Rose (Road Kill MC #3) - Marata Eros

ROSE A Road Kill MC Novella Volume 3 New York Times Bestselling author

MARATA EROS All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2016 Marata Eros This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold

or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to a legitimate retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Marata Eros Website Marata Eros FB Fan Page Cover art by Willsin Rowe Editing suggestions provided by Red Adept Editing.

CONTENTS Synopsis DEDICATION Works by Tamara Rose Blodgett Marata Eros NEWS 1 2 3 4 5 6

7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 Epilogue Acknowledgments

About the Author

Synopsis Vengeance Drake Corbin, aka Diablo, has plans for Rose Christo that reach far beyond getting his property back. He wants another woman to abuse. Rose is determined to save Charlie, but when the final verdict is read, her spirit is crushed by the outcome. After two encounters with Drake, she knows she will not survive a third. Has Rose misplaced her trust in Noose? Is he nothing more than the callous user of women he appears to be—or is he the very thing she needs to survive her life—and maybe

find love… Hope Sean King, aka Noose, doesn't need a woman—he never has. Then Rose Christo earns something no other woman has ever managed—his trust. Noose's carefully built facade begins to slip, and he must admit what she means to him: More than property. More than novelty tail. More than anyone has ever meant to him before. The woman he loves.

Is Noose ready to sacrifice everything to tie a knot so permanent, no one will recover? Road Kill, him—Rose? Can she stand what he will have to do to keep her safe?

DEDICATION My dear brothers, James and William. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you.

Tamara Rose Blodgett:

Works by

The BLOOD Series The DEATH Series Shifter ALPHA CLAIM 1-6 The REFLECTION Series The SAVAGE Series Vampire ALPHA CLAIM 1-6

& Marata Eros: A Terrible Love (New York Times bestseller) A Brutal Tenderness The Darkest Joy Club Alpha The DARA NICHOLS Series, 1-8 The DEMON Series The DRUID Series ROAD KILL MC Shifter ALPHA CLAIM 1-6

The SIREN Series The TOKEN Serial Vampire ALPHA CLAIM 1-6 The ZOE SCOTT Series 1-8 Never miss a new release! Subscribe:

Marata Eros NEWS And/or TRB News

1 Noose I am a goddamned pussy. How many times does a bitch have to tell my stupid ass no before I can take the hint? “How'd that go?” Wring asks. I glare, stomping to my bike parked a couple of blocks away from Rose's house. Jerking my shoulders around my earlobes is my reply. I hop onto my bike and turn the key. The engine noise fills the silence I've made. “That good, eh?” Wring's lips twist, and I flip him off. He grins. “Did ya ask her out or just

lay one on her?” I snort, kicking my leg over the seat, and sit, crossing my arms. Prick. “I didn't. Shit.” I hang my head. “I saw her, and she looked—goddamn—she looked hot and fragile, and I just wanted to hold her and fuck her and—” I grab my hair, wanting to tear it out of my scalp. “Rose makes me fucking crazy.” Wring keeps that shit-eating grin going. My hands fist against my chest. “What's so funny, you prick?” I jerk open my handlebar pouch and hammer out a cig from the pack before tossing it back inside the small leather bag. I jam the cig between my lips, light the tip, and slide the lighter inside my back pocket.

“Touchy,” Wring comments quietly, eyebrows sweeping up. I fight the urge to flip him off again, squinting through the opaque smoke. “Yeah, I am. Just made a fucking fool outta myself in front of the brothers. Didn't even get the girl.” “Won't be the first time a girl's made a man do stupid shit. Won't be the last.” “Got a few more pearls?” Wring chuckles. “Of wisdom? Nah. But you should have just played it cool. Told her you wanted to start fresh, like normal folk.” My eyes slit further, and Wring ignores me, continuing, “That you'd like to be there for her with the hearing on Tuesday. But no—you had to charge in and lay the whammy on the

poor broad…” “The fucking ʻwhammyʼ? What in the fuck is that?” Wring's palm waves around in the air. “Kissed her, dry humped her, et cetera.” His eyes meet mine. I don't have a lot of trouble with blushing. I do now, though. He'd exactly described about where I was five minutes ago—like a mutt trying to hump Rose's leg. I feel about as smart as one. Maybe that's being kind. I scowl harder. Wring shifts his weight on his seat, shrugging. “She tell you to fuck off?” Pretty much. “No, she doesn't talk like that. Rose told me she doesn't want to take a chance with me when she's got

her sister's kid to think about. That I might come and go.” I waffle my hand back and forth. Wring rolls his lips together to keep from laughing. I want to punch that smirk off his face. Instead, I purse my lips, blowing a smoke ring. I stare at its ghostly outline against the midnight color of the sky, trying to calm my shit. “Would you?” Wring's eyebrows drag down, hooding his gaze. My head dips as I meet his eyes. The moon is hidden behind a cloud; light is non-existent. Even the streetlamp across the street is strangled to only a small circle of illumination. My excellent night vision makes out

Wring's face. The disbelief. I suppose I deserve that attitude. Since Afghanistan, I haven't given two shits and a fuck about being solid with any girl. Seems like fucking work. Hell, it is work. The thing is, now the work feels worthwhile, like a task that will set me free if I just have the balls to see it through. “No.” My answer is a knife slicing the soft purr of the bikes. “Then she doesn't have anything to worry about.” Wring studies my expression. “Spill it. What dumb thing did you do that you're not telling me?” I bark out a laugh. “It was fucking dumb.”

Wring waits. “Rose gets back to the club. Doc looks her over, says she'll be okay, just had a nasty shock—” “A nasty shock?” Wring smirks. It'd been a helluva a lot more than that, but yeah. I nod. “So we start getting into it, and she blows her cork.” Wring sits up straighter. “No shit? After all that with Chaos—” “Yeah, I just barely did anything to her and—” I mime an explosion with my hands. Wring nods enthusiastically. “Nice. Love pleasuring chicks.” What guy doesn't? Seeing a girl come is the ultimate fuck yes.

But… “See, I know we can't have sex. Rose just went through that bullshit, and my balls are swollen fucking cannons.” I grab my package, and Wring gives a sympathetic expression. “So she gives me the blow off. I need time—space—whatever the fuck.” Wring's face looks exactly like Snare's did when I told him. “Hurts, man. Not going to lie on that score.” I rake my hair back. It's fucked up. I don't have a tie. The mess falls forward, and I flip it back. “Anyways, Crystal comes into my room. Dick's about ready to go boom.” “No.” Wring's face says it all. I blow out a tortured exhale. “Yeah. She sucks me off. Feels great. Rose has

got me so worked up, I think she'd have to bone me ten times before I'd be outta ammo.” Wring's shoulders shake with suppressed laughter. Humor makes his eyes glitter in the uncertain light. “Not funny, asshole.” “Oh, yeah—it totally is.” He chuckles. Dick. “This part isn't.” Wring straightens, his expressions sliding into painful revelation. “No way!” His voice, barely more than a whisper, carries. I nod miserably. “I guess Rose was looking for me. She found me alright, along with an eyeful of Crystal blowing

me.” Wring winces. “Not good, man. Makes you look like you're a lying sack of shit.” Yeah. “Thing is”—I spread my arms, dropping ash onto the pavement —“it meant less than fucking nothing, and Rose had just gotten done telling me she didn't want me around—blew me off. Even though we'd saved her from…” “The rape,” Wrings says easily. My eyes flick to his. “Yeah.” “Did you expect her to give you a gratitude fuck, Noose?” I move my jaw back and forth. “Fuck no, dickhead. I expected her to think I was okay. That I had her back.” Wring laughs. “Thinking you want

more than her back, pal.” I do. We laugh. “You know what I mean.” “Yeah.” Our silence is easy. Always has been. “Text Trainer. Make sure she's okay then ride over here tomorrow. Lay things on the line after she's had some rest, time to think.” “Sounds good.” I lean forward and hit my cell. Midnight. I've been shooting the breeze for half an hour. Got nowhere. Didn't solve shit. ʼBout normal. “Rose Christo might never want a man like you, Noose. Have you considered that?”

“Fuck no,” I answer instantly. Wring shakes his head. “Figured.” He doesn't take his eyes from mine. “She's not a club girl. Doesn't know the culture. Doesn't seem to want the lifestyle. Got a kid.” “Not hers. She's got her dead sister's kid.” My eyes cut him like knives. Wring raises a finger. “But to her, that kid is a link to her sister, the only one. Her sister who's gone now. Charlie is all she's got. And it's stronger than your need to bone her.” I don't want to say it, but just hearing Wring say that shit and knowing it's not the complete truth—I can't do it. “It's more than boning, I'm thinkinʼ.”

“I know that.” Wring's voice is level. “No, I mean—” My inhale is painful, my throat going tight. “I think I might actually care about her.” Wring sighs, shaking his head and tipping it back, gazing at stars covered by clouds. “No shit?” I laugh. “Yeah, no shit.” “Care or…?” I point at Wring. “Don't say it.” “Okay, I won't, but don't tell her that. She'll really think you're crazy. Nobody really loves somebody after knowing them a few days, Noose. Nobody.” I guess I didn't get the memo. I snatch my cell back and scroll to

Trainer's dumb mug. Status. I tap out then hit send. My cell autocorrects my ass because I suck at texting. I stomp out my cig, light another, then blow a couple of hard rings into the sky. The dark eats them. I stare at my black screen, cold and soundless inside my palm. “No response?” Wring asks. “He's never going to patch in. Dumb fucker's always taking a snooze at the wrong damn time.” My face goes hard. “What if he's not?” “No way is Diablo going to try for

her this soon.” “I would.” I regret it instantly. I regret letting her walk into that house without checking it out first with my own eyes. Fuck the prospect. He's simply not invested in her the way I am. I'm all in. Balls. Mind. Everything. Soon it'd be my pussy heart. Yeah, already feel the slide down the hill there. There's no stoppinʼ some types of momentum. “We know where Trainer is. We'll just go by and see if he's sawing logs. Kick his ass if he is.” I flick the butt of the cig and hit the kickstand, putting the King into gear.

We pull out, then Wring and I move away from Rose's house, traveling to a dirt trail with a sweet view of her backyard across a kiddie park. If he's been asleep on the Rose detail, I'll pull out his asshole. If he's not, I wanna know why he didn't answer my text. My stomach does a flip. Deep down, my instincts are flashing a warning. I never ignore them. I won't now. I gesture to Wring, who interprets it effortlessly. You go check on Trainer. I'll do Rose, my split hand signal says. We yoke as I turn around, heading

back toward Rose's. I ignore the tightness in my shoulders, forcing myself to focus on only the things in front of my nose. It's all the emotional shit that keeps beating the hell outta me I can't ignore.

2 Rose “Hi, Rose.” Drake strokes Charlie's small arm, and something inside me withers. “Drake,” I reply, heart in my throat. My voice is calm, though my body remembers what he did to me. Not with arousal, thank God. But like a man who meant me harm. My body's response to the sight of Drake holding Charlie is instantaneous. Fear, masked as adrenaline, roars through my system like a brush fire. “I want you to leave.” My voice is breathy; my palms are damp. “You bet. Just saying hello to my

boy.” Charlie's face screws up in confusion, a tiny pucker of flesh folding between his eyes. “I'm Rose's boy. And my mama, in heaven.” His voice is small but certain as he crosses his arms against his narrow chest. Drake's eyebrow rises. “Really? Well, there are people here who want you too, Charlie.” He nods enthusiastically. My feet are moving—my need to protect is greater than my fear. “Time for bed, Charlie,” I say, my voice bright and soul dark. Drake grins, stroking Charlie's head. If I ever wondered about whether or

not I was really a mother, that uncertainty vanished in that moment. “Ah-ha!” Charlie crosses his arms, letting his legs swing from his perch on Drake's lap. He looks impossibly tiny. Frail. “I don't wanna go to bed, Aunt Rose!” “Yeah, Rose. Charlie doesn't want to go to bed.” Drake's voice caresses me with menace. Keeping my eyes on Charlie, I don't let Drake see my shudder. “Tough—it's been a long day, and we're going, partner.” I lean down. Drake's eyes are glued to my tits. Fucker.

I scoop Charlie up, and in the entire three seconds it takes for that to happen, I think Drake will hurt him. Hurt me. Us. Drake’s creepy eyes follow us out the door and into the hall. I set Charlie down then take off his sneakers, jeans, and T-shirt in record time, and he's down to his underpants. He grabs his penis. “I have to go pee-pee.” Oh boy. My eyes flick to the door. Drake hasn't followed us. One of the selling points of our house is an en suite in the two bedrooms it has. Charlie patters across the polished

wood floor. I hear his urine mainly hit the inside of the bowl then a flush. He runs back with a smile. “Aunt Rose?” he asks, rubbing an eye. “Uh-huh?” I say, my heart racing. Drake is in my kitchen. Anna's killer. “Who's that guy?” “A friend,” I say, gulping the lie down deep, burying it in the graveyard with the others. “Oh,” he says, studying my face. I slap a smile on, bend over to kiss him then stand, backing away. “Nighty-night, dirty worm.” Charlie makes a stubborn face. “I

like sweet pea better.” “I know,” I blow him a kiss and shut the door. My fingers shake as I hear the latch catch. I turn. Drake is right behind me. His hand slaps over my mouth, and he jerks me off the ground, hauling me into my bedroom. He tosses me on my queen-size bed. “Don't fucking scream, Rose. Don't want to wake up the kiddo.” I shake my head. “Why?” Drake shuts the door. “I know —know you won't do what I want. You're a stubborn cunt, just like you're fucking slut sister.”

Every time he mentions Anna, the wound of her death reopens. There's no word big enough, dark enough, to explain my hatred for Drake. He sneers. “Strip, bitch.” I stand. Hating him. Knowing that there is no call to the police. There is no help. I sent away the one man who might have helped me—because I was so goddamned sure I could do this and I didn't want the complication of the motorcycle gang. Drake looms over me, using his size to intimidate. Why does Drake seem so scary, but he's nowhere near as big as Noose, while Noose's size just makes me feel

safe? I tear off the tight shirt that Crystal lent me and drop it at my feet. The bra is a string holding my huge boobs like a Band-Aid over a scrape that’s too big. Drake likes what he sees. “No flatchested bitches for me. You have the best rack I've ever seen.” His erection presses against the denim of his jeans like an obscene pole. A lone tear makes a heated trail down my cheek. “Rapist,” I whisper. His eyelids droop. “You liked what I did to you, Rose.” “You're right—a woman who is held down and knows she can't escape while a man works her bits to death,

yeah, eventually you'd have broken my body down. But you'll never have me.” I put my thumb to my chest, tears making me half-blind with grief. With rage. “Don't want you.” He says, sticking a finger deep inside his mouth. He pulls it in and out, a parody of sex. He walks to me, and I back up until my thighs hit the edge of my bed. He slaps that wet finger on my forehead. “You're mine to take. Mine to toy with. Mine to fuck. Just mine.” “I'm not giving you Charlie.” My cheek still throbs where he struck it hours ago. Feels like it happened seconds ago. He trails his wet finger from my temple to my jaw. “I know.”

I shiver and jerk away from his filthy touch. He shoves me onto the bed, maybe as hard as he would another man. The air is knocked out of me. Drake lands on me. I can't not fight. My leg comes up, trying for his balls. “No, no, Rose.” He smiles. I see something between his teeth, and my stomach does a slow roll. His breath reeks of chewing tobacco. A sudden urge for Noose washes over me, and I gasp, taking in a lungful. Drake pinches my nipple, and I cry out, biting my lip. I don't want Charlie to see this. Drake jerks something out of his

pocket. Pantyhose. My eyes slit as I’m reminded of what Noose did to Drake. “How's your neck, Drake?” I bite out. He cocks his head to the left. “I'll live, but that's what our visit is all about, Rose. Can't have Road Kill sticking their small dicks in where they don't belong. Might get them cut off.” You've neutered me, Rose. Noose's words haunt me. I blink back tears. They roll out of my eyes anyway. Drake watches them, clearly unmoved. “That big prick with the rope? I'm gonna. Fuck. Him. Up.” Drake smiles.

I cringe. “First, since he seems to have taken a liking to your pussy, I'm gonna make damn sure he knows it's not for the taking.” He lunges a finger down my jeans, and I clamp my legs shut. “You fuck him, whore?” he asks, breathing heavily against my face as his finger digs toward my sex. “Your breath reeks, asshole.” I squeeze out from underneath him. He finds my soft center and pushes inside me. I whimper. “Did you, slut?” I shake my head, anything to have his finger out of me.

His finger withdraws, and my relief is so great I can't breathe—or think. Drake's made me know that there's only one man I want inside me. And I told him to go. Drake sits up on his knees, planting his hand around my throat. “Don't fucking speak or breathe, bitch.” His hand tightens. With his other, he strips off my jeans then my panties. My bare pussy is naked before him. I never felt naked with Noose, only nude. With a snap, he wrecks the horrible bra, and my breasts spring free, jiggling with the motion. “Goddamn. This will be the hardest

thing I've ever done.” Drake adjusts his erection beneath his jeans and takes his hand off my throat. Using my four wooden bedposts, he ties off my legs and arms until I'm spread on my own bed. “Perfect.” “What are you doing?” I ask in a hoarse voice. “Leaving a message, bitch. Unfortunately, it's more important than my hard-on.” He rummages my vintage vanity. The bathroom isn’t big enough for all my makeup, jewelry, and the rest, so I keep everything on the little wooden dresser with a large mirror. His fingers pluck a tube of lipstick off the surface.

“Whore red. Beau-tee-ful.” He jumps on the bed, straddling my waist. I yank at the soft restraints. They give but don't loosen. Drake draws between my breasts. Finished, he sits up, surveying his artwork on my body. “That fucker will be spun up. I think I'm in love.” His hand moves to the wound on his neck. I smile at the evidence of Noose's violence. Walking to my bedside, Drake glares back at me. He looks at me for a long time. Minutes. “I'll fuck you. After I get Charlie back, I'll fuck you anytime I want.” He

seems to be reassuring himself. “It'll be rape, Drake. If that's the only way you can have sex with a woman, you're more pathetic than I knew.” His smile is knowing. Certain. I'm scared. Drake reaches out and pinches my nipple. I gasp at the pain. One finger trails to my belly button before going low. The digit sinks between my slit, striking my clit and traveling to my entrance. “So tight. So wet.” His finger hovers, not entering. Drake's face is a mask of restraint. “At least,” he says in a soft voice, “that's what I remember.”

