Beauty, a Hate Story the End

by Mary Catherine Gebhard

  Fucking psychopath.

  Thirty minutes passed, maybe forty, before I opened my eyes again. After the first ten minutes, the gunfire died down, but the occasional pop still sounded. It was like after the Fourth of July when one asshole kept firing off fireworks a week after the holiday ended.

  By the look and sound of the action, everyone had moved upstairs. I didn’t know how long they would stay there, but once they came back down I’d be caught. It wasn’t the table that had kept me hidden but the chaos of the fight.

  It was like counting thunder. Five minutes after I heard the last pop, I slid out from under the table and ran to the front door. Blood and bodies were everywhere and I had to awkwardly run and jump over them to get to the door. I pulled at the handle, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “What the fuck?” I tugged, shaking the handle, but it wouldn’t open. My heartbeat matched the handle’s loud rattling as I realized there was no fucking way it was opening. An ear-ringing pop sounded and I threw my head over my shoulder, expecting soldiers to come flooding down. When a minute passed, I released a breath and looked to my left.

  The basement.

  I knew for certain soldiers were upstairs, their gunshots and boots a furious thunder. Maybe there were some quietly waiting downstairs, but staying and tugging on a locked door was certainly suicide.

  Bodies cluttered the stairs too, thankfully none of them women—I was dreading the idea that Lucia had left them there to be killed. I searched their faces, scared I would see Papa’s staring back, then it hit me—the reason Levi thought I should be gone, the reason Papa was gone, the conversation I’d overheard in the pantry, the one I’d had with Gabby—this was what they’d been planning.

  Suddenly I was searching the faces for one in particular, fear burning acid holes in my gut. What had I done? This was entirely my fault. This all could have been avoided if I’d just sent one fucking text.

  I didn’t see Anteros or any of his Wolves among the faces, only soldiers littered the stairs—so many that I had to grip the handrail for support as I stepped over their faces. They were all nameless, but their faces stared back, gaping. I would remember them forever.

  It was dark at the bottom, the type of darkness you feel like velvet on your skin. I quickly pasted myself against the wall when I heard grunts and banging—there were still people fighting, five of them. As my eyes adjusted to the little light, I realized it was just one person fighting the other four.

  The one didn’t bother with weapons, opting to use his hands. As one enemy fell, he grabbed another. Someone came flying at him from the side, screaming and running at full speed with a knife. The man easily sidestepped the assailant, grabbed his neck, and slammed his head into the wall, causing him to fall to the ground in a heap.

  Only the one remained, standing above the felled bodies, legs spread, fists at either side. The sudden end of the fight was marked by silky quiet. I studied the shadow of the man, hulking but somehow carnal. I should have been afraid, but my fear was displaced by a yanking deep in my gut. The air was all at once sizzling and heavy, my breath humid, and then it hit me.

  Anteros.

  The realization, the relief that he was alive, hit me like lightning. Even obscured by shadow my body called to him. I should have been disgusted, but watching Anteros destroy those men twisted me up. It stirred feelings I’d tried to deny when I’d murdered Big O. Alive. Invigorated. Invincible.

  Only a shred of light penetrated the darkness, but that light was captivated by Anteros. When he put both hands in his hair and pushed the strands out of his face, it practically lavished his biceps.

  I must have sighed because he spun around, instantly on alert. I pressed myself against the wall, fingers splayed. I was nervous he wouldn’t recognize me but more than that, I was thrilled. I throbbed. I ached. He was here and we could finally be fucked up together.

  I couldn’t see anything but the massive silhouette of him standing above the piles of bodies. Only the shadow of his head peered at me through the darkness. The seconds he took to decide who I was were agonizing. In those seconds he watched me, though, something changed. Suddenly we weren’t breathing alone; we were sharing one breath.

  He closed the distance, pushing me deeper into the wall so I felt every muscle of him and every groove and divot of the stone behind me. His hands came to my waist, ran up my sides, grazing my breasts, too short and quick before he raised my arms and pinned them above my head.

