by Nina Levine
I’m catching my breath for a minute when Knuckles, a club member who I’ve spoken to many times, leans across the bar and says, “You gonna be working the bar from now on, gorgeous?”
Before I can answer him, one of the other members, Texas, says, “Fuck, brother, you got a death wish? King’ll be here any minute now; he catches you sweet-talking his daughter, there’s gonna be hell to pay.”
“Fuck off,” Knuckles says. “I’m just doing what all you assholes wanna do.”
“Yeah, but all us assholes are smart motherfuckers.” Texas shrugs. “Your life, man, but fuck, I’d be choosing to live it differently if I were you.”
“Guys,” I say, cutting in before their conversation goes sideways. “Who wants a drink? And no, Knuckles, I’m not gonna be working the bar from now on. I’m just helping Kree out today.” I’m not bothered by him. He’s harmless and just having some fun. Plus, I’ve always felt safe with these guys because they live by the code of not fucking with their Storm family.
Knuckles grins sloppily at me. “Maybe Kree would let you help out a little more often. Hell knows you’d be a welcome sight at the end of a long day.”
I’m about to put an end to this—because I don’t want to encourage him—when I catch sight of Fury who’s come to stand between Knuckles and Texas. He’s not happy. In fact, I’ve never seen such a dark, filthy expression on his face as he looks at me and says, “Get out from behind the bar.” He then turns his attention to Knuckles and says, “And you get the fuck out of here. If I ever hear you speak to her that way again, hell fucking help you.”
Whoa.
What is going on here?
It’s like he’s breathing fire and I have no idea why.
Knuckles attempts to argue, but Texas pulls him away, saying something about it not being worth going up against Fury. I’m hardly listening, though, because my gaze is fixed firmly on the man standing in front of me looking at Knuckles like he wants to kill him.
“What the hell, Fury?” I demand.
He turns his furious gaze on me. “I want you out from behind that bar now.” It’s a command; not one I intend on obeying.
“No. I’m helping Kree.”
“Fuck, Zara.” Those words practically roar out of him. The next minute, he stalks behind the bar, grips my bicep, and drags me out of the room.
“Fury! Fucking hell. Let me go!” I try to fight him off, but my attempts are futile. He’s far too determined for me to have any chance at stopping him.
Before I know what’s happening, he’s pulled me down the hall and into one of the member’s rooms. I’m so bewildered by everything happening I don’t stop to look around; I’m focussed only on Fury.
He slams the door behind us. “Next time I tell you to do something, you’ll do it! Am I understood?”
“Oh my God, no! You don’t get to tell me to do anything!”
“When every fucking club member’s eyes are all over you like they just were, I do get to tell you to do something. There’s no fucking way King wants you behind that bar.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. It was just Knuckles and Texas.”
He comes closer, backing me up against the wall. “I guarantee you it wasn’t just those two with eyes on you.”
My breaths come hard and fast as I stare at him. “That’s why you’re angry, isn’t it? You didn’t like them looking at me.”
His nostrils flare. “What I didn’t like was you being in that kind of situation.”
I smack my hand against his chest. “You are so full of shit! You don’t want me, but you don’t want anyone else to have me. That’s what this is about!”
“You have no fucking idea how much I want you, Zara. I spend too much fucking time thinking about how my hands would feel on your body, how my lips would feel on yours, and how I would make you scream. But I can’t fucking have you. The only thing I can do is make sure you’re safe, so for the love of fuck, listen to me when I tell you something.”
I can’t do it any longer. I can’t stay away from him. Not when he gives me his raw honesty like this.
I crave a taste of his lips.
Hell, I crave a lot more than that, but right now his lips are all I can think about.
Sliding my hand around his neck, I pull his face to mine and kiss him.
Our lips fit together like they were made for each other.
Fury groans as my tongue meets his, and instead of pushing me away, he grips my waist and pulls me close. I tangle both hands in his hair and kiss him like it’s my last kiss ever.
God, I never want to stop kissing him.
He tastes so good.
Feels so good.
The kiss grows frantic as he grinds himself against me, his hands all over my body. I wrap a leg around his, and he takes hold of my thigh, his fingers digging into my skin.
Something snaps in my mind at the same time my heart races with fear.
It’s his fingers.
No, no, no.
I push his hands away, my thoughts spinning, my body rejecting what my heart wants.
“No!”
I can’t breathe.
“Fuck, Zara.” It’s Fury. “Fuck!”
I gasp for air.
Suck it in deep.
Strong arms circle me, pulling me to safety.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, smoothing my hair. Over and over.
I cling to him, my thoughts and heart slowly calming.
I’m okay.
He has me.
He holds me for a long time, and finally, when the panic has eased, I look up at him with tears in my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
His blue eyes look back at me with tenderness. “Fuck no. You don’t apologise for that.” He slides his hand around to the nape of my neck and says with more force, “You never say sorry for that.”
“I don’t know what happened. I wanted you to kiss me, but then”—I swallow hard, trying to get rid of all my emotions so I can get my words out—“your fingers… they triggered memories....”
