Knight (92 page)

The shirt dropped to the floor.

Jesus, who the hell was this man?

Hardened muscle, scars, and ink. If I learned nothing else about Noir, his body told me he was a man built by violence, toughened through battles, and decorated with harrowing tattoos. Rows of jagged stripes, coiled tribal markings, and the emblem of a terrifying demon riddled with scars and brandishing two crossed swords marked his skin.

Beneath the demon, the darkened letters revealed the past he wanted to hide.

Anathema
.

His MC.

He had partially blackened the etched markings on his bicep. The ink only covered a quarter of the tattoo. He hadn’t finished destroying his past. Hell, he hardly started it. Whatever Anathema was, whoever Anathema was, he hadn’t the courage to completely separate from its grip.

No wonder Red didn’t trust him. A man
was
his MC, especially when he got in deep enough to etch his body with the markings of the brotherhood. He honored his two prison sentences with tallies on his rib cage, and banded most of his arms and chest with hard, tribal stripes.

This wasn’t a man who walked away because he met a lovely lady and settled down.

Whatever happened to him had been as brutal as the old, healing injury to his shoulder. I recognized a bar top surgery when I saw one. The gunshot wound was stitched by an unsteady hand, and judging by the jagged scarring and untended wound, I guess he hadn’t received much mercy—from them or himself.

“Who are you?” I whispered.

He didn’t answer. His chest rose in shallow breaths. A bruise colored his side the same shade of black and blue that decorated my body. He bled more than me. I wet the washcloth and lowered a trembling hand to his skin.

Muscle. He was all muscle. Every last inch of him. I rinsed the bloodied cloth in the bucket. The cuts along his skin stretched tight over his pecks. The drying crimson matched the black letters of his club, the intimidating demon staring with lidless eyes, and the echoes of his past injuries streaking his flesh with white remembrance. I gently rubbed the old injury, and his abs tightened.

So did mine.

Because
that
was a smart reaction after the bullets flew and the bikes chased. It didn’t surprise me that I’d get tingly studying the body of a dangerous man. He was covered in ink, blood, and scars. He had that bit of grey in the hair leading from his navel below the waist of his pants. And he ran from every kind of demon, including the one tattooed on his chest.

I always fell for the same breed of man.

And look where that got me.

Mopping up blood in a shady motel room.

Getting traded to an MC for God-knows-what reason in a deal the devil concocted.

The last thing I needed was trouble with another renegade hard-ass who struck first, lived in anger, and then demanded I apologize with a mouthful of his cock.

Once upon a time, that treatment excited me. But now?

Noir
was
trouble—a lifetime of risk wrapped in leather and inked with every warning for a girl to stay away. A man didn’t build that muscle in the name of vanity. He didn’t suffer through untended bullet wounds in his shoulder because he was afraid of doctors. And he didn’t run, fight, and murder men from Temple MC when they challenged him in a diner.

He knew who those men were. Scarier yet, they knew him. My hand stilled.

The trade with Kingdom wasn’t the worse mistake Sacrilege made. Hiring a desperate man like Noir would only end in bloodshed.

The washcloth dipped into the water. I held my breath and reached across his chest, just barely rubbing the smudge of blood and dirt from his injured shoulder.

His eyes flashed open. Darkness, like the smoke of a roaring inferno, blackened his unfocused gaze. I screamed as he slammed his hand against my neck and tangled his fingers within the pink scarf. He yanked, pulling tight on the silk before driving me into the bed under him.

His gun pressed against my temple. His grip tightened over my throat.

Noir’s body pinned me against the mattress. Every muscle in his form tightened, forcing me into submission. I fell limp against the sheets.

Staying still was wise.

But I wasn’t wise.

I was a hopeless, utter, unfortunate lunatic. Not even a romantic.
Nothing
about the heat coursing through my veins was romantic. My stomach bundled into a knot of unsettled nerves and distrust, but the tingling shame shaded me as pink as the delicate scarf wadded in his hand, holding me against the bed like he claimed the collar, leash, and every binding that rendered me helpless under his power.

My breathing stuttered to a stop. His fingers hadn’t loosened, and the gun against my head locked steady, unlike the ravaging trembles which assaulted his aching body. I reach for him. I didn’t speak. I didn’t move.

I waited.

I let him pin me.

I submitted.

Like a
fool
.

Was this how I’d always end up? Trapped under a hardened body? Desperate to feel the unrelenting pressure of a man possessed with more strength and bestial rage than affection?

I never wanted gentle. I looked for raw power, brutal dominance, and unrestrained passion.

Everything inside me clenched with a sudden need.

The gun lowered, but his hand didn’t move. He allowed me a breath. The air vaporized the instant it touched my parted lips.

Noir scowled as he blinked. He had trouble focusing, but the hard line of his jaw flexed as he stared at me. His gaze shifted from my face to the silk he gripped over my neck, and then down. The cute vest and little t-shirt I wore revealed my curves. He saw through the tightness of my jeans. One of his legs slipped between mine when he pinned me.

I reacted in pure, wanton instinct—a reaction born of the darkest, most sensual recesses of my mind. Noir’s weight rested over me. His body covered my trembling. His strength overwhelmed mine. My heart thudded hard enough without the threat of the gun or his hand.

His eyes deepened in shadow, cloaked in whatever haze of memory that trapped him within violence. He hadn’t attacked me—he defended himself. The weapon tossed away. His vision cleared.

He didn’t move.

Neither did I.

Heat passed between us. The adrenaline of the chase poisoned my judgment, and Noir’s victory shrouded him in a lust I recognized. His was the desperation of a man who celebrated life with parted legs and murmured words. Our bodies shifted. A shudder rolled through him.