  “You need to get out of here,” I whispered. “What are you doing?” It was fucking insane. We were enemies. Everyone was fighting. Even in the darkness we could get caught, but as he pushed my arms against the wall, I didn’t fight it. A smile crept to my face.

  I loved it.

  His lips hovered above mine and he said, “Taking what’s mine.”

  Seven

  Anteros devoured Frankie. Kissing. Sucking. Stealing. He swallowed the life force from her, claiming it as his. The Catacombs had been a trap; he’d lost soldiers, the upper hand—the recovery from this misstep would be fucking brutal. But there would be one goddamn victory: Frankie. Too fucking long he’d gone without the taste of her on his tongue.

  “What are you doing?” she asked again through breaks in his kisses. He released his grip on her wrists, smoothed his hands over her breasts, waist—determined to completely envelope himself in her flavor, her scent.

  “No talking,” he said gruffly. Even in the darkness, Frankie was stunning. Her blue eyes shone and her red lips were juicier than an apple.

  “Because we were never much good at talking?” She mimicked the words that had put a chasm between them. If he’d known it would have meant so long without Frankie, he never would have said them. Fuck safety. Fuck Crazy A. Fuck everything. He needed his fix.

  “Because I’ve missed you more than I can breathe and if I don’t get inside you soon I’m going to take you right now in this fucking hallway.” Before she could respond, Anteros picked her up, threw her over his shoulder, and took her down to where they’d blown a hole in the wall. The walls were crumbling as if they were made of graham cracker.

  He ducked through, watching Frankie’s head, and thrust her down in the old subway tunnel. Her chest slid down his and she still grasped his shirt when her feet hit the floor. That simple touch ignited a fire in his body.

  “Wow,” she gasped, eyes wandering the tunnel. “What is this place?” The original City Hall subway station had been sealed up years before, but everything was more or less intact, the beautiful emerald green and ivory patterned tile work and art deco glass ceiling frozen in time.

  “Subway,” Anteros grunted. He was more caveman than man at that point, and he didn’t feel like getting into a history lesson.

  “Wait—” She pushed against him. “We can’t do this now, Anteros, not here.” As she protested, she reached for him. “There are too many people. We’ll get caught.”

  “Say my name again,” he demanded, pushing the hair from her eyes. Frankie blinked, but acquiesced.

  “Anteros.” Her voice was low, breathy—fucking musical—and he was unable to resist the muscles that lifted his cheek when his name fell from her lips. He pulled her in for a kiss before she could say another word. She was right—they didn’t have much time. All the fighting had moved upstairs, but that was only a strategic push so they could fall back.

  From the moment they’d blown open the wall it had been clear it was a trap. The map Levi’s source had given them was shit. Nikolai had even double-checked the blueprints, but something had gone wrong somewhere down the line. The Catacombs were clearly not what they’d thought. This was Lucia’s fucking club, and Lucia had been waiting for them.

  When they realized, the strategy shifted from offense to do as much damage as possible and get the fuck out, but Anteros didn’t want to think about that because even if he wasn’t going to gain an upper hand in the war that day, he’d at least gotten something.

  Frankie.

  For
weeks she’d been punishing him, teasing him, torturing him. That was finally going to end.

  Anteros kissed Frankie again, and this time she didn’t object. One hand wove into his hair, tugging on the strands; the other raked nails down his shoulder. When he pulled back to breathe she followed him, lips going to his jaw and neck, biting on the cords of muscle.

  He pressed her against the tunnel wall, bracketing her, keeping her still, but she squirmed underneath him.

  “Poor girl,” he rumbled. “You’ve been starving, haven’t you?” When she didn’t respond, he tangled his fist in her hair and tugged her head back. What little light broke through glittered across her skin in ripples. “Do you want me to fuck you?” he growled, and she nodded. “Say it.” He tightened his grip and her eyes widened before drooping to half-mast.

  “I want you to fuck me.” She angled her chin up, trying to reach his lips. “Please, I need you.”

