got half of the fantasy out before Ace made him come, but improvising would be part of the fun.

  Ace could usually finish a back piece in a few marathon sessions, but Zan would be the exception. Not because he couldn't take the pain--the man could sit like a stone through shit that had badass cage-fighters punking out after a few hours--but because his back was so massively huge.

  The scope of the project made Zan the perfect distraction while Dallas was facing off with Liam Riley. Ace rarely involved himself in political shit anyway, and Zan was like Flash--his idea of diplomacy was shooting someone in the face instead of the back.

  Sometimes Ace missed the days where that was the only kind of diplomacy the O'Kanes had to worry about. Political power was all well and good, but there was a refreshing honesty about solving your problems with your fists or your gun.

  And if he told himself that enough times, maybe he wouldn't feel like he was hiding from Rachel's daddy.

  "I'll have to sketch this one first," Ace said, rolling his stool around so he could see Zan's face. "It's just too much to design and outline in one session. We'll nail down what you want today, though."

  "Just don't leave me hanging with something that looks stupid half-finished," Zan grumbled, then grinned. "And make sure you spell everything right, for fuck's sake."

  Ace laughed and flipped open a sketchpad. "Like you'd notice."

  "I have mirrors, and I can read backwards." He paused. "And if that doesn't work, I'll get Rachel to check it out for me."

  So they'd been a thing long enough for the teasing to start. Ace had been waiting, watching his O'Kane brothers and sisters circle. No one would poke at something fragile and risk damaging it, but they'd sure as fuck give him hell if things looked solid from the outside.

  Ace's insecurities felt more ridiculous by the day, so he flashed a smile and did what he always did. Played it cool. "You gonna make her choose between your back and my dick? I don't like your odds, brother."

  Zan laughed. "Neither do I, Santana. Neither do I."

  At least he had that going for him--a dick so legendary, no one doubted its power. "So tell me what you had in mind for--"

  Zan tensed before the bells over the front door jingled, and somehow Ace knew who it would be. Because it was the last thing he could handle right now, and because it was fucking inevitable--his past had to roll back over him eventually.

  He spun his stool and found himself staring at Liam Riley.

  The man removed his hat to reveal impeccably trimmed black hair shot with gray, especially at the temples. "Mr. Santana."

  Liam didn't look much like Rachel, not in the obvious ways. His hair was darker, his features sharper. Harder. And it didn't matter that they shared the same remarkable eye color--meeting Liam Riley's gaze brought back the conversation he'd had with Cruz after their shower.

  Do you believe her father didn't do it?

  I believe she needs to believe that. But I can think of three perfectly reasonable justifications Liam Riley could have for arranging his daughter's kidnapping. Removing her as a potential hostage before he starts a war. Getting her out of the crossfire without tipping Dallas off to an upcoming fight. Or using her kidnapping as an excuse to start one.

  So you think he did?

  It's not that. Honestly, it doesn't seem like Riley's style. But that has nothing to do with whether he's capable of it.

  Looking into Liam Riley's cold, hard eyes, Ace wondered if Cruz had gone far enough. Even his reasons had assumed Liam wouldn't take unnecessary risks with Rachel's safety. Ace still remembered the trembling girl whose bar code he had obliterated, removing her chance to return to the safety of Eden line by line because this man had valued his business over his daughter.

  They were all giving Rachel's dad too much fucking credit.

  "Forgive the intrusion," Liam said with a pointed look. "May we speak? Privately."

  Zan hadn't moved. Probably wouldn't without Ace's signal, and for a second he toyed with the idea of letting him sit there, a wall of surly-tempered muscle at his back. It would piss his visitor off, that was for sure.

  That would make it easier. Pissing Rachel's father off in advance, so he could pretend whatever came next wasn't about him.

  Ace jerked his head toward the door. "Why don't you go find some food, Zan? Bring me back something, too. This won't take long."

