by A. C. Bextor
“What?” she whispers, confused.
“Sleeping in my bed when I’m gone,” I add, also including, “A decision you made, mind you.”
“Elevent,” she calls with care.
“Having me come home after a ride to find you in my room.”
“Maybe we should—”
“Crawling into my arms, drunk off your ass, trusting I won’t let you fall.”
“Brother, maybe you two should stop,” Sty offers. “Mia’s not lookin’ so good.”
He’s right she’s not. Realization is finally fucking dawning, and what a sight this is for all to see.
Ignoring advice, I continue, “Caring about the women, brothers, and Ziah like you do. Even Leglas, the fuck.”
“Really, El,” Pyke scolds. “She gets it.”
“First time,” I go on and her eyes widen. “You woke me out of dead sleep with your hands on my cock.”
Mia gasps.
“You took me ungloved,” I assert, going one further. “No questions asked.”
“Christ,” Sty sneers. “Too much there.”
Pressing, I supply, “You told me yourself, no man has ever had you the way I do.”
“Elevent,” Mia whispers, looking down, and shifting side to side on her feet.
“I haven’t taken anything from you that you haven’t given, knowin’ you were givin’ it or not, Angel,” I clip.
When Mia jerks her head up, she sucks in her bottom lip with worry, and tears come to her eyes.
Ending this, I conclude what’s so obvious to everyone standing in this room, but still not so obvious to her. “Woman, I haven’t fuckin’ claimed you. You’ve claimed me.”
Sty takes two steps back as Mia starts across the room in a run. Her chest slams mine before she jumps into my arms, delivering a punishing and severe closed-mouth kiss.
As I set her down, she avoids the others and keeps her focus at my chest.
Closing her eyes slowly and placing her forehead near my chin, she utters, “I was such a bitch.”
“Maybe not a total bitch, but you were extreme,” one of the brothers agrees.
“I was angry and confused,” she excuses.
“Knock to the fuckin’ head’ll do that, Mia,” Sty returns with sincerity, as everyone in the room keeps quiet. “We aren’t pissed. We were playin’.”
Looking up, Mia studies my gaze. Her head tilts to the side and she grins. “So you think I’ve claimed you?”
Smiling, relieving her tension as best I can, I return, “For a woman who hates the word, but insists on constantly using it, whether it’s real or not, you have.”
“I totally have,” she gloats, smiling wide.
“Well, thank fuck that’s over,” Sty asserts. “I’ve lost time I’m never gettin’ back.”
Advay laughs.
Max and Blaze whistle.
Pyke coughs.
And Mia and I are ready to go.
“Open your legs for me, baby,” Elevent directs, his lips rough against the fevered skin of my stomach.
Looking down, I watch his dark head kissing further. In the light of day, the sight of him positioned between my legs is almost more than I can bear.
“Wider,” he orders again, this time with less patience.
“Elevent,” I plea, but I’m too late.
His mouth descends, his tongue assaults, and my eyes slam shut.
Christ, but he feels good.
Once we’d gotten back to the room, Elevent bent at the waist, putting his shoulder to my stomach, and threw me to the bed. My body bounced once as he grabbed my ankles. My clothes were gone as quickly as his, him divesting us both in a matter of seconds.
He didn’t say a word. I wouldn’t have listened if he had. My mind was still in the other room, where he’d just humiliated me in the most profound way. He was right. I was guilty of all he said. And everyone in witness knew it.
My head rears back on the pillow, as Elevent slides his finger inside and continues his tongue’s work between my legs. The bed dips as he adjusts, using the pads of his fingers to spread my thighs as far as they’ll go.
“Touch yourself,” he orders. “Hands to chest.”
Doing as I’m told, and doing it with fervor, the bed moves. I chance another look down and find Elevent stroking his hard length, his hips and hands moving in tandem against the mattress.
Too much. Too quick. Too fucking good.
I cry out my first release, continuing to work my chest as his efforts below rage on.
Satisfied, I turn my head to the side, opening my eyes. I catch a vivid view of us in his dresser mirror.