  “So polite.” He plunged his tongue into her mouth. “Such a good girl.” He separated her thighs with his knee. “But you’ve been bad, haven’t you?” Anteros drew back, grip still tight in her hair, waiting for the reply.

  Frankie ignored him, sliding her hands to his neck, trying to bring him back into a kiss. In response, Anteros slapped her, free hand colliding with her soft, honey cheek. She gasped but arched into the touch, fingers at his neck groping the flesh fervently. A sigh escaped her parted lips and a small smile tilted them. Her cheek was flushed red—marked by him—and it drove Anteros fucking wild, but she still hadn’t answered his question.

  “Haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” she moaned, eyes hazy with lust like fog along the horizon just before sunrise. He ran a finger along her neck, across skin someone else had sucked, and it rose up to meet him.

  “You wanted me to be jealous,” he said, and she tried to shake her head in his hold. Anteros quirked a brow. “Then what?” He placed a palm at her throat.

  “I wanted to hurt you,” she whispered, blue eyes shining at him, bright even in the dark. “Like you hurt me.” He tightened the grip on her throat, bending down to whisper in her ear.

  “Smart girl. I can’t be jealous when something belongs to me entirely.” He loosened his hold and she drank the air in big breaths. Keeping her hair tangled in his fist, he slid his other hand down the front of her. Brushing over her tits, spreading across her stomach until he reached the seam of her pants. He forced her to kiss him as he tugged her jeans past her ass and she hungrily accepted him. He plunged two fingers inside her seconds later and she arched for him, made small, whimpering noises from the back of her throat.

  “I know that sound,” he said, biting her bottom lip.

  “Please,” Frankie begged. “Let me come, please.”

  “It’s too late for begging,” he said as her nails raked from his neck to his shoulders. “You’ve been bad, Frankie. Disobedient. Teasing me. Provoking me. What did you think would happen?” He lightly trailed the fingers in her hair down her spine and she bent to the touch. “What did you want to happen?”

  “Fucking do it,” she groaned, riding him, trying to get the orgasm. Anteros slapped her again and she moaned, nails pricking his shoulders. His hand went back to her hair, knotted it, and pulled her viciously back so he could bite her throat.

  “Don’t fucking talk to me that way,” he snarled. “I’m not yours to order around. Understand?” She moaned a loud, frustrated, completely addicting sound. His words were a lie. He was hers to control, to own. Whatever the fuck she wanted, he would do, so long as he could hear that moan.

  “Tell me what you want,” he barked.

  “You,” she said on a breath.

  “Where.”

  “Inside,” she groaned, and it echoed down the tunnel.

  “Boss is probably cleaning up shop downstairs.” The unmistakable voice of Pretty Boy drifted down the stairs. They froze, and then Anteros pulled her under his chin. In that position she felt safer to him, protected under his arms.

  It was a false security.

  But it was better than nothing.

  “We don’t have long until the second wave gets here.”

  Frankie gripped his biceps and Anteros looked at the top of her head. He wanted to tell her she was safe, that he would protect her from anything, but he couldn’t. If they were caught, she would die.

  “I’ll go find Crazy A,” Little O said.

  “I’ll find Levi. Don’t know where that fucker went,” Pretty Boy said.

  “Maybe he’s dead.”

  Frankie struggled to get away, but Anteros solidified his grip, caging her with his body. He wasn’t through with her—the torment that had been ripping him apart for weeks was finally gone. She settled, but her nails pricked blood from his skin.

  “Assnugget deserves it for serving us a steaming pile of shit for intel…” Pretty Boy’s voice faded away as he walked somewhere out of earshot. When silence settled for more than a few seconds, Frankie struggled against him again.

  “You need to go.” She pushed him. “I need to go. They can’t see…see this!” She gestured to how they were. Her jeans were past her ass, pussy exposed. Her shirt had ridden up to show her stomach, and if he had it his way, he would take it all off.

  “But you need to come, Frankie.” He dipped down to whisper against her ear, simultaneously pressing a finger against her slit. “You were begging me just moments ago. Are you finished?” With two fingers he spread her then thrust into her with three before she could say another word.

