“You know what it is,” Crazy A said, eyes still on Anteros. “It’s his fucking brand. He has a matching one.”
They both looked to Anteros. “He’s lying, right, Boss?” But Little O’s wavering voice betrayed his uncertainty.
“No,” Anteros replied. “He tells the truth.” Anteros was done pretending. The day would most likely end in death, and he wouldn’t go to his grave a liar. Frankie had betrayed him; she didn’t love him, but dammit, he’d loved her.
Crazy A laughed. “At least you’re not pretending anymore.”
“Fuck this,” Pretty Boy said, hastily unsheathing his gun and aiming it at Frankie. “This is bullshit. No chick is worth more than us, than the Wolves, than what we’ve been through.” Pretty Boy’s grip was unsteady because he was unsteady. He didn’t even look at Frankie, creased brow and worried gaze stuck on Anteros.
“Wait—” Frankie started, but Pretty Boy fired and her word broke in a scream. The bullet knocked her free from Crazy A and she fell backward into the water, cry disappearing in a splash.
Without hesitation, Anteros shot Pretty Boy. There was only a second for Little O to realize what that meant. His mouth parted in shock as Pretty Boy fell into the water then he whipped around to Anteros. Little O fumbled awkwardly with the trigger then fired.
The bullet cut through the cold air and at the last minute, Anteros parried to the left, discharging his Glock. Little O’s bullet clipped Anteros below his rib just as Anteros hit the Wolf clean in the chest. Anteros fired another shot, then another.
Little O’s gun fell to the pier with a thud.
He stumbled back, hitting the water just seconds after Pretty Boy, their deaths marked by a one-two successive splash. Anteros’s head pounded with adrenaline, his blood vibrated. A years-long alliance had been annihilated in an instant. They were gone before they could even process what had happened. There wasn’t even a spot of their blood on the pier to demarcate the moment when the Beast had chosen the princess.
“You’re a fool,” Crazy A said and Anteros quickly turned to face the next threat. Crazy A already had his gun on Anteros. Holding his side with one hand, Anteros raised his own with the other. This was what it would have always come down to, Anteros realized. That day years ago, Anteros had torn an irreconcilable hole. Their brotherhood had only masked the blood thirst, the need to avenge. It would have always ended with the both of them at each other’s guns.
“At least I admitted my weakness,” Crazy A continued. “You’re in love with her and you won’t admit it to yourself. You’re fucking crippled.”
“I know I love her,” Anteros said as blood wept between the cracks in his fingers. “I’ve loved her since the day she demanded I take her instead of her father. I knew I would rather destroy everything than harm her when you insisted I kill her. I don’t just love her, Alcide, she is my ruination and my salvation.” The declaration poured from him like the blood seeping from his side. He couldn’t stop the words but for the first time, he didn’t want to.
Crazy A’s eyes widened and his lips parted in surprise. His gun lowered slightly and Anteros took the brief second pause to gain the advantage.
He fired.
The bullet pierced Crazy A and he fell backward into the water, joining the others in their watery grave.
But not Frankie, Anteros thought grimly as he sprinted to the river.
Determined to bring Frankie back with him, Anteros threw his arms wide above him, clapped his hands together, and fell into the river in a swan dive. The tips of his fingers broke the icy surface then the rest of his body followed.
At first the water was like thousands of razors slicing his skin, but numbness quickly settled—a relief for his injured side, at least. As Anteros dove deeper, the bodies of Little O and Pretty Boy drifted lifelessly next to him, their blood swirling like ribbons in the inky water.
Anteros swam harder against the current, ignoring their surprised faces. They’d had no idea what was coming, had been loyal to the end, and that had cost them their lives.
It was just a flicker of light in the deep water, but she grew clearer and unmistakable: Frankie. The smooth, lovely curves of her face caught the light of the fading sun. Eyes closed, lashes dusted her cheekbones. Her arms rose lifelessly above her like she was reaching up after him. She was falling deeper and faster, and he didn’t have much breath left in him.