Raw. Powerful. Overwhelming. Beautiful.
Elevent frees himself from between my legs, stalking up the bed on all fours. Left prey to a predator I don’t fear, I watch in carnal fascination as his chest and back move with precision over my naked body. His hand reaches up, closing around my chin and jaw, twisting my face to his.
“You get it?” he asks, his voice low.
Unsure what he’s asking, I nod.
“I’m yours, Angel. No matter what happens. This is us. Nothin’ has changed. We’ll stay us.”
Tears spring my eyes. He notices but rather than say more, as ever Elevent, his actions speak more than words.
He kisses my battered temple, trailing down next to my bruised eye, and then passing to my discolored cheek. The gentle caress of his warm lips, the care he uses not to brush his jaw against my wounds, and the smell of me on his mouth unveil the startling truth.
James ‘Elevent’ Scott wants me in his bed—in his club—in his life.
Using his hands to grasp behind my knees, he sets them firmly at each hip and thrusts himself in deep. Slowly, vigilantly, and paying mind to what this is, Elevent observes my every move.
“Tell me you get it,” he insists. “I’m yours, Angel, but you’re mine.”
“You’re mine,” I get out, using effort to keep my eyes open. He’s close. He’s driving in again and again, and my body is set to light. “I’m yours.”
“Fuck, yeah,” he returns, resting his forehead to mine and breathing deep.
“Elevent, I’m close.”
“So am I, honey.”
The reverent tone and use of ‘honey’ sends me screaming through my orgasm. The sound of my moan sends him growling through his.
As I pass through the open door, the water in the bowl shakes in my hands as I take in what’s been done.
Leglas’ face is unrecognizable.
Gypsy did what he could, taping his nose and stitching where needed, but the swelling is severe and on the verge of grotesque. Then men got Leglas, and good.
Leglas is lying in his bed. He’s staring at the ceiling and his jaw is ticking. His chest is bare, the sheets drawn up to his stomach. His hair is up, secured in a bun on top of his head. His beard is shaved low, likely due to the caring of his wounds. And his breathing is steady—eerily calm.
In all my time here, I’ve never seen Leglas look so completely still.
Then I remember he and Gypsy going at each other the way they were. I wonder how Gypsy managed to help Leglas after all that passed between them. Maybe Sunny was right. They’re brothers—they’re men. They fight out their frustrations and they move on.
That was at least until I blew this all to hell.
“Cricket’s out with Sunny getting what you asked,” I tell him as I enter.
When I ask Advay where Cricket had gone, he told me Leglas sent her away. Looking at Leglas now, his body wounded and his pride all but gone, I see the reason for it as it is. No man of his stature and self-regard would want anyone, man or woman, lingering around when he’s in this state. Least of all the woman in his bed.
Guilt seizes, picturing Gypsy and Cricket standing in the kitchen. Even knowing she’s better off with Gypsy
Leglas turns his stare to mine, quietly, to examine my every move.
I set the bowl of water and box of supplies on his dresser as he says, �
��You my nurse?”
Not answering, but grabbing a chair from the old wooden desk in the corner, I clear a path on his trash-littered floor to sit.
“Might be,” I answer vaguely.
“El know you’re in here?”
Shaking my head, I dip a clean white cloth in the warm water and squeeze to drain the excess. “No, he doesn’t.”
“Then why are you?”
“Because I wanted to see how you were doing,” I reply, setting down the rag next to the bowl I brought in.
Reaching up, I start to remove the tape near his ear. As I undo the corners first, Leglas flinches but doesn’t stop me, so I continue. The gash from a brother’s fist breaking Leglas’ skin is severe. Once it heals, it’ll no doubt leave a scar.
“Why do you keep Cricket?” I query, posing the question in a way a man like him will understand—direct and to the point—without wasting time or beating around the bush. He doesn’t immediately answer, so I push, “Why do you…you know.”
“Why not?” he finally charges.
“You don’t love her,” I tell him what I believe.
