by Ivy Fox
“Please,” I ask again, not hiding how I need his dark shadow to overpower my evil one.
He nods and starts to move away to his usual post, but breaks midstride.
“One condition,” he says, without even turning to face me.
“Okay?” I ask, wondering what could ever be on his mind, knowing I will agree to anything he asks.
“No more baths.”
I bite my inner cheeks, and I’m glad at least that the night sky is far too bare to show him the hurt he inflicted with his one condition. But for my mental well-being, I concede. The carnal gratification that both Gabriel and Michael gave me this night made me forget, for a small window of time, just how fucked up I truly am. It felt wonderful feeling desired by them, I won’t lie about that. It was a blessed escape from my reality. But that’s all it was. An escape.
And right now, my reality is knocking away at my subconscious, making me painfully aware that no matter how many ways I try to escape my fate, it will always find me.
Chapter 12
Michael
Gabe has been wiping the same spot on his bike for the past fifteen minutes, and I know it’s just so he doesn’t have to acknowledge my presence. I feel his anger radiating from his pores from where I’m standing on the porch—and that’s saying something since I’m a good ten feet away from the mountain of a man.
He’s going to carry on this silent treatment for the whole day if I don’t put a stop to it now. I take the two steps down and waltz my way to his kneeling form as if I don’t have a care in the world. I know exactly what’s troubling him. I just don’t want him to see that his tempest thoughts are similar to my own.
“You upset with me or something?” I ask behind him, and I see his back stiffen the moment he hears my voice. He shakes his head and carries on wiping that same damn spot. If he continues to keep at it, he’ll end up taking the whole chrome out of it.
“I know you are, Gabe. There’s no one around. Talk to me, brother. What’s got you all riled up?”
I hear him breathe out heavily, and after a long pause, he stands up, exhibiting his full height.
“Last night wasn’t right,” he snarks at me as if I was the only one to blame for last night’s lapse in judgment.
“So this is about Hope? I gathered as much,” I state, looking him in the eye. Sure, Gabe is a mean-looking son of a bitch, but I know inside the man lives the purest of souls, even if he thinks otherwise. Of course, he’s pissed at me for letting what happened last night in our bathroom happen at all. I have to admit when I woke up this morning, I wasn’t proud of my caveman antics either. But fuck, was it hot. Hope in our arms like that, so open to our touch, willing us to take it to the next level and give her the pleasure she needed in that precise moment, was one of the most erotic experiences I had ever had. And fuck did she taste like pure heaven. It took me less than two minutes this morning to pump me into oblivion with the memory of her taste alone. Sweet like a fucking peach. But looking into the blaze-filled eyes of my best friend right now feels like ice water being poured down my body, shrinking my balls to raisins.
“It was nothing, Gabe. She was hurting, and we just made it stop for a while. Brought her something different to focus on, instead of the shit she’s been obsessing about. It was harmless,” I explain, trying to rationalize our little threesome foreplay into something more innocent than what it really was.
“She’s not a pass-around,” Gabe says in reference to the women that frequent our Club. He turns his head toward the house, and I see a flicker of something I’ve never seen in my brother-in-arms before. If I had to name it, it almost looked like longing.
“She’s different,” he murmurs back at me, his honey-brown eyes still locked on her bedroom window. He huffs out the rest of the oxygen he must have been keeping and turns his back to me once more, continuing to polish his beloved Harley all over again.
“You want me to stay clear of her?” I ask him straight out. He looks to the side, not meeting my eyes, but I read his answer loud enough.
“Yeah, maybe that’s best anyway. Don’t want the girl to get more mixed up in the head than she already is,” I tell him, even though now I’m the one staring at Hope’s window, not too sure of the promise I’m making. I rake my fingers through my dark blond hair, uncomfortable with the idea of not having a repeat of last night.
“Or us,” I hear him mumble. Something inside my gut squeezes, telling me maybe it’s a little too late for us. I look down at my kneeling friend, unaware that he’s been staring at me the whole time my eyes were fixed on the small window.
“Cam has taken a shining to her,” he states as if this information should somehow make my stay-clear-of-Hope policy easier to uphold.
“You don’t have to tell me. I’ve got eyes. I see how he fawns over her,” I retort. I’m not blind on how Cam is all up on Hope since she arrived. The bastard can’t hide his feelings for shit. When he’s happy or lusting after something, he’s not known for his discretion, unlike the man beside me.
Still not sure if I should be happy with the fact he was out last night running errands for Uri with the nomads. Maybe if he’d been here, I wouldn’t have gotten carried away like I had. Didn’t want to hurt the fucker’s feelings. And listening to Hope cum the way she did on my mouth would have definitely pissed him off. Still can’t keep shit like that from a brother. Uri was right on that account the last time I saw him. Jealousy can poison any institution—even a brotherhood as tight as ours. But telling him what happened, and having him actually listening in while it’s happening, are two very different scenarios.
“It’s not good. Girl doesn’t need us three making her more confused than she already is,” he goes on, and I kick the dirt under my boot, frustrated that I still don’t have the names of the fuckers who hurt her in the first place. But Gabe’s right. She doesn’t need all three of us making her situation any worse because we have some fucked-up infatuation with her.