Anteros kicked faster, reaching his hand out until his shoulder hyperextended and the muscles of his back and arm groaned in protest. Finally, he grasped her wrist. He tugged them back up through the slogging water while invisible tendrils tried to drag them back down.
His lungs demanded breath, face tight with the need for air, but all he could think about was saving Frankie. Light glimmered across the surface, dancing like pixies, taunting him, a flicker he could see but couldn’t breach. The walls of his brain were closing in on him, desperate for oxygen.
At last, Anteros broke the surface, sucking in air as he dragged Frankie to the pier. With one arm wrapped around her waist, he lifted them. Her wet hair fell over his arm as they dangled. His bicep flexed painfully and his fingers threatened to give way but with a final breath, he pulled them up. Lying on his back, Anteros focused on the few stars that broke through the cloudy gray night, waiting until his blurry vision cleared. Then, with another heavy breath, he rolled over to examine her.
Jesus.
What had he done?
What the fuck had he done?
Her lips were blue, eyes closed. Blood seeped from the bullet wound in her arm like a watercolor left in the rain. Hovering, he touched her neck, checking for a pulse. It was weak and thready, but it was there. Still, he had to get the water from her lungs.
Tilting her neck back, he put his lips to her frosty blue ones and breathed into her lungs. He started compressions and even though her lack of response made him want to go hard and fast, he remained steady. Seconds felt like decades, dread coiled in his gut, but then she miraculously sat up. With violent coughs, Frankie expelled water from her mouth. Their eyes locked.
Without thought, Anteros crushed his lips against hers, kissing her so fiercely and so hard that it pierced the numbness. He was still infuriated by her betrayal, but killing Frankie only served to destroy him further.
He was fucked.
Twelve
My throat was raw, each breath burning the skin anew. The last thing I remembered was Pretty Boy aiming his gun at me. The force of the bullet, the shock of it, had knocked the wind out of me. I must have banged my head on something because I didn’t remember hitting the water. I didn’t even get to swim. To fight.
Then I was awake, coughing up water, and Anteros’s intense, furious gaze was on me. There were no Wolves in sight, just him and me. The sun was just a neon line on the horizon and night darkened an indigo sky. My arm ached, my skin was numb, but my lips were warm from Anteros. Nothing was made clearer by his kiss. His glare was wild and untamed like he wanted to throw me back into the water.
“You’re lucky,” Anteros grunted. If I hadn’t been so dazed, I would have scoffed. I was a lot of things, lucky didn’t hit top ten. “Bullet barely hit your arm,” he continued. “Lucky Pretty Boy’s aim was off.” He lightly drew around the circumference of the wound, talking to himself. I furrowed my brow because I didn’t know what to say.
Abruptly, Anteros sat back, studying me. I swallowed, averted my gaze. I’d been certain Anteros hated me, certain I was going to die at the Wolves’ hands. I hadn’t seen things flash before my eyes like in the movies.
I’d seen Anteros.
Without any explanation, Anteros stood up. His tank and trousers were soaked, clinging to every inch of him. He inclined his head, eyeing me through wet tendrils of his black hair—just one eye, a slit of intent. In that brief second, I wondered what would become of me—what he would do with me. Then he shook his head, wet hair misting my face.
Anteros threw his head back, standing so straight his shirt
revealed the lines of muscle underneath. He carded both hands through his inky hair, getting it out of his face. I was an addict, drinking in the way his muscles flexed and rolled in absolutely evil ways. Then before I could object, he put his hands to my waist and lifted me into his arms.
A groan fell from my lips. Ever been shot, drowned, and revived in the span of an hour? Well, 0/10 would not recommend. Awareness was returning to my limbs and the air was like razorblades. My arm burned a throbbing ache.
With each thrust of Anteros’s feet hitting the ground, pain wracked me. I sucked it up, though. Except for the first groan—which was pretty much out of my control—I wasn’t going to show any weakness. Anteros carried me across the docks and I studied his features for any hint of what was going to happen. He gave me nothing. He stared straight ahead like a robot, features hard cast.
