Page 34 of Shaman

Ian didn’t understand. This was supposed to go differently. They were supposed to scream, and fume, spit at his face, call him names, accuse him of the being the monster that he must be to have come here to do this.

But they sat silent, chewing on their lips, weeping and waiting for the inevitable.

Ian felt a wave of sickness surge inside him, a sharp pain up under his ribs, and he thought he might vomit. Some hardened killer he was. So much for revenge.

He dragged his gaze from Rebecca’s face full of ruined makeup and it collided with Ghost’s.

The biker president stood backlit by the silver glow from the floor-to-ceiling windows, grayer than he was in real life, but still lean and hard, like always. A man who’d had all his soft spots chiseled away, so that all that was left was muscle, and bone, scar tissue, a criminal and a leader. Someone who allowed his wife to be the counterbalance to all the dark decisions he so readily made.

Ian swallowed and some of the nausea eased, looking at the man. Alec’s hand was still on his shoulder. The one light thing in his life. The goodness.That’swhy he was he: to protect that. To preserve it. If he untied these two, and walked away, they’d ruin him…and ruin Alec. Ruin models, girls and boys both, just as they’d ruined him, and Kevin…and who knew how many others.

Like he knew what Ian needed to hear, Ghost said, “I can do it, kid. Just say the word.”

Ian reached up and patted the back of Alec’s hand where it rested on his shoulder, then stood. “No,” he said, stomach settling. “It’s fine.”

He reached into the bucket he’d set by the end of the couch and pulled out the straight razor he’d brought. “Anything to say for yourselves?” he asked.

Predictably, they kept silent.

“A little over a year ago,” Ian said, flicking the razor open and turning to them, “Kevin tried to kill himself in a bathtub. He failed. He didn’t know how deep to cut.

“I won’t make the same mistake.”

And he didn’t.

~*~

At ten-fifteen a.m. on Christmas Eve, the building’s security feeds experienced a glitch that erased ten minutes of footage.

No irregular activity was logged into the guest book at the front desk…a station, that morning, manned by one Milo Bauer, formerly of the New York chapter of the Lean Dogs Motorcycle Club.

The next morning, all the news stories would be about how ruined modeling execs Rebecca and Daniel Breckinridge had committed suicide together on their living room floor, in front of the Christmas tree.

Nine

He couldn’t breathe. He was choking on nothing, on air, hands around his throat like he could pull the invisible obstruction out through his skin. Like there was any real reason why he wheezed and choked.

Behind him, Alec made another assurance and then the door shut and locked with a soft, but finalclick. Careful footsteps came to him; he flinched, anticipating a touch, astrike.

“You little shit,”Miss Carla’s voice echoed inside his head.“Those were valuable customers!”

“…Ian. Ian.” His name was being said, over and over, slow and gentle. Soft. “Ian. Baby. Sweetheart. I’m right here. It’s okay.” Loving. Worried, but not pressuring him.

“You won’t be able to sit down when I get through with you,”Carla said.

“What do you need? How can I help?” Alec said, right next to him, in real life.

Because Carla was dead. Mercy had snapped her neck. Had dropped her to the floor like wet laundry.

Dead, dead, dead. The bitch was dead.

A hand landed on his arm, and he jerked, every nerve firing, every muscle clenching.Strike.Hit.Defend.Cower. Old, deeply ingrained instincts compounded by his more recent defense training; a confusing tangle of fight and flight.

“Ian,” Alec said.

He swallowed, and it took every effort to drag a breath into his lungs and restrain himself. To stay still.

“What do you need, babe?” So sweet, so tender.

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