Tears flow freely now. “Get out,” I choke on the words. Drake just nods, backing toward the door. “Sure thing… whore.” My bedroom door opens then shuts. After a few seconds, I hear the front door do the same. I lie there in a disintegrating pile of fear and anger. Shame is a close second. A full minute later, I realize I have no way to get out of these pantyhose ties. I jerk them. Tight. I'm bound with only a sleeping fiveyear-old to help, but I would never want him to see me like this. I close my eyes. Weary. I don't know how long I lie there in the semi-

darkness. Ten minutes? A sound has my eyes opening. Oh God, he's come back. He'll rape me anyway. I can't help the little squeal of pain that squeezes between my lips. But it's not Drake. Noose stands in front of my bedroom window, a sheer curtain swirling around him like a gauze cape. The moon has finally shown itself and starkly illuminates each of his features. And the look on his face makes me afraid of him for the first time. If looks could kill isn't an empty term after all. Noose wears it now.

3 Noose My hands clench into ready fists. I'm overreacting. No you're not, Noose. Just do it. I stride toward Rose's stoop, hating that my boots announce my approach. I hesitate, and the light from the single LED bulb reaches for me. Fingering me. Nah. Don't need a bunch of nosey fucking neighbors checking my shit out. Turning, I move toward her bedroom window. I'd downloaded the floor plan off the Internet. When I say I look into shit, I do. I didn't leave one fucking stone unturned. I know about Rose's work, her kid, the

way her house is laid out—even her birthday. Eventually, I had to brush my teeth and get the delicious taste of her pussy out of my mouth. Tragedy. My grin is fleeting. A huge bush, the ones that get big flowers in the spring with deepercolored throats, serves as a fucking awesome handhold. I grip the gnarled branch and hike my ass inside its branches like waiting arms. I gaze through the window. Can't see dick. Fucking opaque curtain’s in the way. Don't want to freak Rose. Just want to see she's okay. Safe in her room.

I flat-palm the window, applying pressure, and scoot it over. Rose doesn't lock up her shit. We'll be talking about that later. Gripping the window track, I hop quietly to the open sill, where the curtain billows with the airflow. The moon skates ahead of me with bluish-white light. I jump down, bending my knees to sink to my haunches. My eyes sight the foot of her bed. I stand. Rose is naked. Spread. Tied fucking down. Adrenaline slams through me, and my eyes delve into the shadowed

corners of the room. My knife has suddenly appeared in my hand, and I still. Waiting for sounds. I close my eyes, letting my jaw relax and take in sounds more readily. Training. I hear one thing. Soft sobbing. No stealthy enemies approach. No smells other than Rose. Her skin. Her hair. Her. My eyes snap open, and I walk to the corner of her bed. A single word in red is crudely written between her tits. Mine, it says.

Motherfucker. The whites of Rose's eyes are too wide. Her breaths coming too quickly. “Please don't hurt me, Noose.” Her tears soak the bed beneath her. “What? No! I—” I look down at my knife. My eyes go back to hers. First things first. I flick out the blade, putting out my free hand. “Gonna cut these ties, Rose.” She just stares at me. Fuck. I cut the nylon at each wrist, her ankles. Shitty knots. Rose’s body shudders with sobs. I don't know what to do. I'm not a comforter. I'm a killer. Instincts, dumb fuck. I drop my

thoughts and just act on my feelings. For the first time in forever. I dip, scooping Rose into my arms. She weighs nothing. But somehow, she's heavy. Her sadness has weight. I kick open the bathroom door and jerk on the hot water faucet. Rose doesn't look at me. And my eyes can't move from the word in waxy red lipstick. Mine. Rose is nobody's but mine. I know whose work this is. Diablo. It's his style, the sick fuck. I slide her into the tub full of hot water, swallowing at her beauty. It fucking moves my ass. Her beauty. Her sadness. All of it. Gotta get that word gone.

I grab a fluffy pink sponge thing and soap it up with fruit-scented soap. Rose's deep, dark eyes follow my hands. I move it between her breasts, never touching them. Dying to touch them, I want the word off more. I move the soft, lathered sponge over and over the word until I see only her skin. Rose's tears have dried; her sobs are silent. “Did he hurt you, babe?” She shakes her head. Her hair is dark honey now, the water having darkened it to molasses. I take huge breaths, gripping the tub. “I'm sorry.”

Her hand covers mine. “For what, Noose?” A sort of hysterical giggle pops out of her mouth. My eyes move to hers. Her hand rises from the water, covering her mouth, trying to keep in her feelings. It falls, making a splash in the hot water. “I told you to go, Noose. You were just doing what I said.” Her eyes glitter like black marbles. “But if I'd just done what my heart wanted, Drake couldn't have hurt me.” I allow myself to stare at Rose. Light abrasions encircle her wrists, so delicate I'm afraid to hold them. I feather my fingertips over the red mark on her wrist, and her fingers curl

around my hand. Jesus. My head dips, and I tow her hand to my lips then kiss each finger. “Noose.” Her voice is low, husky. I can't look at her and do the right thing. I'll want to erase his touch. I'll wanna fuck the memory of Diablo right out of her. I don't need a shrink to tell me that's fucked up. Too soon. Wrong. I got it. But my body doesn't. I can't be here, this close to a naked, wet Rose, and not want to be inside her. “Noose.” Her voice pulls on my dick like a puppet with strings. I groan, retreating from her touch.

Her small hand grips mine. “I can't Rose. I'm really fucking trying here. I can't—won't hurt you.” My eyes are clenched shut. I hear water cascading into the tub. Maybe I can just braille my fucking way outta here. I back up. My back strikes the door jamb, and she is against me. Wet. Soaking my shit. My cut, my jeans— everything. My jeans are plastered to my hardon like wet glue. Fuuuuck. “Don't leave me, Noose.” Her wet arms wrap my waist, clinging to me. That's easy. “I'm not leaving,

Rose.” My erection gives a painful throb as though agreeing. God. I palm her skull and wet hair clings to my fingers. “Let's get you in bed.” I sort of walk backward, and she just hangs onto me like her life depends on it. It might. When she's at the bed, I gently lower her, trying to keep my eyes to her face. Jesus, I'm a fucking perv. Her hands won't let me go. “Rose, let me get a towel.” She nods a little too vigorously. I pivot, stride to the bathroom, and yank a large cream towel from the towel bar. Walking back, I sort of stagger when I

get a load of her. She's a goddess. The glow of a blue nightlight meets the moonlight streaming inside her room, hitting the side of her body. Her huge tits mound perfectly, small nipples erect from the drying water and cool air sliding through the open window. Her thighs are pressed together, and all I can do is think of how she tastes. Instead of launching myself at her, I walk to the window and close it to a crack. I turn with the towel in my hand. Rose has lain down on the bed without a word. I move slowly to her bedside, my

cock one large, flaming flag of pain and need. I gulp back my shit and cover her naked beauty with the towel. Rose flips it off. The fabric puddles on the floor. Oh God. “Rose,” my voice is strangled. “You don't want MC life. You don't want a guy like Diablo.” I can't believe I just put my name in the same sentence with his. But someone has to think. Wring would be proud. “You're not Drake. You could never be him.” I close my eyes, swaying, my hand scrubbing my face. “Please, Noose, please make me forget.”

I press my fingertips on the edge of the mattress, keeping my eyes steady on her face. “No, Rose, you've been through too much. Let's start this right. Whatever this is between us.” My mind scrambles for words. Not my best thing—talking. “We can go out for lunch or something… like Monday.” I swallow. A sick smile spreads on my face. My heartbeat pounds through my prick. Rose laughs, a rich deep sound, and my eyes skip back to hers. “Lunch?” she asks with surprise. I nod. I'm really fucking trying here. “Noose, we're so far past lunch. I want to have sex with you.” Her bottom lip quivers. “I want you to take away the

memory of Drake's fingers inside me. Of his eyes on my body. Of the arousal he forced on me.” Tears flow down her face. “Please,” she whispers. I cave. But before I go down this road, I have to tell her some shit. I jerk the button on my jeans apart and thrust my dick outta there. Better. Rose's eyes bulge. “My cock hurts from wanting to fuck you.” A small smile forms on her lips, and I suddenly want to kiss her worse than I want to stuff my dick into her. A first. “My terms, Rose. Take my

protection. Be my old lady. I can't just fuck you once. Hell”—I flip my hair back—“I don't know if the first hundred times is gonna be enough.” Her smile widens. It's a good fucking thing to see. My face goes tight. “If that fucker goes near you, I will kill him. No more rope burns.” Her smile vanishes instantly. “There will be no other men. Just me. I'm the only one who fucks you.” I cover her pussy with my hand. “I own this.” She sighs. That sound from Rose? My prick twitches. I groan. “God, Rose.” “Okay,” she says. My eyebrow hikes. My finger is

already working inside her slit. “I'm not some rapist. I want you. I want you more than food, Rose.” Her legs part, and my finger sinks inside her. We both moan at the sensation of me filling her and her wanting to be filled. Her hips rise and my finger just begins moving, like I'm not in control. Probably. Rose grabs my jeans and hauls them down to mid-thigh. “I can't stop thinking about you, Noose. What you did to me…” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Not did, Rose. Do. What I'm gonna do to you.” I step back, slowly withdrawing my

finger, and kick off my pants. I fold my cut and carefully place it on her nightstand before jerking my shirt over my head by the collar. Rose leans back, already naked. Thank God for small favors.

4 Rose I'm done with being ambivalent. That got Drake in here, threatening me again, taking away another piece of Rose. I'm not going to disappear like Anna. More than just her death made Anna gone, but Drake erasing her bit by bit until there was no more Anna. Noose looks like he's in pain. His agonizing tells me a lot of things. Yes, he was with Crystal. No, I don't know why two people as different as we are seem like magnets. We gravitate toward each other. And I can't fight the pull anymore. I feel

safe with Noose, out-of-control, free— and alive. He groans when I pull down his pants. A slanted beam of moonlight slashes across his face, causing those gray eyes to seem like molten silver fire. I shiver openly when he tells me what he'll do. Not past tense, present. Noose doesn't land on me, ravishing me like his expression tells me he wants to. Instead, he reaches out, tracing his fingertips over my glucose tattoo. “Rose,” he breathes reverently. “Don't. It's okay. You won't hurt me, Noose.” His eyes go to mine. “I can't make promises, Rose. I've fucked up already. Big time.”

He has. I close my eyes. I love this man. This rough, hard, sexy-as-hell man. I don't know if it would even matter if he was a biker or what his background is. He just makes sense. With me. His fingers shatter my thoughts. His hands mound my breasts like the best push-up bra ever created. I widen my legs. He catches his breath. “Jesus, Rose.” His head dips over my breasts, loose hairs tickling the sides as his tongue slowly wraps my nipple. Taking it softly into his mouth, he sucks the small bud deeply. Hard. I cry out, a thread of heat running

between my breast and my pussy. My sex clenches around nothing, wanting to be filled with his cock. I blush thinking about it. My heightened arousal makes pants of labored breathing escape my mouth. Noose's eyes roll to meet mine. Our gazes lock as his tongue goes to my other nipple and sucks. Pulls. Laves. My back arches, and he works my breast slowly. His finger enters me. A sharp memory of Drake slides through my mind and is gone. Noose is so different with his touch, it's impossible to confuse the two. His finger is suddenly on my lip,

dipping into my mouth. I taste myself, him. “Noose, I want you to—fuck me.” I say it shyly. His response is anything but timid. Noose's hand goes to his dick, palming it up and down. His gaze is a gray storm. “Gonna fuck you. Want to feel that sweet pussy pulsing around me first.” Oh God. The way he talks—dirty and hot—makes me gush. He spreads my labia with one hand, sliding his penis back and forth. The tip touches my clit then runs the slick length to my entrance. Noose does it again. And again. My pussy shudders, clenching and

releasing. Noose senses my nearness, speeding his hard length against my open, wet folds. “Noose!” I cry, aching, trying to eat his prick with my spread pussy. He grits his teeth. “No, Rose. I'm in control here.” Oh my God, is he. Still, I push my hips down against his prick, hoping to capture him inside. When I feel his fingers bite the inside of my thighs I tense and relax at the same time. My eyes meet his. “Please,” I whisper. His cock moves inside my entrance, just the tip. I've seen how big Noose is. How

he'll stretch me. But if I don't have him, I'll weep. Noose's large hands slide underneath my butt and jerk me forward. His length sinks another inch inside me. My head whips to the side, and I whimper, my damp hair sliding across my cheek. Noose flicks the strand away. “Watch me, Rose. Watch me fuck your body.” My eyes latch on to his prick as it sinks deeper. He waits, letting my body adjusts to his size. A breath whistles between his teeth. “You're so fucking tight, Rose.” I nod. He's so big. Hurts. Feels

perfect. My hips move down on him, and he grunts. “Stop. Gonna blow inside you right now if you move a muscle.” I still, wanting to ram the rest of me on the rest of him. Knowing it'll hurt. Not giving a crap. I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood, and Noose chuckles. “You want my cock deep, babe?” I give a helpless nod. Oh yeah, so deep. His eyes hood as he sinks farther. Almost to the end of me. My pussy strangles him with a single pulse. His eyes tighten, and his thumb moves to my clit, flicking across the top. One hard, strike, and I'm almost

there. We groan together, and I feel him throb. “Oh God!” I say, trying to keep my voice contained. Noose shoves the rest of himself inside and shudders, his head hanging. Long strands of hair fall forward, hiding his face. Moonlight stripes him, shattering the tats like broken glass. His finely cut body just pieces of muscle and bone, he begins to pump in firm strokes within me. His finger blazes over my slick nub, and I gasp. My hips meet his thrusts as he gently fills me, stretching me. “Babe, not gonna last with you

doing that with your cunt.” Somehow, that word from Noose isn't bad. “What thing with my cunt?” I ask in a daze, shoving my hips down and feeling his cock kiss my womb. I seize him inside me in a tight grip. I never want to let Noose go. He feels so right inside me, so safe around me. “That,” he whispers and starts to hammer me. “Yes,” I say above the noise of our flesh slapping together. “Harder.” He plunges into me, huge strokes where he nearly exits my body then drives into me again. “Oh!” I say in soft surprise as my pussy blows apart around him, pulsing in the first orgasm of my life.

“Ah,” Noose groans, “Gonna come in you, Rose.” “Please,” I beg as another orgasm washes over the first. Noose's hands grab my boobs, squeezing as he thrusts so hard I feel pinned to the bed. Hot jets of his seed pour into my body, and I cry out, grabbing his muscled ass as we stick together. Then his lips are on mine. Soft. Brutal. I wrap my legs around his waist, and Noose shivers against me. “Rose,” he says above my mouth, then kisses my lips. I kiss him back, never more satisfied than I am in this moment. My

mind is a blank of everything but this man. This feeling. “Yeah?” “I gotta tell you something.” My high teeters. Noose's face pulls away, looking young and tender—not the hard face I've seen so much of. I take a deep breath, my sex still warm, still cocooning his softening length. “Go ahead.” His finger runs down my cheek, tracing the bones of my face. “I think I love you.” Tears run out of my eyes, crawling over his tender touch. His expression is pained. “Don't fucking cry, Rose. I didn't tell you that to hurt ya.” I smile through my tears, my cheeks

lifting his fingers. “Don't you know the difference between happy tears and sad ones?” Noose shakes his head, his hair slithering over his fingers and my face. “No. Don't know. Never stuck around long enough to figure out the difference.” My breath catches. “Well, I don't think I love you.” Hurt washes his expression for a heartbeat before he catches himself and that softness I'd seen recedes like the tide. I grip both sides of his face with my hands, and he lets me, but I can see it costs him. “I don't think I love you.” His face is motionless, expressionless. “You said that.” His

voice is flat. “I know that I love you.” Tenderness returns like the tide coming to shore, and Noose stares at me for a long moment, studying every piece of me. Eventually, his lips speak for him. All over my face. My body. My heart.

5 Noose I should feel like a dumb fuck for spilling my guts to Rose. But I don't. Telling her how I really feel is sort of like taking a ride on the best road, and I get to again. And again. Is this what love feels like? I like it. But I hate it. My hand wanders over Rose's side. She's so fucking gorgeous, it hurts to look at her. My fingertips slide down her hip, feeling skin like silk. I suddenly latch on, gripping the soft flesh, kneading it. Her waist is tiny, but she has a fine ass and huge tits. Love that.

Rose giggles, and I smile. Jesus, I'm a fucking fool. Can't wipe the grin off my face. Can't believe this girl is mine. Feels like she always was. I roll over on top of her. “Hey, babe.” I press my hardening cock between her thighs. A smile lights her face, and I swipe the long dark-blonde hairs out of her eyes. “When's the kid pop out of bed?” Her face changes, becomes serious. I hate to bring it up, but if we're for real, I can't be showing up in her bed if he boings in here. Rose's lips quirk. “He's not a piece of toast, Noose.” I shrug. “Yeah.” “What an evolved vocabulary you

have.” Her eyebrow rises slowly. I stuff my hand between our bodies, covering her pussy. I hook my middle finger inside, and she gasps. “Good enough?” She nods. I watch that hazy expression her dark eyes get when any piece of me goes into any piece of her. Fucking hot. “He gets up about eight in the morning on weekends,” she answers in a breathy voice. My grin splits my face. “Plenty of time.” My eyes grab the time from the clock on top of the nightstand. Six in the morning. Two hours. Might go twice. I don't tell Rose that. I just spread

her legs, crawling down her lush body, and put my tongue where my dick just was. She tastes as great with my cum as she did without. * Rose throws herself backward, forearm flopping over her eyes. “Oh my God, you're a manimal.” I frown. “What's that supposed to mean?” I ask, dying for a cigarette. My eyes move to her tits. I can almost break the habit, thinking about picking up a new one. The Rose habit. Sounds like a plan.