At this angle, Anteros was even more severe, his cheekbones carved from stone, his jaw cut from glass. I wanted to reach out, to touch him and hold him like before, but did he still think I’d betrayed him? Then why save me? I sucked in a breath and stared straight ahead. At least in his arms I wasn’t as cold—wet, but not popsicle status.
We stopped before a sleek black car that I didn’t know the name of. I didn’t know the name of many cars, though. I mean, it was lucky if I could distinguish between a Honda and Hyundai. It was different than the one I’d been shoved in the trunk of, though, smaller and more lethal.
He set me down against the side and I could hardly stand so he gripped my waist, keeping me level. His body came into mine, pressing me deeper against the metal, warm against my frigid skin. I fought the urge to reach for him; his beautiful features were still so cold, so hateful. He bent his head, pressing his nose to my hair, beard tickling my forehead. All the air left my lungs in a rush.
First his hand slid from my waist, then they went to the seam of my pajamas. They were soaked and I didn’t realize how cold I was until my teeth were clattering so hard my jaw hurt. All of those things, though—the pain, the freezing—they took back seat to him.
My pajamas clung to my skin and the drawstring was knotted impossibly by the water. Anteros yanked at them wildly until, with a frustrated noise low in his throat, he finally ripped them off. I shook with the movement as he pulled them to my ankles, gripping the car for support. He got them past my feet, tossed the drenched satin to the asphalt, and stood back up. My lower half was naked, but it wasn’t like when he was undressing me for sex. He didn’t meet my eyes, didn’t lick his lips. His glare was harsh and enraged, but worst of all, hurt.
He tightened his grip on what remained of the tank then ripped the rest from me. I let out a small sound of pain as the force stuttered through my body, hitting my fresh wound in shocking pain.
I wanted to know what had happened. Where were the Wolves? But I sensed it was not the time for talking. Anteros was acting like a caveman, the look of a crazed, possessed madman in his eyes. Still, he was undressing me carefully. Though ripping my shirt was violent, he peeled it from my body gently, and I knew it would have hurt so much more if it had to be dragged over my head. He threw the tattered shirt to the side and I had to admit when all the wet clothes were off, I was so much warmer.
I shivered against the car and he stared down at me from his nose, breathing furiously, feral glare harsh in his bluegreen eyes. He didn’t bother to take his own clothes off and I could see just how hard he was breathing because his tank was soaked, outlining every harsh movement of his pectorals.
He walked away and I nearly slid from the car, all of his support gone. I heard the trunk open, felt the harsh slam when he shut it. He reappeared with a bandage and slapped it onto my arm. There was no gentleness. It was hard, tight, and I winced, trying to keep the tears from falling from my eyes. When he was done applying the bandage, he just stared at me.
“Where are the Wolves?” I whispered.
“Dead.” One word, but it held so many implications. His eyes were saying he fucking hated me, but his actions were doing the exact opposite. He’d just decimated his entire crew, just saved my life, and was now taking care of me. I could see he was aroused. I could actually see his beautiful, achingly hard cock outlined in his wet pants. I wanted it, would always want it, even if he no longer wanted me.
Once again, we were in no man’s land.
“Anteros,” I started, attempting to explain, but I swallowed my words as he pressed me against the car. After being numb for so long, thousands of pinpricks assaulted me, but his wet clothes pressed against my naked skin—cold, damp, rubbing—made parts of me I didn’t know could feel come alive.
“Are you fucking happy?” he growled, pressing his face against my neck and inhaling. “Are you?” He punched his fist against the car and I flinched. It made a dent in the metal. “You destroyed me.” He kept rubbing his face against my neck, smelling me, fist grinding against the car. He was like some kind of wild animal.
While his hand ground into the metal, the other rubbed up and down my side before coming to grope my breast. I could feel his hard cock at my belly, could smell his spicy scent in my nose. It was like there were two sides to him—one that wanted me desperately, and the other that desperately wanted me gone.
“Nikolai was blackmailing me,” I explained, gasping as he twisted my nipple. “He manipulated videos from when I was at the penthouse to make it look like I planned everything, like I wanted to kill you, like I planted the needle.”