He nods. “I should have known.” He curses softly. “I shouldn’t have touched you.”
“But that’s the thing…. I wanted you to.” I grip his shirt, distraught at what’s happening. This is not what I want. “This is never going to go away, is it?”
Moving his hand to cup the back of my head, he pulls me to him. “It’s just going to take time.”
He’s holding me and telling me these things, but all my brain is processing is that I’m damaged goods and can’t even handle a guy kissing me. God knows how I’d handle it if I tried to have sex.
Fury’s not going to want to wait around for me to get my shit together over this. Why would any guy do that when there are a million other girls out there they could have?
I step out of his hold. “I have to go.”
He frowns. “Where?”
I’m already halfway to the door. “I have to get something from Sarge and take it home for Holly.” Lies, lies, all lies. I need to get away from you and all this disappointment and confusion I’m feeling.
“Zara,” he says as I step out of the room, but I’m not stopping.
I run down the hallway. Because my mind is in chaos, I don’t see King until it’s too late, and I run into him.
He stops and eyes me with a frown. “You okay?”
Shit.
I’ve just come from the clubhouse bedrooms, an area I know he would not allow me to be.
I quickly nod. “I have to go.”
Without waiting for his response, I push past him and run to my car.
The last thing I see as I drive down the clubhouse driveway is Fury standing watching me. He doesn’t come after me, which only proves I was right: he doesn’t want me now he knows I’m damaged.
23
Fury
* * *
Fuck.
I watch Zara drive out the gates of the clubhouse and mentally beat myself up over what I just did to her. I should have known better
than to put my hands on her when she’s barely acknowledged her rape, let alone worked through the trauma of it.
Going after her is all I want to do, but I’m not convinced it’s what she needs. I’ll give her some space and time to sort through everything she’s thinking and feeling, and then I’ll go to her.
When I can no longer see her car, I walk back inside. A text comes through as I enter the bar.
* * *
King: My office. Now.
* * *
I run into Hyde on my way down the hallway. He stops me and says, “King’s pissed as hell at you about something. I’ve got no clue what, but just a friendly warning: proceed with caution. I haven’t seen him this worked up for a long fucking time.”
“Thanks, brother.”
I haven’t fucked anything up that King’s asked me to do, so I’m not sure what’s going on. Must be a misunderstanding. Either that or Hyde’s got his facts screwed up. However, when I enter King’s office, he’s in a filthy mood.
He shoves his chair back and stands. “Shut the door,” he barks, his body language screaming his anger.
I close the door. “Fuck, King, what’s—”
He comes at me before I have a chance to defend myself. Barrelling across the room, he crashes into me. Gripping my shirt, he slams me against the wall and demands, “Are you fucking my daughter?”
Fuck.
I grit my teeth. “No.”
His eyes are harder than I’ve ever seen them when he yanks me forward and then pushes me back again. “Don’t fucking lie to me, Fury. I just saw her come out of the bedroom hallway. I then saw you come out of the same area. I’m only going to ask you this one more time: Are you fucking Zara?”
My own anger surfaces and heat flushes through me. Tensing, I grind out, “I’m not in the business of lying, King. I haven’t fucked her.”
Tension so thick you could cut through it settles over us as we face off. King’s my president and I respect the hell out of him. He pulled me up from the gutter years ago and saved me from a life that was slowly killing me. But if he thinks I’ll stand here and take much more of this shit from him, he’s mistaken.
Finally, he says, “If I find out that whatever the fuck is going on between you two has gone any further, you’ll wish like hell it hadn’t. Zara’s getting her life sorted. She doesn’t need any distractions.”
I ball my fists. “We done here?”
“No we’re not fucking done here,” he snaps, letting me go and taking a step back. “I need you on a job tonight. Stark wants that Italian to disappear. Turns out he’s become a liability she doesn’t need. I’ll text you the address.”
“Anything else?” I can’t dial back my temper; my question punches out of me bitterly.
His nostrils flare as anger blazes brighter from him. “Don’t fucking test me, brother.”
I’ll do this job for him, but first I’ll need a strong fucking drink. It won’t come close to taking the edge off, but it’ll be a good fucking start.
I locate the Italian faster than I thought I would. He’s at the address King sent me to, and he’s alone. Two factors that make my life easier.
“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” he says when I locate him in his bathroom. He’s under the shower jerking off and quickly lets go of his dick as he moves to defend himself.
He has no hope of success here, but the fight always fuels me, so I slow and wait for his first punch. As it comes my way, I twist sideways and kick my leg up so my foot connects hard enough with his side to knock him into the wall. The thud of his head against the tiles urges me on, towards my goal. He grunts and attempts to straighten, but I’m on him before he has the chance. I charge at him, grabbing him by the neck with both hands. Spinning us around, I slam him against the vanity. I then smash the back of his head into the mirror, shattering glass everywhere. As he grunts and fights me with his arms and legs, I punch him hard in the face.
“I’ve had a really fucking bad day,” I roar, wiping sweat from my face, smearing blood across my skin in the process. “We can do this fast or we can drag this shit out. Your choice. But I’m really fucking down with taking our time if that’s what you’re thinking.”