Her eyes watch the direction mine are going. “Ah—no. I'm pretty sore,” she says with a laugh. What? Hell, I was gentle. I tell her so. “Gentle? I don't know. With a—” She clears her throat delicately, her eyes skating to my dick. “How you're built? It's amazing you didn't hurt me.” Rose had been as tight as fuck, like a velvet glove. Just thinking about doing her makes me pop half a boner—third of the night. I chuckle. “What's so funny?” She gives me a look I have actually seen quite a few times from chicks. Don't want to ever see it from Rose. “Hey, come ʼere.” I pull her tightly

against me. “I mean it. I fuck the way I want, as hard as I want. Haven't had any complaints. You—” I stroke all her hair away, fisting it. Her eyes get that fucking hot look. My boner goes full stroke. “You I fuck like glass. You've got the golden pussy, Rose. This dick”—I jerk my jaw toward my crotch—“is treating your cunt like treasure.” I kiss the tip of her nose. “Don't you ever think it's different.” “Oh,” she says in a sort of stunned voice. Can't take that soft, parted mouth. I lean over, biting her soft lips, crushing her mouth, stabbing her mouth with my tongue like I want to with my dick. I groan inside her mouth, releasing her

hair and cupping the back of her head. “Love you, Rose.” “I love you too, Noose,” she whispers, and I smile against her mouth. Rose tilts her head, searching my face. “Why are you smiling?” “Fucking happy.” I shrug, flinging myself on her bed, stuffing an arm behind my head. “Good,” she says, eyes serious. “I get the feeling like you haven't been before.” I don't reply. Telling her how I felt is enough revelation. Maybe ever. “I have to know something, Noose.” Right. She flips over on my chest. I give her a narrow look as I fold an arm

around her back. Rose laughs. She's not buying my menacing look. Shit. Doesn't work on her. She has fucking neutered me. But I'm sporting a massive hard-on, so maybe not. “What?” I ask as neutrally as possible. “You can tell me something.” “Yeah.” “Your favorite word. One word.” I nod. Rose smiles, and the thing lights up her face, tightening my chest. I would do anything for this woman. Scary as fuck. Rose lowers her chin into her fists

between my pecs. “What's your name?” Not what I expected. “Noose.” I lift my eyebrows. She gives an exasperated sigh. “No. Not your… road name,” she says as though those are foreign words. “Ah.” I flex my fingers over her bare skin. “What? Is it really that personal?” Her smile is still there, but it’s not as big as it was. Yeah. “Sean. Sean King.” “Really? I like the King part.” She rolls her eyes. I shrug. My lips twitch. “Like my ride, Road King.” “I don't know anything about motorcycles.”

I give her a sideways glance. “You will. Can't wait to have your ass on the back of my bike, Rose.” “I'm scared.” My finger hooks her chin. “Hey— glass, remember.” “Glass breaks, Noose.” I nod. “I treat glass like what it is, a fragile commodity.” Rose seems to digest that. I know I have. I'm fucking hyperaware of how vulnerable she is. How vulnerable I am now that I know the truth—that I love this woman. “How old are you?” I think I do need a smoke for this. I hop out of the bed and make my way to the bathroom.

I sense her eyes following me. “Noose?” “Twenty-nine. Let's do twenty questions later. I'm hungrier than hell. Gotta grab a shower.” I turn, the invitation in my eyes. Rose glances at the clock. Half an hour before the kid goes ding. She gets out of bed, wincing a little. Maybe I did fuck her a little too much. Nah. I feel my eyes eat her up as her naked self walks toward me. “I'll clean you, Rose.” I do. I clean every piece of Rose. I make sure she comes before I'm done.

* “Trainer's watching the house, Rose. He'll follow you.” She sighs, pushing back squeakyclean hair and tossing it up in a bun thing high on her head. “I don't know,” she says uncertainly, arms flying as she expertly knots her hair blind. “Hmmm, seems weird.” I don't mention that fucker Diablo making another appearance. “Listen, my cell’s blowing up with texts. I have to figure it out with the guys. But fucking Trainer fell asleep when he should have been watching the house.” I leave the other part unsaid. Rose nods. “I know. I don't have to

be told. I know that Drake wouldn't have…” She covers her face with her hands. I cup her jaw, drilling her eyes. “No tears, Rose. You told me he left you that way as a warning to me. But a warning to me is a warning to Road Kill. Because Diablo knows the deal. He's Chaos, and whatever he does, he does for the club. His club. Now he's threatening my property.” “That sounds awful, calling me property.” I gently grip her chin. “Golden pussy. Glass. Treasure. Love. Those are just a few of my pet names for you, Rose. You're no sweet butt, some cheap bitch. You're classy and gorgeous. But

you're my property. Never forget it. Mine to protect.” I draw in close to her face, lips against her temple. “Mine to fuck.” She shivers. “How can I resist when you sweet talk me, Noose?” I lean away, looking at her, gauging her mood. “It's what I am, Rose. It's all I am. I've never done this before.” My look in her direction is steady. “Me, either,” she admits. Can't say I'm crying a river over her not fucking the universe. She laughs. “Double-standard, much.” I nod, unapologetic. “Yeah, don't like the thought of you being with other men. Makes me fucking insane.”

“Same here.” I can't resist. “Me being with other men?” Rose laughs, shaking her head. The bun flops on top of her head. “No. You being with other girls.” My face goes serious. “There are no other girls.” I jerk her against me and plow into her mouth with my tongue. In and out. Like I'm fucking her. “There's only one girl.” I'm breathless, in a good way. I take my hands off her. She sorta falls against the closed front door. “Okay,” she breathes. I don't want to leave. But the kid's gonna be up. We've decided the Diablo incident is too close

to me showing up. Rose thinks it would be destabilizing or some bullshit. Kid will be seeing a shit ton of me pretty soon, but whatever. If it makes Rose feel better… I lose nothing. She rises on her tiptoes. I brush those soft lips with mine. “I'll text you.” She nods. “I programmed my number into your phone.” Her face crumples, fear sliding through her eyes. Her expression makes me hate Diablo even more. “I don't have a phone.” “I know.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a prepaid mobile. “It's just until we can get you something new.”

“You don't have to take care of me, Noose.” Pink spreads across her face. “Fuck yes, I do. I've never wanted to do something more.” Tears make her eyes shiny. I can tell the difference this time.

6 Rose Sean King, age twenty-nine. Dick like a demon, tongue like a saint. I swallow hard, trying not to remember every thing those parts of his body did to me last night. Epic fail. “Aunt Rose!” Charlie shouts. “Hmm?” I answer, sipping my coffee, shifting as delicious soreness reminds me of my well-used parts. “You're not listening.” True. “I'm sorry, dirty worm.” “Sweet pea!” He stabs the air with his spork, and I sigh.

“Tell Auntie Rose what you need.” He seems to contemplate, cupping a small hand around a smaller chin. I glance at his plate. Scrambled eggs with cheese is almost a done deal. The big key to getting a five-yearold to eat food is to slather cheese on top of everything. At least there's no sugar. My own egg breakfast is cooling. I take another bite. Need to get that protein in. I sip freshly squeezed orange juice. Protein. Glucose. Rinse. Repeat. “Who is that big man who was here?” Observant kid. I sigh. “That is Drake. He was really anxious to meet you.”

That isn't a lie. “Why?” Uh-huh. “Because he was a”—Oh my God—“friend of your mama's.” By some miracle, I don’t choke. “Oh!” He says, clapping his hands. Then Charlie frowns. I know that means more questions. “So… a boyfriend?” He’s two weeks in kindergarten, and already, the boy-girl roles are clear. “Not exactly, but they were friends.” Before he killed her. My eyes fill with tears over having to discuss this superficially with Charlie. I take a deep breath. “He gonna come back?” he asks, taking another bite of egg.

“I don't know,” I answer honestly. I haven't decided what I'm going to do. Tell the truth, and I'll be responsible for a motorcycle gang war. Lie, and Charlie goes to visit Drake. Can I tell partial truths? Am I capable of that? Noose fills my mind. His face. His body. Can he really protect me? Is it fair to ask a guy I just met last week to protect me? No. He said he loves you, Rose. Thing is I know I love him. How that's even possible, I don't know. But Crystal went down on him yesterday, then he had sex with me. I

should have kicked him out just for that. Instead, I let him have sex with me. Three times. I let him do—my face bursts into flames—things with his tongue I didn't know were possible. Real love is sacrifice. My gaze moves over Charlie’s mussed hair and Minion pajamas. His legs swing underneath the table as his hand holds his face. He's daydreaming, looking through our glass sliding door at the park outside. Kids swing while mothers push them. Dads stand around talking. My chest tightens. “Aunt Rose?” “Yes?” My face swivels to him, and I pinch the bridge of my nose to stifle

tears. “Let's go to the park today.” I point at the other kids playing. “That one?” I can't bear to go to Scenic yet. I know Drake won't be there. But my heart begins to beat harder when I think about it. I nod. “Sure, sweet pea. You done?” I give his egg crumbs an eyebrow lift. “I'm full.” “Okay.” I scoop up the plate, bring it to the sink, and empty the little bit he didn't finish into the disposal. “Are you jogging today, Rose?” I glance at Charlie and shake my head. “I think I've had enough working out.” His grin is large.

Mine answers his. I know I should jog. But I think I got enough horizontal aerobics last night to last me a day or two. * I expect to get texts from Noose, but the cell he gave me stays dark. The two hours Charlie and I are at the park is torture. I second-guess what I did with Noose. What I told him. What he told me. I don't even know Sean King. I go over what I do know. Noose is dangerous. I watched him come at somebody with a rope. Two huge knots the size of

my fists had been on either end. One end hit the guy so hard it had bloodied his nose. I hadn't felt bad about that. Noose is in a motorcycle gang. He's an expert at sex. That's good, and bad. He's probably fantastic at sex because he's partaken of so much, it's a matter of sheer practice makes perfect. I plant my forehead in my palm. God, Rose, you're a fool. And now that I've come back down to earth after Noose isn't in my personal space, I realize I had sex with him without a rubber. I've been with two guys in my life: Nick, from high school, and Noose. I've used up a lot of batteries with my trusty

little vibrator. I'm sure I would have used that less and real men more if Drake hadn't happened. If I didn't get Charlie when I was nineteen. Not many guys want to date a girl my age with a kid. Not many girls want men when they've been through what I have and seen what I've seen. But here I am, sexing it out with a biker. Just like Anna. Noose is nothing like Drake. But what is he? Who is he? That should matter more than it does. When he's with me, nothing matters but him. When Noose is not there, I can think. Rationalize. Process. Charlie tears through the house.

“Hey, slow down!” I call out, laughing. He's too old for naps, really. But we didn't get back from Mom and Dad's until almost midnight. We're both beat. Me for different reasons. A secret little smile flickers across my face. I would lose sleep every day for something like what Noose gives me. My smile fades. Feeling conflicted isn't good. It gets you hurt. “I'll read you a story if you promise to take a nap!” I yell after him. “I pick!” he shouts back. I know what he’ll choose. “Where the Wild Things are!” All little boys love danger. Big boys too.

* I'm running. Drake's boots stomp behind me. I blast through the dappled light, sprinting up the jogging path. Shadows lengthen, flanking me. My lungs burn for oxygen I can't get fast enough. A familiar dizziness spreads like a blanket over my body, and I stumble. Hands clamp onto my arms, lifting me. I fight, flailing. “Rose.” I know that voice. My eyelids are sewn shut. My lungs feel like they'll burst.

“Rose.” Ice pours through my veins as my eyelids slowly rise. Three of Noose tremble before my vision. I blink open my sagging eyelids again. Couch. Home. Noose holds me. “You all right?” I shudder, remembering Drake's hands biting into my arms. “Drake,” I croak. Noose growls. I swear to God, he growls. “Where?” I shake my head. “Nightmare.” I look around, swinging my legs off the couch. “How'd you get in here?” Noose rolls his eyes. “Your kid

could do it. Unsafe digs, babe. Just sayinʼ.” He stands smoothly, crossing his arms. “Some nightmare.” “Yeah.” My voice shakes. My topknot has come undone, and I take out the tie. Hair cascades all around me like a curtain. I look at Noose through the strands of my hair. “I thought you were going to text me.” Feeling disoriented, I glance at the kitchen clock and groan. It's almost four. Charlie's going to be grouchy as hell. We both overslept after a couple of hours at the park. I sigh. And Noose broke into my house. God. “Trainer's got his titty in a ringer.” Noose smirks.

I cock an eyebrow. Sounds painful. “But he's gotta eat and shit. So I said I'd come by and check on you.” Noose on a mission isn't tender. He's hard. I stand. “Don't like the way you're lookinʼ at me, Rose.” Shit, his instincts are so acute. I shift my weight. “I—Noose, I can't have you just walking in here.” He shrugs. “Not gonna lie. Your protection is serious.” “I have Charlie, a job—a life.” “A life with me now.” I look up at him. Way up. “I need to know you more.”

His face smooths to neutrality. “Not much for flapping my gums.” God, do I know that. “I'm talkative.” “No shit,” he says with a sudden grin. He turns away for a second, maybe hearing something I can't, and I catch sight of the wound on his head. I'm ashamed I didn't notice when I was screwing his brains out last night. I reach up and touch it. His gaze returns to me, glittering like storm clouds filled with electricity. “Rose.” Noose captures my hand and pulls me against his body. The feel of him is perfectly conformed to me, and I sink into his heat. His protection. “Why do you feel so good?” I

whisper. “I've been asking myself that same thing.” There's a smile in his voice, and I tip my head back. I smack him. “Arrogant bastard.” “That's the God's honest truth.” My smile slips. “Tell me about you, Noose. You know everything about me. I don't know anything about you. I mean —” I tuck my hair behind my ears, and Noose watches the gesture like he's hungry. The heat in his eyes makes things tighten down low, and my breath catches —from a look. “I'm at a supreme disadvantage.” Noose sighs. “Where's the kid?”

“Charlie's napping.” I'm putting his feet to the fire. But I can't go forward—I won't—unless I know who he is. “I was in the Navy. A Seal.” I blink. Noose chuckles. “You don't look like you know much about the military?” I shake my head with a small shrug. “Just what I hear off the TV.” He lifts his shoulders again, glancing away, and begins talking, almost to himself. “We're a special team of guys. Work together. Do stuff.” That clear penetrating gaze comes back to me. “Things you can talk about?” He shakes his head.

“What about the knots?” I imagine the swinging knot shot into that guy's nose, bursting it like a piece of bloody fruit. Noose's face is unreadable. “What about them?” “When you—” I swallow past my fear of mentioning my time in the circle of bikers. “Saved me.” Noose nods solemnly. Not a hint of a smile. No expression. “You used that rope—how you used it. It was something.” “I do knots.” Noose. A lightbulb goes on. “What does that mean?” Noose tears impatient fingers through his neatly tied hair. Not so neat

now. “Means some guys fight with their fists. Some use knives. Guns. I do knots.” Yes. Yes, he does. “Oh,” I say in the lamest answer on earth. “So, what does that all mean. Your name… your…” Unique skill with ropes. A sudden image of Drake tying me down makes my breath come faster. “What's put that look on your face, Rose?” Noose asks softly, stepping into my personal space, his large hands cupping my shoulders lightly. “Drake tied me down.” The one lipsticked word Mine pings around inside my head. I stare into Noose's face. Anger

swarms his features. “It means,” he answers my earlier question carefully, “that if a rope's in my hands, someone's gonna die.”

7 Noose Rose's face closes down. She asked the questions. She got answers. The answers, I can give. There's a fuck ton I can't. The moratorium on sharing secrets in the military lasts pretty much forever. Rose only needs to know that if I'm holding a rope, it's a deadly weapon. But not against her. Never her. “You didn't kill them.” I shake my head. “Nah. Prez doesn't want a war.” I shrug. “Might get there anyway. But killing would've had one in our laps right away.” “So”—her eyes find mine—“you

were buying time?” I nod. “Yup. Had to get ya, Rose. Had to do stuff to do it.” “Was it hard?” I smile. “There ya go again. Was what hard?” My smile broadens when a pink blush fills her cheeks, making them rosy. Beautiful. I touch her face, running a thumb over her hot skin. “Holding back.” My fingers drop. “Yeah.” “You wanted to kill them?” A thrum of adrenaline whips through me. “Oh yeah.” I watch her swallow her fear. “Don't you be fucking scared of me, Rose.”

“I am.” She shivers. “You're a scary man, Noose.” “True.” I study her face, towing her back into my body. “Never to you, babe.” I breathe her in, smelling fruit, vanilla, and her sweet skin. “I'm scared, Noose.” I tighten my arms around her. “Of me?” I hold my breath. “No. You scare me, but I'm not scared of you.” I pull away, smiling. “That doesn't make sense.” She smiles back. “Don't worry. It makes sense to me.” “Where do we go from here, Noose?” I shrug. “Taking things one day at a

time. Seems best.” “I can't do one day at a time with Charlie.” Hadn't thought about the kid. Not used to it. “First thing. I want to be there for the hearing.” I search her face and see relief. Then I start breathing again. “I appreciate you, Noose.” I pull away. “I'm hearing a but.” My body tenses, and I can't help the reaction. I can keep blank face. I can keep my fat mouth shut, but the body's reaction is always honest. She nods. “I don't want anything to sway the judge's decision.” Fuck. Rose is ashamed of me. I step away. “Good enough to fuck but not good enough to be seen with me? I

thought we worked that shit out. You're classy, and I'm not, but I'm real enough to be honest. Are you being honest?” Rose's head dips. When her eyes meet mine again, they blaze like stoked brown embers. “I'm not just fucking you”—her voice goes low—“I told you how I feel. But having a biker there at the hearing…” “Looking like me.” I sweep my palm down my body. “Yes.” She nods. “Looking like you.” Her eyes run down my body, and the blush that had disappeared flares to life again. My dick gets hard as her eyes move over my body. “I love the way you look, Noose.” Her fingers touch my chest, and I have to turn away or drop to

my knees and worship Rose. Like a fucking pussy. I turn around and cross my arms to keep from touching her. She talks to my back. “I'm just so scared, Noose. That if I don't make the right impression, the judge will award joint custody to Drake.” Hearing pure terror in her voice, I turn. “I won't let that happen.” She runs a finger along my mouth, and I catch my breath, feeling the fire of her touch to my toes. I close my eyes, sinking into the tactile sensation that is Rose. “I know you've got my best interests, Noose. Just stay away until this is over—please.” I capture her finger, sucking it into my mouth. “Can't. Can't let you face that

fucker Diablo by yourself.” “Promise me you won't kill him.” Fuck. “I can't make that promise. He touches you, he dies. He hurts you, he dies slowly.” “With a knot?” I don't reply, and her half-smile disappears. I can't be light when we're talking about knots. They form in my mind. Three knots would take care of Diablo. A fourth is a contender too. That comes together in my mind automatically, like breathing. Rose walks into my body, stepping onto the top of my boots with her bare feet and laying her face in the center of my chest. I wrap my arms around her. Our

heartbeats sync. “I'm going to be there, but I won't show my face.” “Will that be hard for you, Noose?” Fuck yes. “Yeah.” I want that fucker to see me. Feel the threat. “Thank you.” Her breath is warm through my T-shirt. I won't show my mug, but I'll be there with the entire club. I let her go, and she steps off my feet. “You look good, Rose.” “I feel good.” She dips her head, and I know she's thinking about our time together. Hell, my cock is, standing up at attention, ready for round four. Rose looks at my crotch. “I can't wear you out!” She laughs. “You could try.” I smirk.