“Cam likes shiny new toys, and this one is mysterious enough to hold his attention longer than most, but it’ll pass,” I quip, making it seem that any infatuation we might have is just that—a passing thing and of no lasting consequence.
We’re just suffering from some form of savior complex. That’s a pretty heady thing for three alphas like us to experience. Hope sure as shit isn’t any damsel in distress with the mouth she has on her, but she’s still broken. Finding her the way we did, and bringing her back from such a desolate state, messes with any man’s head. Especially three guys like us who need to feel some kind of good in the world to keep going. It’s only biology—how we three are built. So it’s only natural that we want to fix and heal her. It’s basic instinct that we want to avenge her. And yeah, we might all want to fuck her, too. Still doesn’t mean we’ll go there. Or in Gabe’s and my case, go there again.
“Hmmm,” Gabe hums pensively.
“You disagree? You think I’m missing something?”
He doesn’t say anything else but continues to look concerned at his damned bike, and I know it’s not because it’s not shiny enough.
“Go on brother, say your peace,” I order.
“Be best the girl get better and move on her way,” he finally comes out with it.
“You think we’re a bad influence on her?” I tease him, even though I know damn well what’s he’s getting at.
“Think she might be one on us,” he deadpans.
I hate to admit the logic in his statement and the probability of it happening, whether I wanted it to or not. Hope was getting better. Soon she’d be up and walking by herself and would want to start her life back up, whatever that was. She wouldn’t need to be looked after by us, and she would leave us just as abruptly as she arrived. We never imagined her on our doorstep in the first place, but I’m sure all three of us are counting the days until her departure—and dreading it.
Each one of us has our own motives to delay the inevitable. Cam because of his crush, and me because I sti
ll haven’t been able to give her what I promised—closure and justice. I know Gabriel has his reasons to want her to stay, too, even if he is telling me the best thing for her and us would be for her to leave.
The only one I was unsure of was Hope herself. She was still a closed book, only showing us the pages she wanted us to read, never fully letting us devour each word from start to finish. Yet, I was still uncertain if this was because she was so unclear about her own story, or if she didn’t feel safe enough to share it with us. The girl was still such an enigma, both to herself and to us. She needed time to heal and understand herself. I think the reason why she never batted an eye at living with strangers for so long, is because she felt like she was as much a stranger to herself as we were. Those big brown eyes could be so telling at times, giving me an insight into something even she couldn’t comprehend. Yes, Hope has her secrets, some she kept well hidden even from herself—and those are the most dangerous ones.
Would I be there when she uncovered them all?
The burning question ached deep in my chest, because as much as I played it off to Gabriel that staying clear of Hope wouldn’t affect me either way, the truth of the matter was much different. I wouldn’t confess to it, but I’m not sure Cam is the only one of us who has a crush on our house guest. I cringe at the high school terminology. A twenty-seven-year-old bad-ass biker like myself, a fucking Archangel legacy no less, should never have that word in his vocabulary unless it is to describe what he wants to do with the bones of his enemies. Yet, here I am considering how it does justice to the new feelings that have risen of late within me. I’m harboring a fucking crush on a woman who almost died on my doorstep. Not really rom-com material, now is it?
I kick the dirt again and turn my back on Gabriel, not wanting my friend to see how he isn’t the only one who is messed up in the head regarding last night’s events. Yeah, maybe staying away from Hope isn’t that farfetched of an idea after all. Safeguarding my sanity should never have a downside. I’m almost to the front steps when I hear a familiar roar on the horizon. I lean on the beam until my aunt parks her Death Row chopper. The custom bike looks fierce with its new ink, but I guess it has to live up to Aurora’s own brand of fierceness.
Once she locks the bike steady in place and removes her helmet, with one look, I see that this house call has shit written all over it. I take the necessary steps to eat up the dirt between us, and Gabe is right by my side, sensing Aurora’s distress.
“What’s wrong? Is it Uri?” I ask, immediately thinking the worst.
“No, Uri’s fine. I’m not here on club business,” she says, staring deep into my eyes with concern.
“You here for Hope?” Gabe asks beside us, wiping his hands on one of his rags, looking just as concerned at the scowl on Aurora’s face as I am.
“Yes,” is her only reply, but as she passes by me in the direction of the house, I know there is something else she’s not telling us, so I grab her by the elbow before she’s able to take another step.
“Aurora, what is it? I thought you said she was recovering well. That she would even be able to get out of bed in the next couple of days. Why the hell do you look like the Dark Angel paid you a visit today?” I ask, feeling my brows touch in the middle of my forehead.
“What is it, Doc?” Gabriel asks, not hiding how tense Aurora is making him with her secrecy. My aunt has always been a tell-it-like-it-is kind of woman. This whole tight-lip crap is unsettling the both of us, and I know it’s only aggravated by the knowledge that whatever she’s keeping from us pertains to Hope.
“I have some news, but first I wanted to ask you how Hope’s mental state is. I’m not sure if the new information I have will do her more harm than good, and I want to have a clear picture on how I should go about it,” she replies, looking from me to Gabriel, studying our expressions.