I didn’t know what I expected. I didn’t know what I needed. The brutal honesty of his excitement pressed into my thigh. I shuddered. He leaned close.

His arms tensed around me, thick with muscles and striped with angry ink and intimidating words. If he had been injured, he hid the wounds well. His body fed on the danger, fueled itself on the blood of his enemies, and demanded satisfaction from the softness I always offered a man like him.

My eyes fluttered, focusing not on the rigid line of his jaw, the hard features of his face, or the intensity of his stare. I studied his shoulder’s injury.

Beneath the blood and grime lurked something more beautiful than a horrible scar.

A bright, crimson flower curled on a vine around the wound. It was a lovely design with elegant calligraphy etched beneath the blossom. The tattoo was so gentle and loving it had no place on a biker’s body, let alone protecting the remnants of his attempted murder.

He closed in on me, and I fell still. I suffocated over my breath, and, just before his lips grazed mine, I whispered the only question dominating me more than his heavy hand.

“Who’s Rose?”

The grip tightened over my throat, and I sucked in a useless breath. Whatever heat had passed rent into a sudden, icy chill that sliced my veins with cold and impaled me with his fury.

I dared to speak the name tattooed into his flesh.

He moved faster than I anticipated. The hand left my throat, but he swore and stood. The gun slammed into his holster, but his abrupt movement shattered us both. I recoiled in pure instinct—lessons learned when I was grabbed too many times by a violent man lurking over the bed. But Goliath was usually drunk and high, not losing blood and concussed.

But the crested guilt wove over Noir’s features. He rubbed his face. The momentary insanity cleared, replaced with utter remorse. He spoke first.

“Sorry.” His voice sounded like he swallowed most of the road.

I edged away, bloodied washcloth in hand. “You were…hurt.”

“So you stripped me?”

My usual tricks lost most of their charm. I hoped he was too woozy to notice.

“Never played doctor before?”

He didn’t answer, but his breathing shuddered in a suppressed agony. I gestured to the bed.

“Let me help. You should get cleaned up.”

“I’ll take a shower.”

“You won’t make it through a shower,” I said. “Sit down before you pass out.”

He considered it, but the order went over about as well as a bullet to his other shoulder. He reached for his shirt before the pain ripped over him once more. He slammed a hand against the bedside lamp and apologized again when I flinched. He pushed from the wall and nearly fell over. I steadied his arm before he did something stupid.

“Like it or not, you’re my ride out of here.” I rung out the washcloth and applied it to his shoulder before he batted me away. “I can’t have you passing out if more of those guys come looking for us.”

“They won’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“They aren’t from around here. They don’t have reinforcements.” He tensed as the washcloth rubbed over a cut on his back. “Yet.”

I swallowed as his muscles flexed. “Who are they?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said.

“What do they want?”

“I said don’t worry about it.”

“But—”

He glared. “It doesn’t concern you.”

“They shot at my face, so I think it might.”

“Want me to finish the job?”

It was the second time the flash of anger within him fizzled out. A man as powerful as him should have roared, whipped out the gun, and fired a round into the bathroom mirror. Now, he let his stillness intimidate. It worked, but he wasn’t the same man who earned the ink and scars. Whatever changed him only greyed his hair and forged the edge in his voice.

I rested on the bed beside him. The washcloth bound in my hands. He watched me. His remorse rippled from him like lacing frost.

It all worked to my advantage. I touched my neck and winced even as the memory of his hold stirred me in places that had no business getting excited. His breath released in every apology he couldn’t give.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m just scared.”

“I know.”

“I’ve never been shot at.”

“Wish I could say the same.”

I attempted another brush of his arm. This time he let me. I gently scrubbed the dirt from his shoulder, cleaning the area around the flower tattoo without mentioning the ink.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Noir.”

I dunked the cloth in the warm water again and clucked my tongue at him.

“Your real name?”

He hesitated. “Brice.”

Wrong again. I arched my eyebrow. The cut stopped bleeding, and I surveyed him for more damage. Plenty existed, but he had nothing left for me to clean with the washcloth.

“Not that name.” I tapped his wrist. The scrawled
Anathema
drew the ink into his veins. “Your
real
name.”

He didn’t answer. I frowned and plopped the cloth into the bucket.

“I’m Olivia,” I said. “The guys call me Martini. I bartend. They thought they were clever.”

“Gin or vodka?”

I hadn’t expected that question, but I liked it. The answer came easy.

“Vodka, of course.”

“Gin is traditional,” he said.

“Gin is awful.”

He snorted. “You’re drinking the wrong gin.”

“It’s
all
the wrong gin.”

“Olive and dirty?”

“Yep.”

He nodded. Amused. He liked the nickname, understood it far too well. I wondered…

“
Noir
?” The word played on my lips. I always liked a classy drink. “
Pinot
?”

If he was impressed he didn’t show it. But he was still talking to me, so I’d thank the lucky stars I found a guy who could shoot a gun, keep his cool in a high-speed chase, and discuss the finer points of vintage wines.

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t take you for a wine drinker.”

“Maker.”

That either. My eyebrow perked again, only this time it was genuine.

“That’s a talent.”

“Just a hobby. Wines, beers. Started when I was a kid.”

“You home-brewed when you were a kid?”

He shrugged. “Easier than a fake ID.”

“Maybe.”

He met my gaze and dropped the guarded threat that shadowed him since we left Sacrilege. His voice shivered me in all the right places. I had earned his trust.

“Name’s Brew,” he said.

The victory tasted better than any wine. “Hello, Brew.”