She grins. I head for the door, checking out all the security issues. Her house is an open invitation to anyone that wants to break in. Maybe I just move Rose in with me. I turn and look at her. She looks happy, but unsure. She'll be sure soon. “You got work tomorrow?” Rose nods. “Yeah, Ned's a dickhead, but he gave me the day off Tuesday.” Ned is a dickhead, but he's on the Road Kill leash, so it's doable. “What?” She studies my expression. I shut my emotions down like closing a door.

“Your boss. He's handling the Road Kill account.” “That sounds like dead animals.” She giggles. I grin. “Nah. I could see where a citizen would think that.” I shrug. “It's about killing road. Taking the road. Freedom.” Now that I try to explain it, those feelings—it's not easy. “Citizen?” Her light brows come together. “The ninety-nine percent of the population who don't mind living with laws.” “Oh. I follow rules.” She shrugs. “Me too.” My voice is hollow. She cocks her head, and I fight moving back, kissing her face until that

soft look of lust is the only one she wears. “I think you follow the rules that you want.” I chuckle. “True.” She walks to me. Rising to her tiptoes, she kisses my lips. I groan, crushing her to me. “You okay, Rose?” She nods. “I don't think Drake's going to push anymore right before the trial. And he's got that attractive mark you made with the rope.” I nod. “It's not the one I wanted to make.” Her pulse hammers at the hollow of her throat. “What did you want to make?” She shouldn't have asked. My

honesty is always at a steep price. “A permanent one.” Rose lowers to her flat feet. “Oh.” I chuck her beneath her chin. “Don't worry, babe. He got his free pass that one time. Nothing's free after that.” I walk to her door, slide the latch, and open it. I feel Rose before she slides her arms around my waist. God. Tenderness wells up inside me. I fight it. And lose. I slide my hands over the tops of hers. “Be careful.” Her breath is warm at my back. “Always.” I move away from her fingers. Toughest shit I've ever done.

* “I know I fucked up!” Trainer wails. “But this detail? Fuck me!” I'm forking Chinese food in my craw with abandon, watching Trainer swab the puke-and-cum-soaked decks. “Nope!” I say, raising a chopstick. The oriental design on the side reminds me of a knot. I work it in my head while I dress Trainer down. “Rose Christo is my property. Repeat after me.” Trainer's lips flatten. “Fuck,” he mutters. Wring picks chicken chow mien from his teeth. “Do it, fucktard.”

“Rose Christo is your property.” Sullen, he spits it out. Five hours of cleaning up post-party gore will do it. “Nice pronoun switch. Didn't know if you'd fuck that up too.” This, from Snare. Mr. English. I send a hard glance his way. “Hey”—he spreads his hands inoffensively away from his body —“while you guys were fucking around in the Middle East, I was getting my schooling.” Fucking around. Right. “Whatfucking-ever,” I say, glaring at him while I twist and stab the noodles. “You really promised Rose you wouldn't be there at the hearing?” Wring asks, his eyes dark with disbelief.

“I promised her I wouldn't show my face.” “Ah,” Wring says. “That's different.” I point chopsticks at him. “Damn straight.” I chug half a beer and set it down on the table that stands in the middle of the club. Trainer's gloved up to the elbows. I don't even wanna see what's in the bucket. Last night's party, which I missed while I was fucking Rose all night, had been a panty dropping, boozing orgy. Fucking Trainer dropped the ball, falling asleep on his watch and missing Diablo breaking and entering at Rose's, letting him tie my girl up and put that

word on her body. It wasn't if Diablo would die—but when. He’s a dead man walking. I know it. The club knows it. Deep down, Rose knows it. Maybe a part of her doesn't want to kill Charlie's dad. But he's nothing but a sperm donor. “Lariat's watching Rose. But he's not happy about picking belly lint because ya thought you'd snooze.” Trainer blows out a frustrated exhale. “How many times do I have to say I fucked up?” He slaps gloved hands on his thighs. Disgusting shit stays on his jeans. He looks down and curses.

Wring works the lump of food around in this mouth. “More,” he says. Trainer sighs, defeated. I hop off the stool at the bar, load my arms with trash, and chuck it all in the bag at Trainer's side. I stretch, reaching for the ceiling. I tap it, heels hitting the ground, stiff from all the stress. “Fuck, tense as fuck with all this shit going on with Rose.” Lariat's text comes in. Picture's worth a thousand words. It's a photo of Rose moving through the front doors of the bank. High heels, tight skirt. Instant hard-on. I text back: Thanks. Autocorrect is so used to my one-word replies, it has it

filled in after the T. “What are you doing, Noose?” I flip Snare off. “Working, asshole. Some of us actually do that. Besides, I gotta be there tomorrow, putting in extra time at the shop.” Road Kill has their own mechanic—me. Always been wired that way. Even during my foster care years, when every fucking thing was sideways, I could just put shit together—or take it apart. My life was in ruins, but parts worked. Cars and bikes, they make sense. Besides, the auto repair outfit is a fucking awesome front for all kinds of shit the club dabbles in. I'm more than a money runner. Snare is our sergeant-atarms, but I chose not to be.

I don't have an off switch. That I was able to turn off and not kill Diablo was a miracle. Pretty soon, there won't be a switch around that can turn me off killing that fucker.

8 Rose Naomi's large hazel eyes appear to float above the partition that separates our stations. “You look different.” She shrugs, biting absently on her thumbnail. “Don't know what it is—but I'd say you got laid if I didn't know better.” That's the thing—she doesn't know better. “I-I…” I stare down at my hands. My money drawer has been organized— twice. I have nothing to do but endure her uncanny intuition. “Whoa, is it the hearing?” Naomi's compassionate eyes try to read my

mood. It's not the hearing, not really. I don't want to tell her about Noose. Confessing about him makes him—us—real. Naomi knows Anna was beaten to death and about her association with bikers. It would seem beyond dumb for me to go down that same path. Yet, here I am. Naomi and I are pretty close. We both began working at the bank straight out of high school. That was before everyone had to have at least two years of college to handle money in a financial institution. It's unusual for us not to text each other over the weekend. Even though I have Charlie, Naomi and I still do stuff

together. I'm sometimes envious of her free life. I'd never give up Charlie, though. I didn’t text over the weekend, and that got me on the Naomi Radar. My eyes flick to the clock. Almost nine thirty. Not near enough time for all I want to say— or all that I don't. I take a deep breath then let it out slowly. “Let's talk at lunch, okay?” Her ginger eyebrows shoot up. “I don't know if I can stand waiting. Must be an earful.” I look at her. “Definitely. But…” I pause for a handful of seconds, “it's a good earful, and no, I'm not that worried about the hearing. I think Drake will show up, be himself, and the judge will

see through him. Besides, I've already been awarded full custody of Charlie once.” Naomi rolls her lip between her teeth, messing up her lipstick. Her curly hair bobs as she nods. “Yeah.” She winds her hair into a knot. We look like twins. But hers is a wild, thickly coiled frothy mass of curls. She doesn't say the rest. Naomi doesn't need to. Drake was being held in jail at the time of that first hearing, under suspicion of murder. Of course, he got off. But by that time, the judge had awarded Charlie to Anna’s closest relative. Me. The one who wasn't incarcerated. But because Drake was never convicted,

he basically has a clean slate. It's like the first hearing all over again. Carla will have Charlie, so I don't have to worry. Her written testimony to my skills as a parent are part of my paperwork. My parents will be there too. For Anna. For me. I shake my head. I wore my hair down for once, and it slides along my shoulders with the movement. “No. Not worried.” Naomi nods, pasting a reassuring smile on her face. “I want all the gossip at lunch.” She leans over the partition as customers begin to file in. “But when does anything exciting happen to Rose Christo?” She winks.

Heat rises to my face, and Naomi gives a little squeal before plopping down in her teller chair. “Love it!” she sings softly. I can't look at her. I would give too much away. I slide my sign out of the hole in the window as the first customer approaches. * Naomi's freakishly large eyes blink. Flecks of green appear to hover within the irises. “You've got to be kidding me!” We're eating our lunch underneath a giant old maple that was saved when the

bank was built. Its vibrant orange and red leaves look like flames against the deep blue sky. The picnic table wood is scarred and rough underneath my fingertips. I press them into the surface anyway, daring to look at her face. “No. I'm not kidding.” “Rose—okay, I have been pressuring you into ending your dry spell. Nick was forever ago, and with what happened to Anna…” I don't fill the silence right away. The birds and cars rushing outside the fence are a whir of white noise. I unclasp my fingers. “I fought it. I did. In the end, I couldn't anymore.” I feel defensive. If I could just screw guys casually, this wouldn't be a big deal. But

when I sleep with a man, there's heart involved. Naomi plants her hands on her hips. “I know what your problem is—you've got a case of pussy fever.” I spit out my parfait onto the lawn. Chunks of apricot yogurt hit the blades of grass, and I slap my palm over my mouth, horrified. “Oh my God, look what you made me do!” Naomi giggles, crossing her arms over her mostly flat chest. I have a pang of envy then shelve it. Noose loves my huge boobs. Glad someone does. “Tell me I'm wrong.” Her eyebrows rise in a coy sweep. God. I look down at my nearly empty bowl of fruit, nuts, and yogurt as

though intensely interested in what's left of my food. “I can't.” I sound glum, even to myself. “Has he been violent?” she asks quietly. I jerk my head up, meeting her eyes. Toward me? No. I shake my head. “Of the three and a half billion men in the world, you chose this guy. And I have an advantage.” She stabs empty air with her finger. “I saw him and his scary friend when they came in last week. And what the fuck is this?” Naomi hisses, getting a head of steam worked up. I push my food away. “You don't screw anyone for four years, and then boom—biker guy hits the

scene, and it's bury the tool time?” I laugh. “Tell me how it really is, Naomi.” Her lips twitch. I'm not thrilled about how fast things have moved, but I never felt so alive until I met Noose. I try to explain the inexplicable. “He makes me feel safe, sexed up—happy,” I whisper. “Oh my God!” Naomi slaps her hands over her mouth. Continuing to speak from behind her fingers, she says, “Are you saying you love him? This Noose guy—and give me a break with the name.” She flips her palm out. Definitely. “Maybe.” My eyes flick to hers. “He was in the Navy—a Navy Seal.” I attempt a semi-explanation.

Naomi whistles, setting down her sandwich. “They are so hot—Seals.” She gets a dreamy look. I blush, thinking about how hot Noose was with his body inside mine. I don't know if it had anything to do with him being a Seal or not. I think it had everything to do with him. Noose is an undeniable force. Sex appeal doesn't cover what he brings. I shiver. Naomi plops her elbows one the table top. “So what do they do when they're Seals?” She tosses a Cheeto into her mouth, and little orange crumbs sprinkle the table. I lift a shoulder. “He wouldn't say much.” I laugh, thinking about Noose's efforts at being chatty. Non-existent.

“He's not a big talker.” My lips lift at the corners. Naomi's nose scrunches. “Uh-huh. Gathered that, girlfriend.” Her low chuckle brings my blush back to life. I think through what Noose told me: what's okay to say, what might not be. “He did say that he's an expert knotter.” “So the man can speak?” Naomi asks slyly. “Knock it off. Yes, he can speak.” That makes me think of his tongue, of course. I swallow. “What do you mean ʻknotsʼ?” She knits her fingers together, propping her chin in the web her fingers make. The nose bursting above my body is singed into my memory: blood falling

like warm red rain over the metallicblue dress Drake forced me to wear. “Ah… he can make different knots.” She shrugs. “Why is that a big thing?” Strong arms cradle Drake's neck, thick wrists twisting the rope. The knots at either end are anchors for strangulation. “I think ropes are considered weapons in hand-to-hand combat,” I manage, sucking myself out of the memory like it’s quicksand. Her face lights with understanding. “Oh! Like a knife or something?” “Something like that.” My heartbeats trip over one another. Naomi waggles her eyebrows. “Has

possibilities.” I think of the pantyhose Drake used to tie me down, and shake my head. “Probably not.” I release a trembling breath, repressing a shudder. “Totally for me. I could so get into some tie-me-down shenanigans.” Naomi sounds wistful. I laugh. Naomi's sense of humor is contagious. Her smile fades as she moves her eyes to a point beyond my shoulder. “Don't look now, but creeper Ned is keeping tabs on us.” I don't bother turning around. Dick. “Ignore him. I can't be one second past break of I get the ax.” Naomi rolls her eyes. “True dat.”

Before I know it, lunch is over, and the rest of the day keeps me busy with clients. I wasn't struck by lightning for confessing the sin of Noose. Ned didn't give me fifty lashes. It's not until I get home and Charlie's tucked into bed that I have time to think. My cell is dark. Noose, where are you? A week ago, I was just sleeping, eating, and existing. Now I'm like a planet whose orbit has shifted to circle around one thing, one man. Maybe the real sin was not living before. *

I'm up and getting ready two hours before the hearing at ten o’clock, so nervous that my fingers tremble as I apply my makeup. I pick up my lipstick. It's the red Drake used to write on my body. I drop it like I've been burned. The brilliant red tube rolls across my wood vanity and clatters to the floor. I pick it up in a pincer grip and toss it into the garbage. Don't think I'll ever be wearing that shade again. I smooth my palms over my outfit for the twentieth time, staring into the mirror: navy skirt and pumps, nude hose, and a stacked heel, three inches. The

cream shell blouse should wash me out, but because my hair has the faintest touch of red, it makes my coloring appear richer. My eyes are velvet brown in the sea of my fair skin. I don't want to look like I'm trying too hard, so I wear part of my hair in a loose barrette at the crown of my head, leaving it to dry naturally. Anything past this is just procrastination. I haven't heard from Noose. He took me at my word, giving me space until after the hearing. I wish he hadn't listened. Picking up a lock of hair, I twine it around my finger, yanking it lightly, only to release and twine again.

“Come on, Rose.” I walk to the mirror, smacking my lips with their nude gloss, working up my courage. I don't want to see Drake. Ever. I don't want him to have Charlie more. Moving through the house, I pick up my purse at the side table nearest the front door and walk through. I lock it and walk deliberately to my Smart car. I glance inside. All the paperwork is sitting in a manila folder on the passenger seat. Nothing is going to interfere with my success in keeping Charlie if I can help it. *

“All rise,” a bored voice calls out. I stand, Mom's hand gripping mine tightly enough to hurt, my other latched onto the back of the smooth, rolled wooden bench seat ahead of me. “Mom,” I whisper urgently, and her hold lessens. My fingers cramp, and I flex them. I can't help looking around. Telling myself I'm looking to see who's here, I'm really looking for Noose. A week ago, there was no Noose, Rose. I clench my eyes shut, controlling my breathing and establishing calm. “Judge Jetson presiding.” He walks in, black robes sweeping his ankles like black water. The judge is super young. I

don't know if that's good or bad for me. After I make a final check and come up without a Noose sighting, a breath slides out of me. Disappointment and relief collide into an uncomfortable tightness in my chest. I shake off the disquiet, hunting for Drake. My eyes scan the crowd, made up mainly of people whose cases are scheduled to be heard after mine, and don't see him. Could I be so lucky? Did he suddenly get cold feet? Then my gaze halts, stumbling over Drake. No wonder I didn't recognize him. He looks utterly unlike Drake. Gone is the greasy long hair and the I-don'tbathe look.

In its place is a crisp brown turtleneck that conveniently hides the rope burn. His hair is styled closely to his head. Drake's wearing glasses that make him appear educated and regal. He has a sports jacket in a fine tweed that picks up the chocolate color of his turtleneck. Only his eyes look the same. Deadly. Cold. They turn on me. His smile says so much as his gaze taunts me. Mainly, I see I win in that stare. “Son of a bitch,” Dad whispers beside me. Yes. That. Anna's killer gives me and my

family an ersatz salute. My stomach rolls. In that moment, I could kill him myself. I take my place before the judge, Drake's uncomfortably close presence just feet from where I stand. The judge listens to each side, carefully going through my paperwork. Drake has a fancy lawyer who’s sleek and refined, and I suddenly know who dressed and groomed Drake. My attorney is state-appointed, with a rumpled suit and uninterested disposition. Sharp unease uncoils inside me. Judge Jetson finally looks at me. “I'm not sure why Mr. Corbin has not been given some visitation before now.”

I balk but manage to throw out the most important point. “He was in jail at the time of the last hearing, Judge Jetson.” His eyes latch on to my boobs, and I know. A slight curl to the lips. A tilt of the head. Holy crap, the judge is in their pocket. Why didn't it ever occur to me that this could be possible? When Drake couldn't break me, he would grease the right palm. A perfect contingency. The judge flips the top of the folder of my carefully organized paperwork closed and taps a finger on top. His pale-blue eyes meet mine. “Yes, I'm aware of that Ms. Christo. That was unfortunate timing.”

