Page 110 of Vengeful Mates

Debilitating fear and the scratching under my ribcage warned of the rising of my demons. Not even the sight of my woman, in a knee-length cocktail dress with a tight bust showing off the hint of her pregnant belly brought me relief. Fuck, I was starting to lose control, sinking backward. One step forward, one step back, my psychologist said. Progress, nonetheless.

Come back to us,the demons hissed, laughing, taunting.

I hadn’t heard from them in months. Not since Aaliyah banished the demons from the trafficked women. Faces in the crowd twisted into dark menace that directed at me. Tortured souls shrieked at me, reaching for me with clawed, wispy fingers.

I rolled my bike back to get away from them, the jarring crash of metal lancing down my nerves.

“Watch it, Alaric.” The crack of Slade’s voice evaporated the shadows and hurled me out of my darkness. “You’re carrying precious cargo.”

My attention snapped back to my co-rider. Mia. Huddled on the front of the bike with me, where she was safe. Without her helmet like the rest of us while we stood around and chatted and waited for the charity ride to commence. Up until the moment I backed my bike into Slade’s and dented his muffler, she’d been babbling with excitement, completely oblivious to the turmoil thundering in my ears.

Protective instincts kicked in and I crushed her tighter between my legs and to my chest. This was wrong. Unsafe. I had to get my little bird home.

“Ouch, Alaric,” she protested, wriggling.

Bring her to us,my demons jeered, reappearing, their taunting, toothy grins promising to devour her as they had me.

A foggy hand curled over her arm to steal her from me.

“No! She’s mine.” I jerked her back.

“Alaric?” Aaliyah’s soothing voice cut through the wraith, and it dissolved.

I blinked to shake off the vision. A memory resurfacing. Unprocessed trauma that I slowly addressed with my psychologist and Aaliyah. The hard fucking way, when I could get my mate to remove my demons. Part of me wanted to remember everything. Sought the challenge to overcome the trauma. Scars made a man stronger. Horus never replaced his eye when Set cut it out, and as his avatar, I walked the same path.

Smiling, laughing faces flickered back in my vision. Riders ready to commence the Distinguished Gentleman’s Ride.

Fuck. The ride. I was leading the men. My woman. My kid.

Get your head straight, Alaric.

Now was not the time to lose my shit and descend into darkness.

Anxious at being separated from my little bird for the ride, losing her to Slade, I cradled her harder. If I lost her in the crowd of bikes, my hawk would go crazy.

I didn’t like the plan for her to ride with him, and tightened my grip on Mia. Didn’t want to frighten her when she was excited to be coming for this ride when Aaliyah always told her she was too young to travel with us.

“Alaric.” Mia wriggled to bust free, instinctively locking my arm tighter, cinching her waist. “You’re hurting me.”

She glanced over her shoulder at me, her pained wince snapping me out of my darkness.

I released my grip on her and bent down to kiss the top of her head. “Sorry, Little Bird. I got startled by a backfire.”

Castor conveyed miraculous feats and adventures to her in her bedtime stories and skipped over the violence. We never wanted her to be part of this world and would protect her from it to the extent possible.

Slade glanced over at Aaliyah riding with Zethan and jerked his head. Her magick inspected me, searching for a reason to make me sit this one out. Not if I had any say in it. Three months fresh with the club, I was not getting benched again.

A few days back, she approached me about my growing anxiety over the war with Colton. I wanted to handle this myself and not run to her every time I needed to calm down, especially when she couldn’t always be there for me.

I pushed back on the bond. “It’s all right, angel.” I shot her caution to remain with Zethan and let me handle this my own way.

Urges on the bond told me she wanted to come to me but fought her natural instinct to nurture.

Following the advice from my therapist, I practiced grounding myself, taking a breath, scanning the sky, and focusing on what brought me peace. A strategy to retrain my brain to get past the onset of anxiety. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, my psychologist called it.

Blue skies, barely a cloud in sight. Perfect autumn day for a ride with my family and brothers. Low twenties temperature and a cool breeze to carry away the heat of all the engines. My angst came down a few bars and I patted Mia’s belly.

Feeling steadier, I chanced another scan of the waiting crowd of bikers ready to get started on the charity ride. A sea of men in suits, two pieces, three pieces, slacks, shirts, and an explosion of wild and colorful ties. Women in cocktail dresses and heels on the back of bikes or riding their own. I slammed down the risks blinking like neon signs in a seedy back alley.

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