Page 39 of Property of Saint

Banging his now empty bottle on his desk, Bullseye comes to a decision. “I won’t push you to end her fast, VP. I’ll give you some time with her. Let her mingle with the brothers, see how she takes to the life, and them to her.” Breaking off, he shakes his head. “I just don’t see how we can turn her into something she’s not. I’m not sure anything will come of it, but at least you can feel you tried. I’ll give you a week.” He raises an eyebrow. “Maybe if you fuck her enough, you’ll get tired of her.”

I can only hope. But he’s given me something to hang onto. If I don’t have to put a bullet into her head right now, maybe I can somehow manage to do the impossible, and, as Short suggested, corrupt her. Bring her into our world.

But get my brothers to believe she’d never betray us?

I’d have a better chance of seeing a pig flying outside the window.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

PHILLIPA

Lying here with our combined juices leaking out of me, I’m wondering why my mind isn’t crying out that I’ve been taken advantage of by a stranger, even though I know I asked for exactly what I got. Saint was nothing like how I had expected. Turns out he was the lover I’ve always been looking for, dreaming of, even. My body throbs, feels well used and satisfied, and for some reason, my mind is quiet. Although complete peace evades me, Saint had run out of here as if he were escaping a fire.

Maybe it hadn’t been as good for him as it had been for me.On my part, it had been mind-blowing.

I’m a woman living in a man’s world, having to prove I’m better than any of my counterparts who have a penis. But I’ve a woman’s needs, and sometimes a vibrator just won’t hit the mark, so I’m no stranger to discreet one-night stands, or short liaisons with no expectations.

None of the sexual encounters I’ve ever had before have made me particularly relish a repeat performance. But Saint? Even now, my body feels his absence and wishes he’d stayed so he could prove that the heights I’d reached were an aberration.

I should try to make it to the bathroom, should wash off the drying essence of our arousal that still soaks my pussy and my thighs. My injuries might not be helping, but I’m too exhausted to move right now.

Lying here, legs akimbo, I’m unable to stir. Instead, it’s my mind that’s racing, wondering why Saint ran out of here.

Waiting for my body to reach equilibrium, my heart rate to slow, my throbbing female parts to realise there’s going to be no more stimulation, I lie back and close my eyes. When the door bursts open, I startle to full consciousness, and an innate protection mode is activated as I pull the sheet over my naked body.

“What the fuck?” I shout.

The man I haven’t seen before stands in the open doorway, a nasty smirk spreading across his face. “Saint told me to keep an eye on you.” He turns to close the door, and I see the word, Prospect, across his back.

“You can keep guard outside,” I tell him.

“Why should I? When the view’s so much better in here.”

Tightening my hand on the sheet for some stupid reason, the flimsy covering will do nothing to protect me if he wants to come close. I try to put strength into my voice. “There’s no way out of this room. No need to crowd me in here.”

The expression that covers his face is chilling. “Believe me, darlin’, I’m staying here to enjoy the scenery. I’m guessing the VP has already tasted what you’ve got to offer, and it won’t be long before he passes you around to everyone else.”

I know a bit about motorcycle clubs and how they work. For some goddamn reason men who want to join put their sensibilities on the line and do whatever they can to patch in, much like hazing on college campuses. The members give them shit duties to prove their loyalty, and their willingness to do whatever is needed. They follow instructions, to err or deviatefrom them ruins their chances of ever being a member. There’s something about this man that makes me question whether he’s following orders or his own agenda.

There’s also something about him that’s familiar. And why should that be? I’ve never come across the Kings of Anarchy Arizona chapter before.

Trying to ignore the way he’s staring, I lean my head back and force myself to think of what it is that sparks my memory. It’s not his visage, his scarred face is surely something I’d remember. But his voice… I’d heard that before. But where? Even when I close my eyes and try to recall, nothing comes to me. Giving up after a while, I remind myself that he’s a prospect for the Kings, and I was out of it when I arrived here. I could well have heard him in the clubhouse, or perhaps even outside the room while I was more focused on where their medical man was putting his hands.

I dislike him intensely, perhaps for no other reason than he’s shown me no respect and placed an ugly thought in my head. I know there’s little chance I’ll leave here alive, and while I succumbed to Saint’s charms, he at least had something to offer me. Surely, he wasn’t planning on passing me around? Suddenly, all the pleasure I felt at his hands is tainted, and I want the feel of the reminder he left me with off my skin. And there’s another urgent reason I need to move; my bladder is painfully full.

Opening my eyes, planning to get Gris’s attention, I suppress a shudder when I see his eyes are still focused on me, as if he hadn’t looked anywhere else since he’d entered. While suspecting he’s got none, I try to appeal to his better nature.

“I, er, need the bathroom.”

One side of his mouth turns up as he jerks his head toward the right door. “It’s over there.”

I’d been wearing Saint’s clothes until he’d ripped them off me. Now the tee is lying on the floor by the bed. On the wrong side, of course, my left arm is still tender and sore, and it’s going to be a reach to retrieve it. There’s no way on this earth I’m going to manoeuvre my way off this bed naked, not in front of the prospect, who I can tell would like me to do just that.

Wrapping the sheet around me as carefully as I can, I lean over the bed, cursing Saint for having such a deep mattress and divan. My arm isn’t long enough, even at full stretch. Making sure none of my skin is exposed, I slide my cast-covered leg off the side, then follow that up with the one that can support me, but lose my balance as I ungracefully fall to the ground, rattling my cracked ribs and restarting the banging in my head. Somehow managing to use the sheet as a tent, I slip into the tee that covers me down to my thighs. Then, I quietly curse. My crutch is on the other side of the bed.

Without any hope, I ask, “Could you pass me my crutch?”

He chuckles. “You can crawl for all I care.” He shakes his head. “Fuckin’ Fed.”

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