I open my mouth, and he holds up a finger. “The charges against Mr. Corbin were cleared.” Holy crap. “Yes, but—” My palms tingle with dampness. “He has not been in jail or convicted since of any misdeed, is a model citizen who gives to charities, has held down the same job for the last five years, and has petitioned to see his son.” He strikes his gavel with a sharp tap. “Visitation granted.” A wheeze comes from Dad's throat and he rushes Drake, screaming about the injustice of the decision. I agree as they haul Dad out of the courtroom.

I stand there, dazed. Drake is at my elbow in seconds, and I cringe away from him. “Gotcha.” His breath is still foul, and a memory trigger kicks in, shooting adrenaline through my veins like lit gasoline. He walks out of the courtroom, but nearly stumbles into a figure sitting as still as a statue in the back. Noose. Or I think it’s Noose. Hard to know for certain when he's wearing a mask.

9 Noose Rose looks fragile. Beaten. Leaning back, I toss my arms over the back of the bench. I know the judge. He's dirty. There was nothing I could do to avoid that. He'd been bought and paid for a long time before I ever even knew Rose existed. I'm hot as fuck in the back row, heating vent up my ass blowing hot air underneath the bench doesn't help. I'd slid into the last bench seat right after the preceding began. I listened to Diablo say how he just wanted to see his boy, that it was tragic that Anna Christo was no longer here,

but should Charlie not have the attention of a natural parent since one was still here? God he's good. He'd been coached, of course. The fuck. Groomed to the T. Love the turtleneck. I can't keep the smile from my face when he adjusted the thing like a tie. Probably abrading the fuck out of his neck. Good. My smile vanishes when the verdict goes down. Rose turns, bravely facing the door. They drag her dad away, the Mom wailing and crying in the background. A fucking hot mess. I tense when Diablo gets near Rose, and stand when he says something to her.

I'm trying to hold my temper. Losing my shit in a court of law will get me nothing but behind bars. That won’t help Rose. Diablo won't touch her. Not here. I received some odd looks from the guards, but I haven't done anything wrong, just got their attention. Wannabes. I finger the small rope in my pocket, wanting to wrap a certain neck. The familiar motion calms me. Gives me focus. Knots always do. Diablo strides down the aisle, shaking hands, grinning like a clown. Probably feeling like he's won. He hasn't. Unless winning a death warrant is what he's going for.

Rose sort of glides after him, an empty, shocked look in her eyes. Diablo finally notices me, and his confident stride stutters. He knows who I am. The mask hides nothing. It just keeps my promise to Rose not to show my face. It's a mask of the devil. A play on his road name. Because Diablo means devil. And if I have anything to do about it, he's going straight to hell. * Rose watches our standoff. I see her in my periphery, eyes swinging between us.

Finally, she scoots past, going for the door. Diablo steps into my airspace, and I itch to rope him and pull it tight, cinching that knot until it meets the other in perfect symmetry. Tough to deny the perfection of the fantasy. I breathe through the sensation. The urge is so strong, I smell the rope and feel the burn of the twine beneath my bare fingers. “The bitch is mine,” Diablo murmurs so softly, no one but me can hear. He won't take me like this. If Diablo thinks I'll lose my shit here, he doesn't know who he's up against. I smile, my cheeks pushing the mask

up. Guards shuffling restlessly around us. Saying nothing, I turn and leave the courtroom, after Rose. * When my feet clear the last marble step, I jog to her side, grabbing her arm. I spin Rose around. Her cheeks are wet with tears. She’s bit her lip practically in half to keep from sobbing openly. A dot of blood sits like a red gem on her full bottom lip. I jerk off the mask and drop it at the ground, gathering her into my arms. “It's okay, babe. I'm here.” “You weren't—” She sucks in a sob

and chokes. “Supposed to show your face.” “Didn't.” My face feels like it's splitting from the grin. She pulls away, laughing despite herself, then her expression crumples as fast as the laughter came on. “He's won. Drake can see Charlie.” Her voice is a bare thread of sound that tugs me in places I didn't know I had. Standing water makes her eyes bright. Her dark eyes sparkle with grief. I can't tell her. It's against club policy. “We'll get through this, Rose.” Really, the solution is so simple, I shouldn't have to talk about it. Diablo will die, then there won't be any visitation.

Rose won't be an accessory to murder in case things get saucy. My skill with knots won't go unnoticed by the cops if his body is found. Might have to get creative with corpse hide-and-seek. Rose has assumed this entire time that it’s been about the kid—Diablo's vendetta with Rose has been about getting his property back. I think he's become obsessed with Rose, like he was with her sister. It's getting deeper than just wanting his property. Diablo wants Rose. And he's not getting her. I wrap an arm around her shoulders and suck her into me, guiding her away

from the front steps, out of the open. My eyes dance everywhere at once. Lariat, Snare, and Trainer are parked across the street. My gaze slides to the right. Chaos Riders half a block down. Road Kill makes its way to Chaos. The bikes sit; the men are all in each other's faces. Shit's going down. “Stay here, Rose.” She clutches my sleeve. “Don't, Noose. Don't give him what he wants. He'd love for you to get in trouble and be behind bars.” Get in trouble. I grin, noticing the shiny red mask is still sitting on the ground a ways off. “No worries, Rose. I won't leave you

unprotected. I'm rash as fuck, but my brain works okay.” She slowly nods. But not as though she believes me. I turn and make my way toward Chaos and Road Kill. Seems like I can't have one without the other. * I glance right before I get to the tight circle of posturing men and see Rose huddled beside her mom. Her dad is still MIA. Can't blame the guy. Seeing his daughter's murderer get custody rights to his only grandchild has to blow. I’m not

in a position to offer reassurances. “Don't worry, Mr. Christo. I'm going to assassinate his ass” probably wouldn't bring him any comfort. It would land me in jail. Then who would have Rose's back? Nope. Gotta play it fucking cool when all I ever run is hot. Going completely against my nature. Necessary. I turn back around, confident that Chaos won't steal Rose in broad daylight. One of the Chaos riders has a taped nose. Nice. I'd know one of my knot love taps anywhere. I give him a grin and the bird. He flips me off, swaggering to where I stand, my fists clenched.

“Fucking prick,” he seethes. I just see an image of his cock above Rose's mouth, her wrists bound behind her head. I breathe through my rage, trying for Zen and missing that shit by a mile. Leaning against a streetlamp, I cross my legs at the ankle. “Feeling froggy? Jump on my lily pad, dickwad.” He blinks. Dumb fucker. “I bet you're not so tough without your string, pussy.” My hands are considered lethal weapons. I could go to jail if I give somebody a beat down. Same thing with guns. Or knives. I don't say that shit. Believing it is

more important. Knowledge is confidence. And that's enough. There is no acting when you're a killer. There's only doing. Wring gives me a perceptive glance. Not quite a wink, the gesture says to let the fucker run his yap. Why not? He's already had a taste of my knot—there's more where that came from if he's feeling like going. I always feel like going. Old Broken Nose gets a sense of the potential and doesn't exactly back down, but he stays just out of reach, sneering aggressively. His attitude bores me. Diablo walks slowly to where we're squared off. He points at me. “Consider yourself marked, fucker.”

I uncross my feet, straightening. “Noose.” Wring doesn't have to warn me. I feel myself sliding into that silent space in my brain where I go when I need to kill. I plant my feet wide, keeping my arms loose and ready. “Rose is mine. She's my property. What's hers is mine.” I state it, capturing Charlie in the net of ownership without blinking an eyelash. There's no room for negotiation or opinions. I'm staking my claim. To Rose. To her nephew. They're under my protection. Murmurs break out like a symphony of static. “The fuck?” Diablo jerks his chin back, shaking his head. “That cunt was

always mine. She just didn't know it. She's even sweeter than her sister.” He shoves his finger into his mouth, giving it a suck to the knuckle. He slides it back and forth. “He's trying to juice ya, Noose. Fuck him.” Snare glares at Diablo. Drake's plan to irritate me is working. The problem? He's not bluffing. His finger has been in Rose's pussy—without her permission, while she was tied down and helpless to stop him. I owe him death just for that. I stride toward him, and he meets me halfway. Loud arguing voices around us melt away until it's just the man in front of me. His mud-colored eyes gaze

into mine with flat malice. “I didn't have to rape Rose to fuck her.” Nuts and bolts, fucker. Choke on that. Diablo's eyes widen. I watch him struggle to control his temper. I won't brag about Rose like a conquest. She isn't something to be won. Rose is the woman I love. And this fucker will not threaten her again. With harm. With rape. With the slow disembowelment of her family. He's been put on notice. If he goes after Rose now, he's coming after another man's property—a man who's already had her and knows forever wouldn't be long enough. Diablo gets over the top of his rage

like a marathon runner conquering his last hill. His eyes move behind my shoulder. I know he's sighting in on Rose. I watch his will build in front of me piece by piece. Not touching Diablo while he stares his intent at Rose is one of the hardest things I've ever done. Not killing him on the spot takes the lead. * Without another word, Diablo turns on his heel and leaves. Chaos follows at his back. Thrumming unspent energy has its

fucking way with me. My need to eviscerate that fucker is so strong, my vision actually narrows at the edges. Dead gray light swims at its periphery. “Noose.” Snare's voice is at my elbow. I turn like I'm in slo-mo. “Yeah.” “Let's get the fuck outta here. Regroup.” I nod. But first, I move over to where Rose and her mom are. Their eyes are big. Her mom's stare condemns me. “Who is this man, Rose?” Her nose wrinkles. No “hi, how ya doinʼ”? It's automatic dislike. On the surface, I

probably look a helluva lot like Diablo to her. Not how I wanted the first intros made. “I'm Noose,” I say, holding out my hand. Her eyes wide, Rose's mom looks at my hand like I just offered her a snake. “Mom, this is Sean King.” Rose's mom stares. I drop my hand to my side, flexing my fingers once. Rose sweeps her palm toward her mom, a much older version of Rose. What—were they ninety when they had kids? “Noose, this is my mom, Norah.” “Good to meet you, maʼam.” Again, training. The military didn't just teach me

to be a killer—there were manners tucked in there too. Norah wakes up from a stupor. “Hello… Sean? Or is it Noose?” she asks, giving me cool, polite eyes. I look around, feeling helpless. The guys split once the Chaos Riders took off. I would much rather face them than the probing stare of Norah Christo. “Noose is my road name. I'm with Road Kill MC.” I jerk a thumb toward my bike then slip a finger underneath my cut, showing the patch of Road Kill to its best advantage. “Are you interested in my daughter, Mr. King?” And off come the kid gloves. Fuck,

that was fast. “Yeah.” I don't fuck around with fancy, drawn-out replies. My one-syllable language speaks for me just fine. Rose's stuck-up mom will have to deal. I'm a better protector for her than anyone on the planet. And Rose needs protecting. She dismisses me entirely, turning to face Rose, seeming to gather herself. “If you do this, you have no parents. Do you understand? Your father and I cannot live through another Anna.” Rose swallows, looking from me to Norah. Finally, she nods. “I know, Mom.” Tears roll from her eyes. Ultimatums are fuckers. I think less

of her mom for making one. They stand frozen as they stare at each other. Norah kills Rose slowly with her eyes. I stay where I am. I don't force people. It's not my way. Rose stretches out her hand in my direction like a lifeline. I thread my fingers through hers. I don't even think about it; it’s as automatic as taking my next breath. Her mother's eyes move to our joined hands, and without a word, she walks away. I pull Rose against me as she cries. No woman's ever made me give my trust before. Until now.

I would die for Rose Christo.

10 Rose My parents won't speak to me. I feel abandoned. Drake gets Charlie this weekend for court-ordered visitation. Overnight. Charlie's never spent a night away from me except for at Mom and Dad's. Noose has been great. Like now. I wrap my arms around him. I haven't stopped crying since I found out. I can't fix this. Noose can't fix this. Drake wins. He gets Anna's boy, and I've betrayed her by not keeping him safe. I couldn't even do that.

The bike eats the black ribbon of road. I swear we're going too fast around every curve. The heat and solidness of the bike is negated with the wind that pulls at my vulnerable sides. The smells and flavors of the early autumn air fill my nose with life. I can barely hang on. I don't deserve this. Deserve Noose. Deserve anything. I dropped Charlie off at Mom and Dad's, and they silently took him inside. Neither spoke to me. Their eyes were on Noose sitting languidly on his bike. I left my car at their house and took off with him. I assume we're going to the club, but

we pass the large building tucked into many commercial warehouses just like it. Moving toward downtown Kent, we roll past the organic market and gas stations that've changed hands so much, they're just signs and pumps. At Kent Station, Noose slows. We arrive at a ten story, ultramodern concrete building. I look up. Nondescript. The sign says Top Shelf in cool rolling neon script like ice washed by glacial blue. Noose puts his hand over my cold fingers for a moment then roots around in a bag attached to his handlebars. The chrome emblem HD glows softly in the streetlamps.

Tomorrow is Columbus Day, and I don't have to work. No facing Ned, receiving pity from Naomi, or taking Charlie to school. I've taken my brain, dusted it off, and set it on a shelf inside my mind. I need to feel and shut off that part of me that thinks. Noose said he would help me. He presses a button on a rectangular box, and an underground parking garage door lifts. The low rumble of his bike grows louder as he glides below the ground. LED lights softly glow above our heads as we cruise past cars and bikes. He finds his stall and rolls into the slot.

Noose shuts off the bike and kicks the stand out with his heel. Swinging off, he holds his hand out, and I take off the helmet. I felt claustrophobic the first couple times I wore it. Now I would feel naked without it. I hand Noose the helmet, and he walks to a row of cages with cyclone fencing. Pulling a keyring from his pocket, he flicks out a tiny key then inserts it in a padlock. He walks inside, and I dismount, hopping as I land. I follow him into a walk-in lockertype storage thing. Handmade shelves line the back and sides of the small space. Motorcycle parts, oil, the delicious WD-40 I always smell on him, and a bunch of miscellaneous tools

decorate the shelves. There are also gloves, hoodies, and other outdoor stuff. “Handy.” Noose whips around at the sound of my voice, and suddenly, I'm in his arms and turned in one motion. He presses me up against the back of the cage, and I hit the pegboard full of tools. Noose's hand braces my impact, and tools clatter to the ground like metal rain. “What?” I ask, but his mouth is on mine. Tasting. Teasing. Killing me with his brutal insistence. I want to cry. I want to beat my fists at the unseen enemy of fate for first taking my sister, then my nephew. But Noose is real. He is here.

Where destiny takes, it gives back. He easily lifts me by my ass, and I wrap my legs around his waist. “This okay, Rose? Because I have to… I have to—” He slams his mouth on mine. “Yes,” I manage breathlessly. We haven't even gotten to his condo yet, and all I can think about is his erection pressing into my stomach and his strong hands cradling my ass, widening the cradle of my hips to accept him. “Noose!” I say into his mouth. He yanks the front of my yoga pants down and slides his finger between the folds of my slit in one movement. I sigh in relief.

I need him. I need him like this. Exactly like what he does. He moves his finger back and forth, pinning me against the peg board. A wrench or something grinds into my back, and the pain of the tool mixes with the friction of his finger. It finally drops from his motion of sliding back and forth inside my labia. I'm soaked. He dips the end of his finger inside me, and I yelp. The sensation is so raw, so necessary, that my head falls back and I jerk my hips forward, seeking more. His finger sinks to the knuckle inside me, and we moan together. “You're fucking killing me,” he says. “Uh-huh,” I say, gripping his

shoulders as I plunge up and down on his finger. He adds another, and I still, my hips as far as they'll go. My forehead sways forward, and I bump his. Noose's thighs pin my knees from beneath, holding my body weight, and he goes for it, finger fucking me as I'm spread against the wall. “Please,” I whisper. “On it, babe,” he says, his thumb driving into my clit as his fingers work deep inside. “Come for me, Rose.” I haven't thought about being in public until that moment. But the mere thought of someone catching us as I'm spread and on display has me coming in

great deep pulses around his finger. “Ah!” I scream, and Noose covers my mouth, kissing me as he lets up on the pressure on my clit. I throb around his gently pumping fingers. “Noose,” I breathe, sort of embarrassed now that the heat of the moment is cooling. “Nah, babe, fucking blew up around my hand. I could do that twice a day for the rest of my life, and I'd never get tired of it.” I open my eyes, and his luminescent gaze bores into me. “Really?” I ask in a voice heavy with spent lust. “Better?” he asks. I laugh instead of crying. He sees it.

“No tears, Rose. I just gave you good hand.” I laugh harder then finally manage, “Yes you did, Noose.” His fingers withdraw slowly and with great care. I watch him lick his fingers like a satisfied cat. “Sweet pussy.” My face heats. “Thanks, I guess.” Noose's golden-brown brows lift. “I know what I'm talking about, Rose.” I fold my arms, and he rolls my yoga pants back in place and slowly lowers me to the floor. His size dwarfs me. “You don't always think about what you're saying.” Noose shrugs. “Best pussy I've tasted.”

“Well your cock is the best I've tasted.” Noose cages me against the pegboard with his powerful arms. “Yeah? Sucked a lot of cock?” His eyes are slivers of silver. I let him sweat it for a few seconds. “Rose,” he says, voice dangerously low. He reaches out, picking up a heavy piece of my hair and spinning it around his finger until his hands is caught in it, trapped at my nape. “Well?” His eyes turn molten, and I ask him, “How do you like thinking I've got all kinds of dicks to compare to and I think yours is the best?” He frowns. I laugh.

His frown deepens to a scowl. “Don't.” “Hmmm. Well then, I know you've been with a twat parade. You don't have to mention it.” Noose barks out a laugh. “Twat parade?” I nod. “Yes.” He pulls me into his arms. “Maybe, but there's only one twat I want.” Then he pulls my yoga pants to my ankle and drapes my leg over his shoulder. “Noose—don't. Someone might—” I groan as he sinks to his knees, pushing his finger inside me again and pressing his tongue flat on my clit. “Oh God.” My head falls back against the pegboard.

Noose is relentless, lapping at my pussy with a precision that has me coming in two minutes. He hums low in his throat, lips locked to my clit, and the vibration of his voice brings another wave of light pulsing, sinking into my skin and my soul. I wear Noose's mouth, his finger deep inside me, his voice thrumming through my flesh, and I forget everything but him. The man. The moment.