“I already knew about the needle.” His hand dipped between my legs, palming hard and ruthless. “I already thought you wanted to kill me.” His voice reminded me of our first night together, when he found me out of my room. I hated it, wanted to rip it apart and remind him what we had together.
“I…” I swallowed. I couldn’t breathe. His palm between my thighs was making me delirious, but I knew this was literally life or death. I had to get him to believe me. I tried to focus, tried to steady my blurry vision.
“Do you think I fucking care about that, Francesca?” he continued, anger hot and palpable, like touching a live, burning flame.
“Frankie,” I gasped as he worked the heel of his palm against just the right spot. “It’s Frankie.”
“Who do you think I am, Francesca? Who the fuck do you think I am?” His fist was so close to my head, grinding and unrelenting, but the rhythm he worked between my legs was unrelenting for a totally different reason. “Who the fuck am I to you, who the fuck are we that something so small could have broken us?” When I didn’t immediately respond he yelled, “Answer me!”
“I don’t know,” I yelled back. “I don’t know,” I repeated in a whisper. “I don’t know what we are.”
He let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a howl then punched the car again. “All of this could have been avoided if you had just told me the fucking truth.”
“And you never lied to me?” I asked. “You’re not keeping anything from me?” Anteros pulled his hand from between my legs and pushed off. The space allowed me to suck in air, but I didn’t want to breathe. The pressure of him was harsh but I craved it the minute he was gone. He flattened his hands on the hood, bracketing me, and we locked eyes. For a brief second it looked like there was something on his mind, but then he ground his jaw and pressed me back against the car.
“No,” he growled. “Nothing.”
“This never could have been avoided!” I snapped. “What fantasy world are you living in that you think your Wolves would have accepted me? That Crazy A would have been okay with me?” I shoved at him, but he was stone. “Let me go.”
“Never,” he growled. He removed his hands from the hood and ran them up and down my body, rough and bruising against my skin. It was quick, as if reassuring himself I was there. He dipped his palm between my thighs again and I inhaled sharply, arching into him, needing his touch. It was light, though, brief and fluttering before he removed his hands from me and placed them back on the hood. I missed him instantly.
“I hat
e what you’ve made me do,” he snarled, pressing his face against my neck. Beneath tendrils of wild, wet hair he looked up at me, and I could see his furious glare.
“I hate what you’ve turned me into,” I countered. Lifting his head, he pressed his lips to mine, but it was hardly a kiss. Biting and sucking, ferocious and violent, he punished me with the embrace. The sharp, coppery taste of blood intertwined with our saliva. I tilted my chin, gave him my tongue, my lips, my breath, needing more.
“You don’t hate anything,” he said, dragging my lip between his teeth. “You love all of this, you fucking liar. You revel in it. This is you to your very marrow, a need so deep it echoes.” He gave me one last burning kiss then lowered his head and bit my shoulder until I screamed.
I threw my head back, trying not to get lost in Anteros. I needed to convince him of the truth, but I couldn’t treat him like a man. Something had snapped within him and he was wild, untamed—but some part of us had always been wild. Like Anteros said, we were never good at talking. We spoke in a language before man, a language of need, of blood, of impulse. I knew what I needed to do.
I tried pushing him off me to get more space, but he growled an angry sound low in his throat. Using what little space I had, I brought my good arm up, sliding my finger under the tight bandage. He tried to grab me, but I quickly pressed my finger to the wound in my arm.
“Ahh!” I cried in pain and he ripped my hand away, gripping my wrist until the skin was white beneath. His eyes darted from me to my finger, now fresh with blood. He still didn’t understand. I tugged on his hold and he let go, but still eyed me suspiciously.
I brought my finger down to my bare chest then used the fresh blood and drew over the A he’d carved. It was messy and barely readable, but the point was made. Anteros watched me, intent visible by the way his viscera coiled and throbbed. Still, he wouldn’t come to me, so I grabbed him with my good arm, snaked my still bloody fingers into his hair, and pulled him close. I crushed my lips against his and he responded brutally—thrusting his tongue into me, fucking my mouth. All I could do was lie back and moan into him.
Beauty, a Hate Story the End Page 18