He sucks ragged breaths in, wincing from the pain I’ve dealt. I’ve knocked all the energy out of him; he’s not putting up any kind of fight anymore.
When he doesn’t speak, I say, “You getting a sense of déjà vu here? You, me, and a bathroom. Broken glass. You in a world of hell.” I pull my blade from its sheath and move closer to him. Pressing it to his neck, I say, “Difference this time is that you won’t be breathing by the time I’m done with you.” I draw blood and add, “Come on, motherfucker, fight me. Give me something. Any-fucking-thing.”
He roars to life, pushing himself off the vanity and wrapping his arms around me. Tackling me to the ground, he knocks the knife from my hand and punches my face.
Fuck yes.
I let the pain stab through me while allowing him to get a few more jabs in.
I want it.
Welcome it.
It’s a blast of bright light.
A jagged slice through the monotony of my days.
Pain shocks me back to life every fucking time. Delivering it and receiving it. Nothing comes close to touching me in the same way. My father would have been proud of what he created. A son in his image. A goddam fucking monster who takes joy in suffering.
“Turns out you’re the one who won’t be breathing by the time we’re finished,” the Italian thunders as he punches me again.
The blow sends my head sideways against the dirty floor of his bathroom. Blood and saliva splatter on the wall next to me.
I’m a bloody mess from all the hits he’s inflicted.
He thinks he knows how this is going to end.
He underestimates me.
They all do.
It’s my preferred way of enjoying a fight.
And the reason why I was one of Sydney’s prized underground fighters before I joined Storm.
Because, in the end, they all learn I’m the fucking composer of the symphony.
I growl as I draw upon the strength that dwells deep inside. Using that and the adrenaline racing through my body, I rear up, thrusting him off me. Wild energy surges through my body, sending me into a trance-like state where I access the kind of violence most never see in their life.
I move in ways that can’t be predicted. I’m fast. Agile. And I attack where he least expects it. It’s not my mind propelling me forward; it’s a finely tuned warrior instinct I had to hone from a young age. I may not have been able to fight my father off as a child, but no one goes to battle with me anymore and wins.
When the Italian lies at my feet, beaten, bloody, and dead, I pull out my phone.
“Is it done?” King demands when he answers my call.
I clench my jaw, still pissed off with his earlier bullshit. “Yeah”.
“Good. I’m gonna send you a photo of something I need you to find in his place. Don’t leave without it.”
He ends the call without another word. A text comes through a moment later. A photo of a toy phone. Fucking strange. I ransack the place looking for it, finally locating it ten minutes later. Shoving it in my pocket, I head into the kitchen and clean the blood and grime from my face and body as best I can. Detective Stark will take care of the crime scene like she always does when I deal with someone for her.
Exiting the house into the warm night air, I suck in a deep breath. I was sure this job would ease some of the tension punching through me, but it hasn’t. I’m mad as fuck. King’s bullshit has stirred my emotions into a tangled, fucked-up jumble of frustration, resentment, and anger.
God-fucking-dammit, I want Zara.
I want to kiss her.
I want my hands on her.
I want to fuck her.
But more than any of that, I want something else. Something deeper. Something I’ve never had or desired in my life. And fuck if that does
n’t screw with my head.
24
Fury
* * *
I arrive at Zara’s place just after 10:00 p.m., once I’ve cleaned up and gotten my head together.
She opens the door, her eyes widening when she sees my face, but she doesn’t acknowledge it. She’d be used to seeing this kind of stuff with King. Instead, she wraps her arms around her body. “It’s late.” Fuck, where’s her spark gone? She’s looking at me with eyes that are vacant of any-fucking-thing.
“Late’s always worked for us before, princess,” I say and enter without waiting for her to welcome me in.
The door clicks closed and she follows me into the lounge room. When she sits on the other couch to the one I choose, I move to sit with her. I don’t force myself close—although that’s what I want to do—but rather situate myself at the other end so she’s got some space. I have no idea where her head’s at after our kiss, but by the looks of it, nowhere good.
“Why are you here?” she asks.
I frown. “To talk about what happened today.”
“There’s nothing to talk about, Fury.”
She’s shutting down on me. Just when I’ve admitted to myself I want her. Fuck if I’ll allow that to continue. “There’s a whole lot to talk about, Zara, the first thing being I wanna know what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking that I wish we weren’t having this conversation because there’s no point.”
I don’t like her tone and I sure as fuck don’t like anything I’m hearing. “Why?” I demand.
Her eyes widen with disbelief. “Do I really need to spell it out?” When I don’t answer that, she spews a whole heap of shit at me that we’re going to need to spend time unpacking and putting back together in a better fucking way. “I freaked when you touched me, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to cope with a man touching me again. I’m damaged fucking goods and I’m sure you have better things to do than wait around for me to fix myself. So, to answer your question, I can’t imagine why you’re even bothering to take the time to come here and talk to me about it. You should be out there finding someone who does want you to touch them.”