11 Noose I lean over the railing of the tiny balcony on my tenth-floor unit, staring at the cars and people moving below like toys moved by the hand of an invisible giant. After another drag of my cig, I push rings into the air. I center them, throwing them into the sky, locomotive style. “Noose.” I turn, leaning back against the railing. “Hey, babe.” My eyes run down her body. Not much to see. Rack is covered in one of my T-shirts. Rose is so small, my T-shirt comes to mid-thigh on her. Little long for

my taste. I'd love to see a hint of that sweet pussy. When my gaze works its way back up to her face, she gets that hot look of embarrassment mixed with lust. Love that fucking combo. I mash the cig out in a Road Kill ashtray on a two-seater table that's shoved into the corner of the balcony. “Some view.” Rose peeks from the safety of inside, and I grab her, jerking her out onto the balcony. “Noose!” she shrieks. “I got ya.” I hold her tightly, letting her feet dangle between mine. I kiss her nose. Then I get carried away and start kissing her eyelids, mouth, and jaw. “Fuck, can't get enough.” And I

can't. Every bit of her is good. “Put me back inside,” she says, whacking me on my back. I ignore her, kissing the soft skin between her earlobe and collarbone. Dee-lish. “Please.” I pull away. Her eyes are genuinely frightened. Must have a thing with heights. I walk her back inside and close the glass slider without looking. She backs up, and I prowl after her. “You have that look,” she says warily. I thumb my chest and chuckle. “The one where I tell you with my eyes that we're gonna fuck?” Rose nods quickly. “Yeah,” she says

breathlessly. “That one.” She spins and takes off running. Her bare legs are lightly toned. Gorgeous. Love her spirit. I chase her through the hall then grab her around the waist, lifting her. She squeals, and I smile. Love her. Love everything about her. “You can't want to again!” she shouts. I turn her so fast, she stumbles, and I push her back on my orgy-sized bed. Falling over her, I brace my weight with my elbows and mow the hair back from her face with the flat of my palms, holding her face still. “Oh yeah—I want.” Rose blinks, spreading her legs.

“Thank you, Noose.” “For fucking you, Rose?” I laugh. “No. I'm the one that's fucking thankful.” She smiles that soft smile that makes my guts flop. “No, for helping me through this.” She tilts her head, continuing quietly, “You're so… raw.” Sounds accurate. I just nod. “Why?” she asks softly, running her fingers along my jaw. A sick sense of helplessness runs through me. My boner becomes a noodle between us. “Takes energy to pretend,” I say. “Better to just be me.” “I think that's what I love most about you. You just do you. All the time.” I smile beneath her touch. “Yeah.”

Her wandering finger runs along my bottom lip, and I suck it in. I work up courage, figuring on rejection but taking the chance. “I want you to move in with me, Rose.” Her finger stills. We stare at each other. I watch the answer form in her eyes. I hit the bed by her head, and she gasps. “Noose—I can't.” “Why? I can't fucking protect you where you're living, Rose.” I palm the sides of her head. “I can't live with myself if I can't secure your safety.” Tears run out the corner of her eyes. “Charlie deserves stability, Noose. And now Drake will have him every other

weekend.” Dammit it all to fucking hell. “I am rock-of-fucking-Gibraltar stable, Rose.” She shakes her head. “We don't have to rush things, Noose.” I pull away, rolling over on my back, forearm over my stomach. Damn, damn, damn. “I used to live by my instincts. It was the only component that saved me in Afghanistan.” Dragging my fingers through the top of my hair, I try to delay the inevitable. But I gotta make Rose see. “I'm not fucking rushing. I've been living in slow-motion for fucking ever.” I turn, propping my head up on my elbow, my eyes never leaving hers. “I've

lived my whole life like I was dreaming. And you woke me up, Rose. I've never felt more real.” My chest is like a taut springboard. “I've never been more sure. You tell me we don't need to rush. Hell, I can't wait to start living. Don't ya feel it, Rose?” I touch the silky flesh between her tits, and her breath catches. She closes her eyes. “Yes.” “It's not just me. It's this thing between us. Like we've always been connected. Different, but one piece. You get that, don't you?” She nods, opening her eyes. “I do. I want what you're offering.” My heart thumps an unsteady rhythm. “But?” “Charlie. I have to be his

advocate.” I'm going to kill Diablo. It doesn't cost my soul anything. I'll sleep better once he's gone. But it has to be done just right. “I know you're a package deal, Rose. I have the room for the kid here.” She looks around. “It's—you've got a nice place, Noose.” She bites her lip, casting her eyes away. “Tons of parks and shit right around here. Kick-ass school district.” I wouldn't just move her in and make things worse for her and the kid. Her eyes widen. I nod, swiping a thumb over her cheek, running my skin over the edges of her eyelashes, which sweep closed.

“Yeah, I looked into it.” A hush falls over us, broken only by the purr of the fan. Our hearts beating. Our minds thinking. Rose grabs my hand and peels away each finger to open my palm. She kisses the center of my hand. My guts bottom out. This girl. This girl. “Okay,” she answers, the ghost of a smile hovering over her mouth. “Let's celebrate.” I dip my mouth to hers. Time crawls to a stop. * “Satisfied?” My eyebrow hikes.

Rose nods. “Yes.” A frown forms between her eyes, and I try to erase it with my thumb. She's looking in the third bedroom, where all my weight lifting shit sits. “That just leaves a room for Charlie and one for us.” She nibbles on her lip, and it makes me want to suck her lips into mine, doing my own nibbling. I point out the most amazing part of the room configuration. “The key is, his room will be on the other side of the condo.” She pivots to look at me, rolling her eyes. I laugh, towing her to what could be Charlie's room. She's already said yes, but she needs to see it to believe it.

Rose swings open the bedroom door at the other end of the penthouse suite I own outright. Whoever says crime doesn't pay was a dumb fuck. “Oh!” Rose exclaims, rushing to the window. Lights glitter from the west hill, and her eyes move to the huge park and stadium just a few blocks away. “Lots of Little League and shit happen right here. Walkable from the condo.” I move behind her, wrapping a forearm around her neck. I know when she finds my knot board hanging on the wall in a huge picture frame done in clear Douglas fir. “Oh my God—Noose.” She whips

around, hair scattering over my T-shirt. “Do you? Wow.” I gaze at the knots, each one carefully executed and under glass. The frame glows with a warm amber hue. The knots are glued to blood-red velvet, and the different twines stand out in stark neutrals in all varieties from bright white to a creamy tan. Some have stripes. All are deadly. “Can you do all these?” Rose doesn't see me nod; her back is to me. “Yeah.” She turns, eyeing me up. “There's like fifty knots there.” I nod. A nervous laugh bursts from her

lips. “Can you do more?” Her voice holds awe. I shift my weight, looking away. “Yeah.” “How much more?” My gaze moves back to her. “Enough.” “Okay. So much secrecy.” “Necessary,” I say, wrapping my arms around her and kissing the top of her head. I inhale Rose's smell and close my eyes. I could just hold her with me forever, just like this. “What about your parents?” “Yeah. My parents. They won't relent, Noose, as long as we're together. They'll make a place for Charlie in their

lives, but they can't afford to love me if they think they're going to lose me.” “We could tie the knot,” I say, surprising myself. Rose turns slowly. “You don't mean that.” I inhale deeply then let it out slow. “I don't say shit I don't mean.” Rose skewers me with her silence. When she speaks, I like that even less. “We're moving too fast. You can't marry me for my parents’ acceptance, Noose.” I would do a lot to chase the pain from her eyes. “I don't even get points for my pun?” A sad smile comes and goes. “First, you want me to move in with you, then

you talk about getting married like those choices are solutions to problems instead of what you really want to do.” “Bottom line, it's the same difference.” Why can't women see that when a man loves them, part of that love is to solve problems they can't? “Not to me.” Rose backs up. “I want this.” She waves a hand around, encompassing the condo. “But I only want what you really want.” I feel Rose slipping through my hands, and it makes me fucking crazy. I step into her space. “Don't, Rose. Don't do this. Don't shut me out.” “It's over, Noose. Drake's got Charlie. He's won. His threats didn't work, but that club? The motorcycle

gang he belongs to? They figured out the money so my nephew will be his, even if it's not in his best interests. They don't care about Charlie as a human being. He's just a pawn of ownership.” That's a no-shitter. But what Rose says strikes me the wrong way. “Let's get something crystal clear here, Rose.” She steps back, creating space. Uh-uh. I back her up into the wall, her head inches away from my TVscreen-sized knot board. “Road Kill is not a gang. Hell— gangs are the douches we're trying to keep out of our territory.” “Are you saying you do nothing illegal?” I shake my head, my eyes

narrowing. “You know we do.” “Okay.” She flips her palm over. “So explain the difference. Because Chaos Riders helped hide Drake's crime against my sister. They hid his deed.” A tear jumps out of her eye, making a path for another to follow in its wake. “Rose, I'm sorry about Anna.” It's the first time I've said her name, and Rose's bottom lip quivers as the name drops from my lips. “No two clubs are alike. This is MC 101, so pay attention, babe.” Her chin lifts, and a defiant tilt sits on her mouth. Good, I need her to be pissed instead of sad. A sad Rose shreds me. “Chaos and Road Kill go back a

long ways. The two Prezs used to be like this.” I cross my index and middle finger tight. “They had a difference of opinion, and now there's two clubs. Chaos does shit we won't.” “Like running girls.” I jerk my head back. “Yeah.” “Drake ran his mouth in front of me, when—” She looks at her feet. “Hey, there's no shame in what he did to your body, Rose. You weren't in control. Fuck, some chick that I hated could blow me, but eventually, if she was talented enough, I'd get hard. It's biology, babe. It's still unwanted.” “Yeah, well, I still feel like I've been violated.” My voice goes deep—low—my

anger fucking the timbre six ways to Sunday. “Because you were.” I wanna kill that fucker Diablo so bad, I can feel his neck underneath my hands. Underneath my rope. Rose studies my expression before I can lock it down. She touches my shoulders, so loaded with tension they're like boulders beneath her touch. “Don't do anything rash, Noose.” Rash? I give a hard laugh. Too fucking late by far. But I don't tell Rose. She needs convincing that I want her for the right reasons. Telling her Diablo's days are numbered won't advance me. Killing him will. And it'll feel fucking great.

12 Rose “When does that man pick up Sir Charles?” Dad asks stiffly. I sigh. “In a couple of hours.” Awkward silence fills the space between us like an unbearable weight. “Your mother told me about this Noose.” My eyes rise to meet Dad's. I don't tell him Noose wants to marry me. I don't want to tie myself to someone who feels responsible for me. Who's deep in lust. I know that I love Noose. God—do I. But Charlie and I want a man who wants us for his own sake.

And how can it work? Drake swings by the condo, and Noose has to be reminded each time what Drake did to me? What he did to my sister? Then Drake takes my nephew, and Noose watches me dissolve into tears? Not going to work. “He's my boyfriend.” I'm proud I can keep my voice steady. “Rosie—” I hold up my hand. “They're not the same.” “Norah says they're both part of this motorcycle gang.” I can't lie to Dad. I won't. “That part's true. Noose is in a motorcycle club. So is… Drake. But the two clubs are separate, different from each other.”

“It looks the same from where I stand.” I hang my head. Nothing's simple anymore. “It's hard for me too, Daddy. Drake is taking Charlie.” When his eyes meet mine, tears stand in his. Mine drip down my face. “Oh, Rose.” Dad pulls me into his arms. “I'm sorry about what Mom said. She just reacted without thinking. We'll work through this.” As long as Drake has my boy, we won't work through anything. * Noose Wring and Lariat say nothing,

cupping their chins like mirror images of each other. “Marriage? Jee-sus—Noose? Are ya crazy?” Snare pounds his fist on the table. I keep staring at my calloused hands. Yup, certifiable. “One week, pal—one week. That's how long you've known Rose.” His scar ripples as he pulls an exasperated face. I shrug. “I know. Don't you think I know how crazy I am?” “When you decide something, you do go hard,” Wring comments dryly. Trainer keeps his mouth shut, as do the rest of the men gathered for church. Vince taps his fingers on the table.

“Okay. Diablo's been put on notice that he's fucking with someone's property, and now you're talking about marrying this girl? Pfft.” His casual grunt echoes in the silent room. “I can't be without her.” “Fucking move her in. Make her permanent tail!” Snare gripes, folding his arms. “What? Did she cut off your nuts?” Feels like it. “Already asked her.” Lariat leans forward. “Well? Suspense is driving me insane. Tell us.” “She said okay.” Snare slaps the table. “Okay then.” He gives a mock-wipe of his brow. “Why'd we need a meeting for Noose to tell us he's got permanent snatch moving

in?” I swing my face in Snare's direction. “Rose is not snatch.” His eyebrow rises, tweaking the scar, but he says nothing. My eyes run over the brothers. “I want Diablo out of the picture.” “Like sanctioned?” Wring asks in his steady way. “Yeah.” “Just off the motherfucker?” Snare asks. “Oh, that's not gonna be obvious. No. Uh-uh.” He shakes his head then narrows his eyes at me. “I can't let him have the kid. It hurts Rose.” And it's fucking unjust as hell. “So you need us to devise a score to settle.” Prez cuts to the chase.

I nod. Lariat whistles through his teeth. “You do him with rope, and every swinging dick in blue from here to bumfucked Egypt will know it's you.” “Yeah.” “Can you stand if someone else does him, Noose?” Wring asks quietly. He gets me. I hate to delegate, but getting him dead is more important than my vengeance, no matter how sweet. “I can stand it.” Prez strikes the gavel. “Done.” His penetrating gaze holds mine. “When do you want to move on this?” “Saturday.” It's a date.

* Rose I take one step in front of the other. Noose returned me to my parentsʼ, safe and sound. Charlie and I spent a few more precious days alone, pretending that Drake hadn't stolen him from me. Now it's time to say goodbye. Noose is coming over later tonight, by my request. I can't have him here when Drake comes. He might kill him. I stand behind Charlie, palms pressed flat against his chest as Drake pulls up in a car I've never seen. It's some souped-up vintage thing with a

loud engine. Figures. He hops out, a spring in his step, and saunters up the driveway. The day is bright, conjuring a false sense of wellbeing and beauty that doesn't agree with the evil that walks toward me. “Hello, Rose.” I don't say anything back. He sinks to his haunches, leather creaking with the movement. “Hi little guy.” Charlie crosses his arms. “It's Sir Charles.” “What the fuck is that?” Drake looks at me. “That's a bad word,” Charlie announces immediately. “Yup!” Drake says, jumping to a

standing position. He doesn't have Noose's size, but he's a lot bigger than I am. My palms dampen against Charlie's shirt. My body remembers everything. Drake enjoys looming over me. He can loom all he wants. My focus is on Charlie. I figure he won't molest me right here in the driveway in front of the neighbors and his “property.” I suck back my emotions, wanting Noose's solid presence so badly, I can barely breathe. I try not to panic. Supposedly, the prospect guy is still watching me. “You know, Rose?” Drake begins in a speculative drawl. I give him no expression as my

reply. “You're welcome to tag along. See all the great things we've got planned for Charlie.” “Really?” Charlie jumps up and down excitedly. “Wanna come, Aunt Rose?” No. Yes. What is Drake up to? Again, I don't think he'll do anything. He's already beaten me. Taking Charlie was the last thing. Charlie grabs my hand, pleading, “Please, Aunt Rose.” His dark-brown eyes gaze up at me. The breeze lifts his nearly platinum hair. He'd believed my explanation of Drake: that he was a friend of Anna's. This deception is the most terrible

thing I've ever done. “Okay,” I agree, breathing through my fear of being so close to Drake. “Follow me,” Drake says with a wink. I do, my heart sinking. Supervising Charlie, making sure he's okay, is the right thing. But it feels wrong. Noose would be so angry if he knew. I turn off my cell. * Noose “What the fuck!?” I bellow into the phone, and the plastic frame creaks

under my grip. I hear a clatter on the other end of the line. Trainer picks it up. “You just made me deaf.” “Ask me if I care,” I seethe between my teeth. Silence. “Tell me again in actual motherfucking words what the fuck is going on. Diablo came to get the kid; I got that. Then—what—Rose just trots after him? No.” Wring silently watches our interchange, along with the rest of Road Kill. We're armed to the gills. Every weapon anyone has proficiency with comes with us.

I'm hoping like hell I can go in there and legitimately do Diablo. He's fucked with my property. Whether Rose knows I'm here to stay is not up for debate. I am. Period. Waste him, and the threat stops. But the kill has to be legit, or Chaos and Road Kill go to war. Over one woman. Having bad blood isn't enough of a reason. But females will make men war. Haven't they always? But now Rose has gone into the fucking nest of Chaos snakes. Why? Why would Rose go with Diablo, a murderer and rapist, and put herself in harm's way? The only fucking thing that makes

sense is Diablo forced her. “I don't know, Noose,” Trainer says, trying to keep calm. To keep me calm. Forget that. “She just walked after him.” “Got two citizens there, Noose. Does that change things?” Vince's eyes are hard but tired. Tired of war. Just tired. I set my teeth. “Nope.” “Good,” Wring says. “But know this —they've already hurt her once, and now the kid's there, plus your old lady. Whether she knows she's property or not, you've claimed her. Chaos is fucking aware. This is a direct challenge.” Murmurs of agreement zing around the parking lot.

“We get Rose out of there—safe.” My eyes meet each of theirs. “Then we finish what Diablo started.” Our intel is fresh. Different location but just as remote. I'm getting Rose and Charlie back. The rope in my pocket has the devil's name on it.

13 Rose We must have driven just about the same distance as that fateful day that Noose and I went to the cabin and… better not to think about that. It'll just make me ache worse for him. Drake parks, and the roar of the engine abruptly cuts off. I jerk the handle and swing the heavy door wide. Charlie scoots out behind me, screaming an excited, “Yay!” A huge play yard, newly erected, stands at the knoll of a gently sloping hill. Trees scatter the rich scent of pine, their branches hanging like green arms encircling the large wooden jungle gym.