“What’s not to love?” he returns, dodging my direct question. “She’s here. She’s a good girl. She’s also puts me in the mood a lot.”
Grr…
I dab his wound to clean, ensuring the crusted blood is clear. He allows this but says nothing more. Once satisfied with what I’ve done so far, I turn to the table and grab a clean bandage.
“Have you ever been married?” I query, assuaging my curiosity.
“Never,” he tells me, his eyes to the ceiling.
“Why not?”
“Never felt a feelin’ to, I guess,” he replies conversationally, which is something new between he and I.
“Cricket’s good,” I tell him. “She’s sweet and kind.”
“She’s funny, too,” he returns. “And she’s also crazy as fuck.”
If only Cricket could hear how he talks about her. Maybe then…I don’t know. Probably not.
“People believe whatever the fuck they wanna believe. But I care about Cricket,” he tells me, coming out as confession. “For how long? No fuckin’ idea. But I do.”
I smile, depositing the trash from the gauze into the can at the side of his bed.
“I think you’re going to live,” I expel my expert opinion. “But you’ll have some marks.”
“To prove I’m an idiot,” he follows.
“You’re not a complete idiot,” I remark, hoping he understands I’m playing.
Once I’ve got the bandage of his worst wound in place, Leglas’ quick movements startle. Grabbing my wrist, he brings it to his chest. His breathing labors, squeezing my fingers in his hold.
He turns his gaze to mine, causing a gasp to escape.
He’s in pain, but this pain isn’t physical.
I admit I’m afraid of Leglas and always have been. His rough demeanor and his vile disposition warrant this. I’m definitely more afraid of being alone with him. But still, I came to his room to find answers. I want to make sense of Leglas, if for no other reason than to support Cricket.
The hand not holding mine securely to his chest extends, his fingers reaching toward my face. I move my head from his reach. He extends further, his first finger making contact with the apple of my cheek. The bruise he caused is angry. I’d noticed this morning and I hadn’t tried to hide it.
“I didn’t mean to do that to you,” he says so quietly, almost brokenly. His voice is raspy as he goes on with, “Swear to God, Mia. I didn’t mean it.”
His form of apology is sincere. Don’t ask me how I know, but he means what he says in a way I know is true. If you’d have asked me yesterday what kind of man Leglas is, I’d tell you he’s a carnivorous monster. But looking at him here, lying in bed, wounded from the inside out, I’d also tell you I was wrong. He’s human.
“I’m okay,” I reassure. “But you have a helluva swing,” I add.
His hand drops from my cheek, but he continues to hold the other tight. “I pushed Gypsy. I knew what I was doin’ and it was wrong. He and I don’t see things the same.”
“You don’t,” I give. “He’s confused and he’s hurting.”
“We all are, I suppose,” he returns. “But bein’ pissed at a brother isn’t an excuse to do what I did with you standin’ so close.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
Clearing his throat, he releases his hold of my hand, and then moves his away. His head turns up, staring into ceiling, giving me access to his wound.
“You don’t hit women,” I surmise. “That’s why you’re upset.”
“Never,” he swears gently. “I’d never put my hands on a woman.”
One for the good, I guess.
His voice is deep, low and certain as he adds, “Not sayin’ I wouldn’t shake the livin’ shit out of one if she put her fists to me like the boys did, though.”
This makes sense, it’s also kind of funny, so I smile and nod.
“What happened yesterday,” he starts and I freeze. “I earned this,” he explains. “And if any other man in this club would’ve done the same, purposefully or not, I’d have been first in line to see he learned that lesson.”
“You know that’s completely gross and barbaric, right?” I clip, covering another wound with one hand and taping the top with the other.
“Maybe so, Mia. But that’s the way it is.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“You probably wouldn’t. But…” His voice changes, more like I remember his being. “You’re learnin’.”
“If you people could teach me less, I’d be just as happy,” I tell him, grabbing the trash from the gauze and bandages.
Leglas laughs. The rich, vibrant chuckle of a man his size forces the walls to echo with the sound. I can’t look away, mesmerized as his straight white teeth come to view. He looks years younger than I thought he was. Only by smiling.
