Page 21 of Blood

“Thanks for the ride and food.” I press a kiss on his cheek and hop out. He doesn’t drive away until I’ve unlocked my door and closed it behind me. I don’t want to like him—them—but they’re making it hard. This is going to end badly. I get the feeling I’ll be a casualty of my own war.

My phone buzzes again. I pull it out and my stomach drops.

Tyler: DON’T MAKE ME COME FIND YOU!

Me: Don’t do that! Just give me some time.

Heading straight for the shower, I peel the clothes from my body and leave them in a pile on the tiled floor. The water pressure is amazing, blasting over my sensitive skin. Memories of the night play on repeat in my mind. I grip the wall to steady the tremble in my legs. My hand dips between my thighs, finding my swollen clit. A rough breath hitches in my throat. I feel like I’m going to burst. The pressure built so much that I want to scream.

I circle my clit with the pads of my fingers, picking up my pace. Slapping the bite mark to reignite the sting, my body quivers. It only takes a few strokes before heat expands and waves of pleasure zap through my nerve endings, leaving me panting and on the verge of collapse. Callan has ensnared me. With the way I feel when I’m around him, I don’t think there’s any hope of freeing myself.

Unless it’s him I need to kill.

A pit widens in my gut.

I never expected Kitty, but that’s nothing compared to how much Callan’s attention shocked me. It was like he already knew me. Like our souls had intertwined long before this night. It’s ludicrous, but the recognition pounds in my chest all the same. I wasn’t supposed to make connections. The plan was to mingle on the outskirts, listen, learn, and get out. I’d built them up over the years in my mind as monsters. You should fear the boogeymen, the Kings, but they’re just people: Brothers, friends, lovers. They are just like us or what I thought we were—a family.

They killed Harley.

Turning off the tap, I pull my towel from the hook, wrap it around my body, and squeeze the water from my hair. After raking a brush through it, I sit on the bed and unwrap my burger. Grease drips through my fingers and down my chin when I bite into it. The fight and Green’s tooth in my pocket flash into my mind. I should probably get rid of that in case someone finds it and thinks I’m collecting teeth as trophies.

I finish my food and wash it down with the soda, guzzling straight from the cup. Pulling on a pair of shorts and a tank top, I try not to itch once I crawl into the bed. This place isn’t the worst I’ve stayed in, but it could use a deep clean. I stroke my finger down the picture of Callan, and a deep sigh leaves my lungs.

Kicking the comforter off the bed, I go stand in front of the full-length mirror and turn my hip, drawing my shorts down. His bite mark hasn’t faded one bit, the redness stark against my pale skin. I paint my finger over the indents. An ache fills my pussy, and my nipples harden once again. I’ve never been more turned on than I was tonight. My Devil tattoo catches my eye, dousing me in ice. My stomach knots. My fingers dance over the ink. Memories of Harley assault me, almost buckling my knees. I can’t forget why I’m here.

I won’t.

CHAPTER8

IT’S ALL FUN AND GAMES…

Iwake in a puddle of sweat, my lungs seizing. I squeeze my fist into the bedsheet. Images of death, pain, and suffering linger from the nightmare that plays on repeat every damn night. My phone buzzes on the dresser, and I welcome the distraction. I will the function to return to my legs and I make my way over to it.

I smile as I read the message.Thanks, Tim.

Unknown: Want to come and keep me company at a charity thing this Saturday? It’s Kitty btw.

I type out a reply and add her name to my contacts.

Me: Erm…

Kitty: It will be shit, but we can go to the clubhouse after and get drunk.

Grinning, I type back.

Me: Should have led with that.

* * *

Tim is outside, honking his horn a few hours later. “I could have driven myself,” I tell him, rushing to pull a sweater on.

“Kitty said you’ll be too drunk to drive later.” He shrugs.

I make sure I have everything I need in my purse and turn to him. “Well, thank you.”

“You’re the only person who thanks me. You know that?” There’s no pity in his tone, just surprise. It’s sad.

“Fuck everyone else. They’ll be up your ass once you have your patch.” I want to tell him not to let his patch define him, but that’s exactly what it does. Your patch is everything. It’s your brotherhood, your club. It’s all that matters. A sense of belonging can be everything when you have nothing else.

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