  She sighed. “You’re going to get us killed.”

  “Should I stop?” he asked, eyes locked onto hers as he pumped into her. She squirmed in his palm, trying to get him deeper.

  “We’ll get caught,” she whimpered, but when he removed his fingers, she made a small noise of disappointment. Quickly he spun her around and pressed her against the tiled subway wall. She was a goddamn drug. He would never get enough of her, even when they were at fucking war. He placed a palm on the wall just above her head, steadying himself, and quickly undid his fly.

  “You decide how long this lasts, Frankie.” Anteros raised her ass in the air, palmed her cunt, spread her. “I don’t give a shit who’s upstairs because I’m not stopping until you can’t stand.”

  With one arm, Frankie reached up and gripped his bicep, holding on.

  “Please stop teasing me,” she groaned, head down, hair a cascade of curls.

  Anteros thrust into her without another word. The sensation was lightning. It tore through his body as fire and combusted when she cried out. The danger of his Wolves and soldiers approaching was an urgency beating inside him, but Frankie still hadn’t come yet.

  Then when he was sure they were damned, small, whimpering cries fell from her mouth. Pulsing gripped his dick—that fucking magical, utterly Frankie feeling. Her nails dug deeper into his bicep, her head fell completely forward in a long moan, and she came.

  As the final pulses of her orgasm ended, Frankie frantically attempted to peel herself off the wall, afraid they would get caught.

  “I’m not through with you, Frankie,” Anteros said, turning her back around. He touched her cunt, still wet with him and sensitive from the orgasm.

  “We can’t,” she said, but she curled her arms around his neck, begging for more. He slid a finger inside her and fucked her again, the sound of his sperm inside her slick and maddening.

  “It’s been too goddamn long since I tasted you,” he groaned. “Since I felt you curl around my tongue.” She sighed and he felt her constrict around his finger. “Fuck, Frankie. You’re going to get us killed.” But he pulled out because they’d already pushed it.

  “Don’t go,” Frankie said, tugging him back. A second later she added, “I mean…never mind. God, you have to go. I have to go.” She pulled away, trying to peel off his body, but he pushed her hard into the wall. Stone fell into her hair as he fucked her with his fingers.

  “Come,” he said, thrusting deep inside.


  “I can’t,” she said. “It’s too dangerous.” Her protests were weak, nails digging into his neck, eyes going cross-eyed and blurry like they did when she was on the brink.

  “Give me one more before I go.” Anteros planted his lips on hers, sucking in her sighs as he curled his fingers deeper inside. When she opened her mouth to cry, he kissed her chin, trailing his teeth from her jaw to her collarbone.

  “That’s it,” he coaxed. “Good girl.” He tore her shirt aside so he could get one brief taste of her tit. She arched into him as his tongue met her nipple. Her nails dug into his skin and he was glad for it; each tear in his flesh recorded her passion. And with the fighting, no one would question them. She shuddered wet and hot against him then stilled.

  “You’re fucking perfect when you come, mio cuore,” he groaned against her chest before untangling himself. He bent down and pulled her jeans back up, buttoned them. When he stood back up, the air stilled. Frankie’s brow crinkled in unsaid words. She didn’t have to say anything; he knew them already by the brick in his chest.

  Anteros pulled her to him, placing a kiss on her forehead. “I’m going to text you a time and a date and you’re going to meet me at our place. No fucking around. No telling me no.” She held his shirt, breathing unsteady. “Do you understand?”

  She nodded then said, “You need to go. Really, you shouldn’t be here.”

  “Shouldn’t have been here in the first place,” Anteros responded. “There are leaks all over my fucking camp.”

  “I’m so, so sorry.” Frankie pressed her head against his chest. “I’m…” She didn’t finish, just burrowed her forehead deeper into his chest.

  He tilted her chin up with his finger. “Don’t apologize for something you have no fault in.” Pained wrinkles marred her forehead and she turned away. Gripping her face again, Anteros kissed her until noises near the stairs broke them apart. “Go,” he said forcefully as he pushed her away.