“Nice,” I whisper. I could never provide something like that for Charlie. I survey the area. A huge log home, flanked by more copses of trees, looks like a large whiskey colored jewel of intersecting logs. Woodland shrubs anchor the foundation along the entire perimeter. A wide inviting porch is dotted with Adirondack chairs along the length. Hope flares. Maybe Charlie will be okay. I glance at Drake. He's been watching me take it all in. “Let's go inside. Someone to see you in there.” Drake takes my elbow. I yank it out of his grasp. “Don't

touch me,” I hiss. He just smiles, walking as though I'll follow him. What choice do I have? Charlie is blissfully playing on the swings, slide, and other brightly colored handholds on the little mountain climbing apparatus. With a sigh, I trudge after Drake, climbing the broad, split log steps in the center of the porch. He moves to the huge entrance door, assembled with hand-forged hammered copper fasteners. Drake depresses the thumb latch and pushes the door wide. His body blocks whatever's inside. Whoever. I walk in behind him, and he moves around my body to close the door behind

me. Charlie's delighted screams permeate the inside of the house as he plays with the abandon only kids have. But I'm frozen in place. Like ice. Like death. I can't breathe. Move. Ned, my boss from work, is seated in a huge log chair like a throne, his light-blond hair a halo around his head. A gun is pointed nice and steady at my chest. “Hello, Rose.” * Air roars into my lungs, and saliva dries in my mouth as I choke on my spit. “What?” I whirl, facing Drake. He spreads his hands out at his side.

I turn back to Ned, feeling lightheaded. I've had protein. My sugars are great—I made sure of it. That's not the issue. I'm scared out of my mind. “Why are you here, Ned?” I can't wrap my head around why he would be in this place, holding a gun on me. “You won't be missed, Rose. Now that you're involved with Noose from Road Kill.” He shrugs. My heart pounds, my mind circling a terrible epiphany. Deep down, I understand that when I have answers, I'll also have death. Keep him talking, Rose. My fear lodges in my throat, and I push my words through it. “What does my boyfriend or

whatever this is”—my eyes flick to the dark barrel of metal pointed at me —“have to do with anything?” Drake walks casually toward where Ned sits. He turns, placing a familiar hand on the ornately carved pine back of the chair Ned sits on. Ned lowers his hand, resting the butt of the pistol on his knee. I lick my lips and jump as a squeal of happiness pierces the air. Ned stares indulgently at the window for a second, then his eyes move back to me. Cold. Hard. This can't be because I've rejected him? A married guy, my boss? “Charlie is mine.” His voice is flat. I fall to my knees, hand to my heart.

Lights dance across my vision like lost fireflies. “No.” “Yes, Rose. Drake messed it up, killed the tramp by accident.” That flat pisses me off. “Anna was no tramp.” He shakes his head. “Not at first. But when promised enough, she became one. She was my little sex slave. Willing. Anything to get away from Drake. Of course”—Ned shrugs —“Drake didn't know about our dalliance. Believed Charlie was his.” “Did you ever wonder why I'd beat Anna to death?” Drake asks me. I'd spent hours wondering why that son of a bitch had beaten the mother of his child.

I distance myself from fear, selfloathing, and the slew of other emotions that bombard me. “Why?” “Ned came to me. Told me he had a little problem I'd love to solve.” Ned smiles, tilting his gun in an aw shucks gesture. My breath scalds me as I force it in and out of my lungs, my heart beating like a wild beast banging its way out of my ribs. “You—what? Promised Anna a way out from the MC, from Chaos and Drake? Then when things got complicated, you had Drake kill her?” I yell, standing. “It's simpler than that, Rose. I simply came to Drake and showed him

proof of the child's DNA. Told him she'd begged me to bang her. Wanted to fuck another man. And that kid wasn't his—he was mine. Nature took its course from there.” Blackness eats at the edges of my vision as I stare at Drake. “And you didn't find out what anything was? You just—killed her?” I choke, tears coming out of my eyes so fast they blind me. “Nobody wants a bitch that fucks around on them.” Drake shrugs. “It was slower than I thought it'd be. Killing Anna. She fought back.” He adjusts his dick as I sob. “It was fun.” Drake's eyes glitter at me. “What do you want with Charlie? You're married. You—” I can't finish

because I'm blubbering. “Not married. Never been married. Will never be married. It's a front.” I see Charlie in his smile and the light color of his hair, and I still want Ned dead so badly my teeth ache with it. “Why Anna?” “I'm the flesh mover, Rose.” He stands, terribly tall from my vantage point. Like a king on a dais. I retreat a step. “Flesh mover?” My voice is hollow, my hands like chilled ice. “We sell women, you naive cunt.” Ned flashes a smile like a mouth full of shark's teeth. I don't realize I've backed up until my butt hits the door handle and a yip

escapes me. “I try everyone. Anna didn't want me to taste her. But I convinced her that if she kept fucking me, I'd get her away from Drake.” He smooths down his tie— a tie I've seen at the bank a hundred times. “And I'm a man of my word.” He steps closer, and I flatten myself against the door. “Having Drake kill Anna is not getting her away.” He tilts his head, seeming to consider my statement. “It is, of a sort.” Ned steps nearer, the gun loose at his side. I study his expression. He'll use it. “So the current dilemma is you work at the bank where I launder money.

Chaos Riders don't want to lose my unique skillset with money and moving flesh. Road Kill is not aware I'm working both sides of the coin. But you —you're tied too closely to a murder. You have my blood under your roof.” “Anna's blood,” I whisper. The barrel swings around, and I whimper, turning my head away. “Whatever.” His eyes find mine. “But in the spirit of fairness, I think we can keep you alive. First, Drake gets you as a consolation prize. Anna's gone, and he likes the idea of fucking you. When he grows tired, we'll sell you to a country where you can be lost. You're no virgin.” His eyebrows rise as though it's a question, and I look away.

He laughs, a loud braying sound that echoes in the confines of the all-wood house. Ned goes on. “If you don't cooperate with Drake's wishes—” Drake grunts while my eyes are shut “—he'll kill you too. After he's had his fill, of course.” I open my eyes, murdering him with my gaze. He doesn't flinch, as though he expects nothing less. “I know what you'd like to do to me, Rose. It's been fun working with you. Now it's time for you to submit. So you can live.” “What about Charlie?” Ned chuckles. “Look around, stupid girl. This is what Charlie has.” He does a slow spin, enjoying showing off his

opulent surroundings. “Is this from all the women you sold?” My voice takes chunks out of his self-love. He nods, unfazed. “And other endeavors.” Ned seems to suddenly become bored with my presence. Maybe he knows I'm stalling. His gaze shifts to Drake. “Take Rose downstairs. Entertain her.” Ned’s eyes glow like a demon’s as Drake takes my arm. Silent tears course down my face. I won't see Charlie. I'll never see Noose. Life becomes so transparent in that moment. Every decision so easy. Of course I would have been with Noose. But now I'll never know.

14 Noose I finger my rope like a talisman. That's just how tied I feel to my weapon. No pun intended. We move through the woods, leaving the potential for buffoonery to some of the brothers who like to ride in like the cavalry. They can step into the caboose of the train that we three will ride. The stealth is me, Wring, and Lariat. Snare's a good brother, but he’s too noisy for my plan. I don't wear my cut, boots, or anything bulky. Clothes tight to the body can't be pulled or used in close quarters.

I might have to use my fists. I know I'll use my rope. The three of us go in—against an unknown number. Sounds like the sandbox to me. Wring drills me with his eyes. Lariat’s on point. He nods. Ready. We move forward like a well-oiled machine. A shrill scream reaches my ears. My heart stops. Young, pre-pubescent. No fear—playing. The tension in my shoulders relents. Wring rolls his eyes, making the hand signal for forward. I tap my chest. He waits. My eyes move through the dense

tree cover and spot Charlie immediately. A wave of relief rolls through me. I spot two guards flanking a kickass log house. Charlie seems safe. Lariat and I exchange a glance, and he indicates he'll stay here, keeping Charlie in sight. I nod. Wring and I use the trees like a corridor to the log house. The guards never see us coming. Just how we like it. * “Not long till they know we've silenced their guys.” “Yeah,” I say in a low voice.

We inch closer to the bay window. I take in a fucking breathtaking interior. Flesh trafficking must be doing well. Intel says this is like an elaborate holding tank for moving women. Beauty sometimes hides rot. When I catch sight of Rose, my breath stops. She's crying. Some fuck with his back to me stands in front of her; Drake to his right. She backs up, and Drake follows. Motherfucker. I don't realize I've moved until Wring's hand is on my arm. “Hang tight, Romeo.” I spare him a glare. “Surprise is our number-one advantage,” he reminds. He's right, the fucker.

My lips thin. Watching mouths move and Rose's anguish from a distance without knowing what's being said is fucking with me. Bad. Drake grabs her arm, and I tense as he drags her away. Wring jerks his chin in the direction they're headed. I follow his gaze. Basement. We move. * Rose Snot is running from my nose, and I trip as Drake drags me down the steps. He laughs, jerking me up. I stumble,

righting myself against his chest and yelping, trying to jerk away from touching him. Noose. My eyes widen, taking in his form like seeing a mirage in a desert. My hope, disbelief, and love coalesce like living fire, and I breathe in his presence like tasteable heat. Then Noose is moving, catlike, as his right arm snaps out. The bulbous knot whips in the air, and his left catches the other side. He jerks the rope back like he’s moving through water, and the twine captures Drake's throat. Drake had been turned toward me, reveling in my klutzy descent as well as my naked fear and despair in knowing

what awaits me in a dungeon used to hold women. I grasp a wooden railing, seeing another man join Noose. Tall, hard and muscled with nearly colorless hair shaved close to his scalp, he scours the room with indifferent, piercing bright blue eyes. They land on me. I open my mouth to scream as Drake makes inarticulate sounds, clawing at his neck, trying for Noose behind him. “Shhh, Rose,” the other man says, and I snap my mouth shut as he steps forward. The muscles of Noose's forearms striate like banded twine as he works the rope deeper. I watch the scene play out

like I'm under hypnosis. White dots fill my vision, and I sway. Not happening. Not. Happening. Strong arms grab me, forcing me to sit. A gentle hand pushes my head between my knees. “Breathe, Rose.” I suck stale oxygen into my lungs then blow it out. A dangling knot appears at my feet. Full of blood. I cough. Gorge rises. I swallow my fear. “Let me take her.” The other man's hands leave my back. “Rose,” Noose says softly. The knot drops, a smear of blood like a comma marks the concrete floor. “Babe, it's okay. I've got ya.”

Vague noises startle me awake. A gunshot sounds as though from a great distance. I meet his eyes. Pale gray, hard like flint, they’re tender like a dove's wings. “Noose,” I sob, and he pulls me into his arms. “It's Ned!” He pulls away, searching my eyes. “I got ya. What?” “You've made some real problems for me, Rose.” Noose tenses. Our gazes slide to the top of the stairs. “My house is filled with Road Kill. Not enough Chaos in the world to wipe that stain from here. But I can do you.” Noose is silent. Ned shows his other hand, whipping

Charlie around his body, holding Charlie by his neck. Dirty tears streak his face. A moan eases out of me. “Let the boy go.” Noose's voice is terribly vacant. I hear Ned's death in it. “I'm leaving, with the brat. You follow me, I'll kill him.” “He's yours!” I cry, forcing him to see reason. He raises the gun to my face, and I turn into Noose's shoulder, hating that Charlie will see me murdered. Murdered like Anna. Charlie's shrill cry pierces the air. * Noose

I feel Wring like a wingman at my side. Fucking Ned. Should have trusted my gut when it was crawling with unease. He points the gun at Rose, and my balls crawl. Charlie screams just as the blade sinks home. A skull shot is one of the hardest to execute. Wring does fine. I shove Rose out of the way and leap for the kid. Ned's face is a mask of comical surprise, then he begins to convulse. A blade will scramble the brain on impact. He begins to topple, reactively

clutching Charlie tighter. The boy squirms, but Ned's body is already spasming. I throw myself up the landing, ribs taking a lot of the bruising impact, and capture Charlie as Ned tumbles like a bowling pin down the stairs. The kid wraps his arms around my neck and hangs on for dear life. Wring jumps, pressing Rose against the rough stone wall as Ned falls on top of Diablo's corpse. Couldn't have planned it better myself. My eyes meet Rose's. The gratefulness in her gaze, I expect. The love is even better.

Epilogue Noose Eight months later “I don't want to say it, but you actually look handsome, brother.” Snare snickers like a girl. Fucktard. “Uh-huh.” I give him the middle-finger salute and adjust the bow tie. Again. Ever notice some Poindexter who's got a perfectly aligned bow tie? Well, that's a piece of bullshittery off the old crap cake. “You look good enough to kiss,” Wring adds like the ass that he is. “Don't you douches have something better to do?”

Lariat shakes his head, appearing to think it through. After a few second he says, “Nope. Sitting here flipping you shit is an excellent hobby, brother.” Jes-us. “Fine.” I grit through my teeth. “If you can't be helpful…” “Ooh, helpful.” Snare flutters his eyelashes. A soft knock at the door has us turning. Vince opens it, putting his nose through. “Showtime, gents.” I feel a shot glass worth of better that Prez is trussed up like a turkey too. Perfect. My tux feels like it's harboring a grudge against my nuts, and I've never tied a noose that felt like the bow tie at my neck. But it's all worth it when I see Rose.

She's all creamy goodness, wrapped in a long dress with little jewels all over her awesome tits. I'm sort of grumpy that she didn't let me see her before the wedding, but now I know why. She's a breathing, walking, talking wet dream. One I hope to never wake from. Her honey hair cascades down her back in soft curls. Her dark eyes are on me. And it’s just a feeling, but I think Rose would kill me if I popped a boner while I walk down the aisle. Hard not to, given how sexy she looks, knowing that she's mine. Vince tries covertly to adjust his bow tie, and I suppress a smile, moving

toward my soon-to-be bride. It hasn't been the fairy tale girls dream up. It's been eight months of hell. But there's a cherry on top of our dessert. Charlie is hers—officially. Funny thing? Drake never showed up for his next court-appointed hearing. Imagine that. And Judge Jetson just up and resigned his position one day. Said justice wasn't his thing. Not anymore. Getting to know Rose's parents was an uphill climb. Didn't hurt that the kid loved me. Hell, I think I might love two people now. Rose made it clear she was a package deal. Charlie still has nightmares about

the “bad men.” We encouraged him to tell his grandparents. Their eyes were big when they understood what went down. Whatever wasn't clear, I filled in for them. They liked me better after that. Hard not to feel grateful for the man who saved your other daughter from the first daughter's murderer. Rose holds out her hand, and I take it. I lean next to her temple. The soft murmurs of the crowd swirl around us like expectant white noise. “I don't know if you should be wearing white, the things I've done to you.” My lips sweep her temple and the barest hint of my tongue touches her

warm skin. Her face turns beet red, but she whispers, “Technically, it's cream.” I raise her hand to my lips, tilting my face against the top of her hand and rubbing it like a satisfied cat, my eyes locked on hers. The priestly dude waits. Then he marries us. My Road Kill brothers don't cry, but it's like rain in the air. I can smell it before it comes. * Rose Noose lays his head against my swollen belly.

“That's a roller!” he yells. Then he quickly covers the baby's elbow, leg, or whatever body part shifts underneath my naked skin. “I can touch him,” he says, voice filled with wonder. I nod. It's a miracle. I know I became pregnant that first time we made love. “You made an honest woman out of me, Noose,” I say, loving him for marrying me. Just loving him. He shakes his head. His dark-blond hair slithers over my body, and the sensation causes a long sigh to slide out of me. “You were always honest, Rose.” Our eyes lock while heat swirls between us like fragrant steam. “Am I

too far along for what I think you want?” “And you don't want it?” I laugh. “Arrogant bastard.” I smack him, and he grabs my hand, adds it to my other, and presses my wrists behind me. “Your parents have Sir Charles…” His eyebrows give a suggestive tilt. I laugh harder. “You can't get away with calling him that. It's only Dad who's allowed.” “Hmmm.” He gently scoops me up and turns me over. I automatically position myself on my hands and knees as his hand runs from my nape to my bare butt. My pussy grows wet. “You're so hot, all pregnant and shit. With my kid in there.” His breath is

warm on my back. His finger presses deep, and I move my hips back against him. Noose kisses each bone along my spine then lays his face on the small of my back. The stubble along his jaw is erotic abrasion, and I shift, loving the coarseness as his fingers move inside me. “Love you, Rose. Glad you saw reason and we tied the knot.” I hear the smile in his voice, right before he slowly and expertly pushes inside my wetness. “Noose,” I whisper as he rides me gently. “Don't want to hurt the munchkin.” His voice is tight. His prick is a hard long weight inside my body. I clench my

muscles around him, and he picks up speed, not pounding but using deep strokes to stretch me. Delicious weight builds, and his finger moves to my clit. “That's it, baby, come for me.” Sure strokes and an expert finger have me yelling my orgasm, spasming around his length. Noose thrusts a final time, checking himself at the last moment as deep throbbing jets fill me and we come together, this man who sheltered me from the storm of my life and brought me a new one. We're safe, Charlie and me, safe from the evil that almost ruined us. Noose made sure of it. He finally withdraws, and his

fingers trail down my side. With an arm, he guides me into the shadow of his body, and we lie together. Not speaking, just being. Noose's hand finishes its journey, and like he can't help it, he splays his fingers over my distended belly. Then both his hands mound my breasts. He kisses first one, then the other. “This is the best part about you being pregnant, babe.” “Please!” I say, mock punching him. “I thought you said it was that I couldn't get pregnant? Or how about this one—” Noose puts a finger over my mouth. “I just love you. Love your tits, love my kid in your belly, love that you're mine. Think it's hot as fuck that you're knocked

up with my kid.” He smile is gentle. Noose is more tender than when I found him. But still fierce. It's on his face—his desire to protect me. Protect his unborn child. To protect Charlie. “I was so scared,” I confess, momentarily shattering the peaceful moment. Noose doesn't get angry that easily, but his brows come together in irritation. “We got off. That's what's important.” “The police held you. What if they get charges to stick eventually?” He kisses my hand in reassurance— his new favorite thing—right above the ring he gave me. Noose sometimes

stares at the sparkler when he thinks I don't notice. I notice. The perfect princess diamond glitters from a nest of smaller, channelset ones. A simple narrow platinum band makes up the wedding band. “We lawyered up, babe. Chaos Riders? We did them a favor. Diablo had gone rogue, they wanted to squash his ass, and Ned was extorting money from their scam—working both clubs.” “Now they can't run girls. Who do you think they'll blame?” I give him a significant look. Noose shrugs. “Don't sweat it. They still have guns, drugs, and other bullshit to push. Some good came out of it. At

least that door's been closed. Thank Christ.” I shiver. All those girls, lost forever. And after Drake got done with me, I would have been one of them. Not married to Noose with a baby on the way. No, I would have been just another girl sold into slavery. I shut my eyes, burying my face against Noose's strong body. I'm on maternity leave from the bank. Ned's replacement really is married with a family. Not some trafficking psycho. Noose wants me to stay home. We'll see. Right now, Charlie is settled in the condo, and the house bought with Anna's insurance money is

on the market. Not secure enough, Noose said about our old house. I like starting fresh. “What are ya thinkinʼ about, babe?” Noose runs his tongue down my neck, and I shiver. “How much I love you.” “Good,” he says, sitting up on his elbow. “Stop worrying about that shit, Rose. The boogeyman's dead. You got Charlie.” He pops his thumb on the flat planes of his heavily muscled chest then lays his hand gently on my stomach. I smirk. “You're just looking for an excuse to touch my belly again.” Noose smiles. “Always.” He gathers me close. I don't know what the future holds. Only that Noose is

a part of it. And that's enough.