“You should do that more,” I tell him.
“Do what?”
“Laugh,” I return.
His smile falls and he scans my face. I’m not nervous under his studious gaze, but I’m not exactly comfortable.
“I heard about yesterday,” he tells me, smirking like he had before today. “And the claiming.”
“Ridiculous,” I lie.
“Elevent’s waited a long fuckin’ time for you,” he mindlessly mentions. “Glad to see he won’t be disappointed.”
“I won’t let him be disappointed,” I pledge.
Crossing his arms over his stomach, he says, “Get outta here. I need sleep. Cricket’s gonna be back soon, and I’m not in the mood to deal. If I’m sleepin, she won’t wake me, and I don’t gotta deal.”
Back to the man I know. Great.
“We’ll talk again,” I promise as I stand.
Opening one eyelid, he tells me, “We talk again and it’ll be about you and me and this bed.”
This time I laugh loud.
“Fucker’s got his hands full,” he murmurs. “Now get outta here so I can rest.”
“Okay,” I give in. “But I’ll be back later.”
“Countin’ the minutes, Nurse Mia,” he counters, smirking once again.
God, I’m tired of being wrong about these people.
“You’re shittin’ me,” I seethe, walking into the room and finding proof of what Gypsy had already explained.
Tyrant sits in a chair, his face bloodied and clothes all but stripped from his body. His eyes are closed, his head hanging down. He’s still breathing, but barely. From here, he appears out cold.
“Run it down,” I order, my stomach churning with disgust.
“Three stab wounds,” Gypsy explains. “One in each thigh and one to the shoulder. None of those put him near death.”
“Fuck, what did?”
Tyrants limp body is being held up by two prospects on either side. Max and Blaze are fixing his stretched out arms, attaching them to a makeshift cross. The blood oo
zing from his mouth is dropping into his lap, the chair, and landing on the floor.
“Thinkin’ he got lucky.”
Lucky? Christ. If ever there was a wrong place to be and the wrong fucking time, Tyrant found it, barely making it out alive.
“He took some blows to the head, and he doesn’t remember much. Had to guess, hits came after the punctures. So did the missing fingers.”
Tyrant’s hand hangs bloody, droplets hitting the concrete floor, as Max secures the binds around his wrist.
“He suffered,” I assert. “Someone meant for him to suffer.”
“Oh yeah,” Gypsy returns.
“How’d he get here?”
“No clue,” Advay enters. “Wilson found him at the gate. He was lying down, clutching his hand. Figure whoever did this, dropped him in our lap for a reason.”
Turning my glare to a, so far, quiet Sty, I question, “Got any thoughts?”
Sty shakes his head. “The Jesse Bynes we know doesn’t do this shit, Elevent. He plays fair. This wasn’t. This was cruel.”
“Brutal,” Advay clips. “Either Arrows didn’t do this and they have no clue, or they do and this message is the act one of more to come.”
“My guess?” Sty starts. “Arrows has no fuckin’ clue. Whoever did this was fuckin’ angry. My guess is, Cricket’s old man worked him over and this is his act one of more to come.”
“Crazy fuck,” Advay puts in. “What do you want done with him?”
“Keep him here,” I return. “At least until he can talk. If we can get something out of him, we will. If not, he folds in fear, we kick him out.”
“And send him where?” Sty asks.
“Who the fuck cares? Just out.”
“Very soon, Toby Meyer will no longer matter,” Vlad informs, sitting in a black leather chair next a brick fireplace in his study.
Its mantle is decorated with pictures held in heavy frames. Those in them are all happy, smiling in the camera.
His wife, Klara, content, beautiful, and strong, I know.
Emilia, his young daughter, who I’ve heard could try the patience of a saint, I’ve never met.
The other woman in the pictures has dark hair and a radiant smile. In one, her arms are wrapped around Klara and Vlad’s son, Veniamin. I deduce her to be Vlad’s beloved little sister, Faina.