“Hope’s a fighter. She might not remember much, but even being around us three doesn’t seem to faze her in any way. She’s still rummaging through everything. One day at a time, I guess,” I explain, trying to read my aunt’s tense state and what could have brought it on in the first place.
“Well, that’s good,” she says, biting her lower lip with her teeth.
“Fuck, Aurora! Just tell us already. Is something wrong with Hope that we should know about?” I shout, no longer maintaining my cool. Aurora opens her eyes wide at me, surprised with my outburst. I fist my hands to the side, feeling my nails start to break skin, and it’s the distraction I need to calm my fucking temper. A full ten seconds pass until I’ve regained my composure, but my anxious stare hasn’t diminished much.
“No, nothing’s wrong. But her state is a bit more precarious than I originally thought,” she hushes, looking inside the house as if Hope herself might come out at any minute, even though she damned well knows Hope would never leave her bed on her own until Aurora finally gives her the thumbs up.
“How so?” Gabe grunts through gritted teeth, and I see I’m not the only one my aunt has rattled with her ambiguity.
“I got the blood tests back, and two things immediately raised my concern. One is that she has high blood pressure, which on its own is alarming enough for me to take notice. The second issue though is a bit more complicated, and affects the first problem immensely.”
“Just spit it out, Doc. You’re driving us crazy with these damn riddles. What’s wrong with Hope?” I demand.
“She’s pregnant.”
Chapter 13
Hope
This house is so small.
There are no locked rooms or dark corners you can hide in a house this small.
Every square foot out in the open gives the illusion of grandeur, when in fact it feels so minuscule in size.
How can a fragile thing thrive in a place like this?
How can it blossom and grow? How can it survive?
It can’t.
No window is wide enough to see what goes on in this small house.
No door is left open long enough to carry the cries in the wind.
It’s as if you’re trapped inside the mouth of a hellhound—cornered inside its locked jaw, holding onto its flesh for support, only for it to contaminate you with its filth in the process. The dark roof of the evil hound’s mouth lingers over you, as the only view you have of the sky is through its sharp jaws, tempting you with the light from the aperture between its fangs. As if promising an escape through its gaps, if you make yourself just as small as this house, but in reality joyously waiting for the opportunity to shred you to pieces if you even think of an attempt.
Hell has nothing on this small house.
Hell is full of too many souls to count, so the mere size of it must be such a sight to see. Its hounds can run free from plane to plane and find days of joy just being Hell’s protectors instead of constant tormentors. I’m sure there are dark corners in Hell where a soul can hide—maybe even a locked room to seek refuge.
Even if only for a minute. An hour. A day.
Yes, hell has nothing on this small house.
In a small house, you can’t hide from the devil.
He always knows exactly where you are.
The minute my eyes open, I feel the shameful tears falling on my pillow. I hate each drop with such fervor that I refuse to even touch one of them with my fingers. I sit up, my heart still racing as if I’m being chased by wild animals, but I refuse to acknowledge its panicked state, too. I look at the end of the dark room, prepared to see my nightly shadow, only to establish he’s not with me. My mind catches up with my initial disappointment, and reminds me how Gabriel left earlier this evening to conduct what Cam says is “club business.” In other words, not my business.
Still, the pang of disillusion is obvious, and I wonder, When did I get accustomed to having him watch over me in my sleep? It should feel intrusive and downright creepy, yet not having Gabriel here with me now, after yet another one of my nightmares, sends chills down my spine on how wrong it feels. He wouldn’t judge me for
my ireful tears, and I would take comfort in his silence. Instead, I’m alone with only myself to rely on to pull me out of my anger.
I never remember my dreams, but I know some visit me at night more frequently than others. The only thing I remember is a circle of feelings. Round and round it goes, until I can take no more and wake up to discover my whole body drenched, while my mouth feels like I’ve eaten cotton balls as a midnight treat.
It starts off with a sadness so crippling that the air around me feels too heavy to draw into my lungs. So poignant is its melancholy that I can’t fathom how anyone can ever recover from such misery. Just when I think this feeling will rip my soul from my chest, another much crueler one takes its place.
Fear.
If the sadness was debilitating, then the fear was damned fucking suffocating. It was a living organism that bled into my very being and wrapped itself around my windpipes, making the once-heavy air a luxury I now craved. The terror breathes my air for me, gulping it up in spades and leaving me none to survive on. Its very intention is to kill me slowly—paralyzing me first and then dragging its dagger from neck to navel, opening me up fully so it can consume me, leaving me exposed, weak, and desperate for the melancholy that once presided over me.
After it ate away at me, the carcass it left behind was numb—the very same feeling my last nightmares left me with, its own parting gift. Numbness and acceptance of my fate, to live in sadness and fear for all my days and all my nights. But when I wake, the dreams never linger, and neither do their poisonous gift of acceptance. Yes, most days the numbness thrives through me, like a vine that refuses to part with its rose, twisted and tangled in its thorns. I knew it wanted me numb, dead to it all. But all the nightmares did was the very opposite of their intended purpose.