  "Sure thing, Ace." Zan moved slowly, lingering at the door for just a moment before letting it swing shut behind him.

  Liam smiled a little. "I have to hand it to O'Kane. That's one area in which he excels--instilling loyalty in his men."

  "Being worthy of loyalty is always a good start."

  "So it is." Liam laid his hat on one of the rolling carts that held ink and supplies. "But I suppose your statement was more of a veiled insult than an observation of truth."

  "Fair enough." Ace rocked to his feet, bringing himself eye level with Liam. "Maybe I should cut through the bullshit, then. You wouldn't be here if you didn't know."

  "About you and Rachel. And Lorenzo Cruz, evidently."

  "Evidently." Ace quirked an eyebrow. "Is he getting a father/son talk, too?"

  "No bullshit, huh?" Liam looked around the room before turning the same critical eye on Ace, his veneer of polite civility gone. "You're a wreck, kid. You always have been, and I'm not talking about the whoring. Everyone's got to eat, and a man does what he has to do. But you're messy, Santana. Wherever you go, you leave a trail of broken shit behind you."

  It was just what he'd asked for, the truth laid out between them. And what was he supposed to do? Deny it? His biggest claim to fame in Eden was destroying marriages--sometimes even ones he'd never touched. "Hazard of the business. Doesn't matter if you're selling sex or drugs or booze. Vice is messy."

  "True. And, unless my daughter is paying you to warm her bed, utterly beside the point."

  "Then what is your point? Because mine was that I left that shit behind me."

  "Maybe you tried. Maybe you even got it done." Liam's jaw clenched. "But Rachel deserves more than maybes."

  It wasn't supposed to hurt. He'd expected it, practically provoked it. No father from Eden could possibly approve of an O'Kane, and this father was never going to approve of him.

  It wasn't supposed to hurt. But then, he wasn't supposed to agree.

  "Rachel deserves everything she wants," Ace said, spacing out the words, making them as clear and sharp as the pain in his chest. "And that's what I'm going to give her, whether you like it or not."

  "And when it ends?" Liam asked softly. "This is her home--as you say, whether I like it or not."

  When it ends. He had to fight back against the words, because if he didn't, it meant he believed those, too. "Maybe you should be more worried about what y
ou'll do when it doesn't."

  The man sighed and picked up his hat. "You don't get it, kid. I don't hate you. I pity you." His voice turned to steel. "But I love my daughter more. If you hurt her, I will kill you."

  Ace let him get to the door before asking the last question, the one that would drive the knife home and twist it until he bled out. "Is that what you told Cruz?"

  Liam paused with his hand on the push bar and barely turned his head. "Why would I?" Then the bell jingled as he shoved through the door.

  Lili

  The first time Lili saw her father hit her mother, she was fifteen.

  Exactly fifteen, in fact, because it had been the evening of her birthday. She'd sacrificed the chance of a morning spent with her new piano--an extravagant gift that had arrived the previous evening--to supervise her six younger brothers and sisters while her exhausted mother oversaw the preparations for the evening's fancy dinner.

  Lili would have just as soon skipped the party and the cake in favor of letting her mother stay in bed. The poor woman had a three-week-old daughter and a body worn down by constant pregnancy, but Lili had never seen her counter her husband's wishes. If the leader of Sector Five wanted to celebrate his eldest child's birthday by enacting some touching farce with the family he barely knew, Anna Fleming would make it happen.

  And she had. The Fleming family sat down with its patriarch, who had invited three of his business partners--and a cadre of tattooed bodyguards who lined the walls as if Mac was in danger from his own family.

  It happened over wine, before the cake. Her father had asked her to play them a song on her new piano, because the one thing he'd always encouraged was her music. He liked the conceit of having a talented, cultured daughter, as if it meant a damn when that daughter had never left the security of his fenced-in estate. But she'd obliged, because that was the only time she felt alive. The moment her fingers found the keys, the ivory cool under her fingers, her heart beating faster in anticipation of that first note.