THE END Read More A standalone Road Kill MC novel

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THORN A Token Series Novel Volume 7 New York Times Bestselling author

MARATA EROS All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2014 Marata Eros This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold

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Synopsis Can true love fix Thorn? Or does being broken feel too good to give up? Thorn is set to open new flesh clubs for billionaire Jared "Mick" McKenna. Before he can leave, pieces of his past are revealed, causing a shift he's unprepared for. When Kiki asks Thorn to watch over the exotic Simone Balland, he agrees. An odyssey begins which forces Thorn to face the mystery of a past with abuse, survival and dark secrets only he can unlock. Thorn discovers just how dangerous his choices have become, as Simone and him transcend the demons of before. Can they live as they were meant to? Or will some ghosts seek vengeance no matter how long they've

been buried...?

Prologue “Listen to my voice.” I struggle with calm. My inner rage is so much a part of who I am, they're inseparable. I breathe deeply then respond with more civil words than the ones I was going to say. “This is really gay.” That counts as benign for me. The shrink sighs. Probably sucks and spews more CO² in a day with me as a patient than anyone in his entire career. “It's mandated, Mr. Simon, as you're aware.” “Yeah, I gotcha, but this whole quack like a bird while I'm under? It blows donkey dicks.”

I lift my eyelids, arms folded across my chest as I stubbornly blow my millionth session on the couch. This is what our world has come to: Coddle Central. Throw poor broken Thorn a bone. His mama just died from a drug overdose, he's still suffering trauma for being falsely incarcerated at a young age. He's deep undercover so he needs stress relief. That's all fucking fine. What I don't like is this “memory recapture.” That's the new term for it. Some yahoo, too busy jacking himself off, decided it'd be a great idea for me to use hypnosis to come to terms with my childhood. Because it was soooo righteous.

Yeah. Couch time is a free service offered to detectives who “they” determine have dubious backgrounds. That’s the polite term for shit families. Or as “they” like to coin the phrase: familial hardship. The good doc breaks into my thoughts. “Mr. Simon... this regression therapy has been proven to be successful at reintegration.” Maybe I like what I don't remember just fine. I give a slow blink. “Yeah.” “Will you try?” I exhale forcefully. I think of Mick and all he's done for me. I think of my anger, a vast well of bottomless rage. It

makes me tired. Chasing me like it does. I can't have a relationship without rage. I can't have a relationship with trust. Every time a woman wants more than my dick in her, I run. I don't want to love a woman. It's dangerous. I can't nail down why, but I believe that down to my marrow. “Relax in pieces, Mr. Simon—as we discussed in prior sessions.” “Ty,” I correct. “If you prefer.” I open one eye, pegging Doctor Dillinger. “I do.” I ignore the compassion I see. Thorn doesn't need pity.

I only need myself. I go through the relaxation technique as Dillinger's boring voice drones on. It's bullshit. This regression crap never works. * It's dark, and I hear crying. Soft and relentless, it has a familiar quality. I pad through the dark house. Discarded needles glint as the city streetlights spear the dirty glass inside forgotten windows. I didn’t listen to Mama about wearing my slippers. They make me look like a baby. I avoid the eyes that follow me. That shows disinterest, Mama says.

And I don't want the attention they'll give me. I ignore the men and woman wrestling naked on the floor. I pass young, greasy people smoking pipes. The disgusting rotten-egg smell is a constant vapor inside my nose. I stand outside the door of Mama's room. Mine is behind me and locked. The key is hot in my sweaty palm, my finger restlessly stroking the ridged metal. My heartbeat shifts from fear to one of expectant terror. If this goes like always, my mama won't be alone. Mama’s door swings in. Grime is piled in corners like dirty snowdrifts. The filth bleeds to the center, where a

man stands above Mama. He's the one who comes only at night. He doesn't look like us. His skin is like pale cream. He's big... and in my mind, I know he's an Important Man. It's pure instinct that I understand he feels big for reminding us that we're small. His lips curl in satisfaction when he sees me. I fight the urge to pop my thumb inside my mouth. I bite the inside of my lip to keep from doing it. “He's mine?” the man asks as his hand fists in Mama's hair. I walk closer. My eyes skip nervously to his hand in her hair, the size of his fist, that coiled rage.

“No!” she answers in a hoarse shout. Her eyes meet mine, round with fear. Tight with her lies. I look at the man. “Then he can take the beating I meant for you.” He jerks her up by her hair. I run to him, punching him with fists too small to inflict damage. He tosses Mama like garbage, and her beauty falls to the floor, long hair spilling around her like a dark fan. Luminous eyes catch mine in belated warning. He shoves me on my bottom. A pot full of rage that has nowhere to go simmers close to boiling. I feel it

swell inside me. Ready. “Don't you hurt my baby!” she screams. An ember appears in his free hand. It glows like a lost firefly in the darkness, and the air fills with cloying sweetness. “Sorry, Tasha. If you don't pay, someone will.” “No, Rex...” His hand slams into her face. “Don't say my name.” Mama falls back. She doesn't move. I do what she's told me to do. I grab the bulge between his legs and twist it. I use both hands. *

An elephant is sitting on my chest. I gulp oxygen and it tastes like water. I'm drowning. “Ty—hear me.” I gasp as I swim to the surface. Gotta. Break. Through. “Tyson Marius Simon, hear me and awake.” I sit up straight, my eyes bulging so hard they feel as if they'll burst the pockets of my face. I take in where I am. I can still smell the cigar smoke, and my hands tremble as they search my arms for fresh wounds that are no longer there.

My mind's eye sees my mother and how beautiful she looked in the middle of violence and dirt. I turn my forearms over and see what my tats cover. I was her shield. Doctor Dillinger says nothing during my silent scrutiny. He just watches me. “How do you feel, Ty?” Like someone kicked me in the nutsack, but thanks for asking. I ask, “Did you...? Did I?” God, this sucks ass. I don't know what bonehead things I did while I was lying there, helpless in my sleep. I don't know what I said. The secrets I revealed.

“Yes, you were under for quite a while. But”—Doctor Dillinger's clear amber eyes look into mine—“I thought it was best we get you out of there.” “What did I say?” I hate not knowing. Hate knowing. “Your mother's name? Tasha...?” Dillinger's eyebrows rose. It feels weird as hell to hear someone say her name. Tasha Simon isn't beautiful anymore. She’s dead. Her funeral is this week. The drugs she loved more than anything have taken her. I swipe a trembling hand over my face. “What do you remember?” he asks.

My eyes burn. I've never cried in my life, and I won't start now. My hands clench into fists. I shove that shit down where it belongs: deep and unowned. I hate what the child I was had to suffer, but I don't regret it. He'd have killed her. Rex. I turn over my arms and bring my forearms together. The tribal sleeves do a bang-up job of hiding the worst of it, but if you know what you're looking for, they stand out like measles. Dillinger leans forward until his knees press into the side of the couch as I wordlessly show him I know the why of the damage I camouflage. He knows what he's looking for.

Dillinger's hands dangle between his knees as he loses count of the circular burn marks dotting my flesh. Cigar-sized. I shrug his hand off my shoulder when he tries to give me comfort. I can't accept it. I have one goal. Vengeance has a name. * three days later I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. The chair creaks under my weight as I lean back and put my laced fingers behind my head. I close my eyes. I'm so fucking tired of using Google

I could die. There is no Rex. I know what I have to do. I need more information. I need to visit Dillinger again to find out what I can. I can't break the lock of my memories, but there's more; I know it. Dillinger says memory repression is a deep-seeded measure the mind uses to protect itself. The thought of recounting any more snippets of my miserable childhood brings on an instant, physical reaction. My palms sweat and my breathing comes short and hard. I sit up, my hands gripping the armrests of my chair in my office at the Black Rose exotic dance club.

I'm having one of those candy-ass panic attacks, so I plow through it as my eyes burn, my armpits tingling with insta-sweat. Kiki bursts in without knocking. Pushy broad. She takes one look at my face and walks closer, cautiously. “What the hell is it?” I shake my head, dropping my chin to my chest and not looking at her. Kandace “Kiki” King is a pole dancer, one of my best. I don't supervise much anymore though. I leave that to the floor manager. Even private lap auditions, once a mainstay of my job and a sick thrill I enjoyed, are growing stale as fuck.

I'm unraveling. Good old Thorn is hanging on by a thread. I know it. Dillinger sure as fuck does, and he's got the ear of the precinct. They have a dumb name for it. Trigger. A current event triggers memories of a traumatic one. When my boy McKenna's girl almost got done in by that whack job, Bunce Junior, it had enough parallels that now I'm on vacation from undercover. Mandatory, with pay. Standard with a kill in the line of duty. I guess I took a little too much pleasure in offing that fuck.

I close my eyes. The image of Faren on the floor, covered in Butch's blood.... it echoes too many long-buried memories. Now, like an exhumation, the ghosts have escaped their graves. I open my eyes, and Kiki is standing there. She knows I won't give an inch. No one knows Thorn, and that's how I like it—safe. Anonymity by choice. Her face hardens, but inside that bravado is a soft center. Kiki doesn't fool me; she never has. But she lets it go for now. “Ready?” I nod, standing abruptly. I tower over her. A sudden memory comes over me.

Rex was tall. Like father, like son. But that's where the likeness ends. His fair skin is milk to my chocolate. Who says dark is evil? I say it hides in the light. Kiki and I leave for Tasha Simon's funeral.

ONE Shane's chubby baby fist bats around as the drizzle falls. No matter how many times Faren tries to cover his little head, he jerks the hood off to reveal carrot-colored hair. Mick moves closer to his family, securing the umbrella over his wife and son's heads. I watch the three of them dispassionately. It's not as if I don't dig Mick. He's always had my back; he has it now. Their kid's cute. Faren is perfect for McKenna, like I knew she'd be. I hold on to my indifference like a

restless life raft. I’m afraid of capsizing into the ocean of my emotions, memories. Mick meets my eyes from across my mom's coffin. He gives a miniscule lift of his chin, and I mirror him. Faren's eyes, so light a gray they almost blend with the stormy sky, look at me with empathy. I look away from her knowing gaze. That girl has seen some rough shit in her time. Her fucked up stepdad nearly killed her mom, putting her in a fouryear coma. He had some twisted agenda to go after Faren, but she took care of him. In the end, it was Bunce's demented spawn who placed blame on Faren she didn't own.

We'd barely made it in time to save her. I repress a shudder thinking about where Mick would be now without Faren. She balances out his crap. Or without Shane. Almost on cue, the baby begins to cry as they lower my mom's body into an unforgiving earth. As if Mick shares some telepathic bond with my morbid thoughts, his long arm curls around Faren's shoulders, pressing her into his side as she tries to quiet Shane. I jam my hands in my pockets, checking out the fake astro turf used to hide the raw earth that, like discarded coffee grounds, will cover the expensive coffin.

I feel Kiki behind me. She tries hard to reach out. I think I'm her project. But Thorn doesn't want to be fixed. I push her away, but she's a gnat on my ass. The scary thing is, I don't think she's into me. I think Kiki senses something is wrong, and she wants to help. That's way more of a sphincterpucker than if she just wanted to bang. I can't accept pity or charity, or any of that happy crap. I have to figure my shit out for myself. The preacher drones on to the few of us who are here. I raise my head and see a thick knot of cops, and it puts that lump in my throat front and center. I can't swallow past it. I don't try.

I hear the pulleys but don't look. It's the only time I can't be brave, a reminder of what I can't fix. It's too final. Lance Tagger keeps his eyes on mine. Such a good actor during the sting where we took down Dmitri Bunce. A good friend. He knows I'm hurting. Instead of doing the same solemn shit everyone else does, he scratches his nose with his middle finger, a little Mona Lisa smile ghosting his lips. I smile. It's so goddamned inappropriate I can't help myself. No one is gonna give me back my mama. I can't love her for leaving me, but I can love her... for loving me. Kiki sees the interchange and frowns at Tag. It makes me grin wider.

At my mom's funeral I decide it's better to focus on my asshat partner than the sadness that threatens to engulf me. I survive another day. * “Kiki—fuck me,” I say, wanting to slam my palm into the steering wheel. “Okay.” She tightens her jaw, crossing her arms. Her hoops swing as she moves her head. “Don't accept any sympathy. Be da man.” The wheel creaks under my stranglehold as I smoothly turn into the garage at the Millennium Tower. The new hood. Can't take the old hood out of me

though. Sometimes, no matter how much schooling I've been through, how many years as an undercover detective, I still feel like that small boy who feared the night. I don’t have to speculate as to why anymore. Dillinger dredged the shit up like a found shipwreck. That uneasy feeling now has an anchor in reality. She catches me off guard, changing the subject to one I'm okay with: work. “You seen that new girl?” My eyebrow rises as we wait for the security arm to plow upward and allow our entrance into the dungeon of the Tower. The car rolls underneath as it lifts and I peer into the murk of the underground parking, locate Kiki’s stall,

and pass it by. Mick owns five; I'll park in one of his. “No,” I say, only half-listening. Still thinking about my mom. Has beens. Should've beens. I hated the nagging bullshit. I hate that I couldn't save her. Jesus God, I hate that most. I park and kill the engine. The ticking as it cools is the only sound in the car. “Thanks for the ride, Thorn.” Kiki’s hand lands on the door handle, popping it. “Wait,” I say, remembering her comment I didn't respond to. She turns, one stiletto dangling out the door.

“What girl?” She shakes her head. All the black she's wearing blends with my interior, and all I can make out is one scarlet pump. A spot of blood against a sea of ebony. I swallow hard at the uneasy visual. Maybe too many crime scenes. Or just dealing with my mom's death. Fuck. I drag my hand over my skull. “Never mind,” Kiki says, flapping her hand in dismissal. “The fill-in guy's going to get her for lap audition.” Her eyes meet mine. “I mean, I know you gotta do face time there to keep the undercover going. God knows it was hard to keep it under wraps with the media blitz following Bunce's murder.”

Yeah, the media hounds want to know which cop did in the perp. It's sensational news. Billionaire's pregnant fiancée almost killed by her stepfather's biological son. Can't make that shit up. I scrub my face and lean my forehead on the steering wheel, inhaling deeply. My chest tightens, hurting. Normal. I'll go to the gym and work it out. Work out that grief to right where it needs to be: nowhere. Kiki's hand lands on my shoulder. The pain in my chest notches up. “You okay?” she asks. I turn toward her, ready to lash out. Her eyes stop me.

She fucking cares. God damn. “Yeah,” I answer. Gruff. I look away. “Who's the girl?” I ask the steering wheel, diverting. Always diverting. Kiki's quiet long enough that I roll my face against the rough texture of the steering cover and look at her. “Simone.” I lift a shoulder. Why are we talking about some chick the day I put my mom in the ground? “Yeah?” So? “I don't know. She—I don't know. I can't... I think she should audition with you.” I jerk back my head. “What? No, I

don't need to do that biz no more.” Kiki nods, her hands knotting in her lap. Not a typical Kiki reaction. I stare at her profile, feeling the tick in my jaw. “What's going on? Tell Thorn.” She gives me a small smile. “I think that guy's a creep.” Grady, my floor manager? “Yeah,” I say slowly, “we're in the stripping business. Lots of dudes have to be creepy to manage it.” Her face turns. The low light catches it, and a spider web of illumination cascades over her expression. She looks piercing and deep, impenetrable.

“Besides, you're about out, right?” I don’t know why exactly—I don’t get this feeling much—but I don’t like Kiki doing the poles. I don't judge, but I've seen a lot of girls come through the club. Most are various degrees of broken. Faren had been different. Kiki is too, but I don't know why. I'm a fan of listening to my gut. I'm one of the few men who still do. I'm plugged into my primal nature. Maybe too much, but it's helped in the undercover work. Being a cop is one part logic and two parts instinct. “Yeah,” she replies softly, “about out.” I sit in silence for a few seconds,

deciding. “ʼKay, I'll check her out.” Kiki exhales. It sounds like relief. * I check in at the precinct. All is on target. The media's beginning to back off. They don't have a clue, so I can continue my face time at the Black Rose. Bunce Junior’s murder is now only a blip on my undercover screen. I'll be back on the force in a month. Mick wants me to give a kick-start to his six east coast clubs. It's perfect timing; I should jump at the chance. Hell, the money's awesome. Between my sixfigure cop salary and Mick's generosity,

I'm living large. My life is a steam engine. I power along, working out, hanging out with the buds. On my free time, I spar with a few other dudes who have what I need. I bang chicks who are willing to give me all the free pussy I can stand. Hell, life's a banquet. So why do I feel like I'm starving? The sameness rolls on like a river without borders, without texture. My life is smooth, satisfying. That pain in my chest tightens and I head to the gym. Time to put the introspective crap on a shelf. I get a text from Mick. Mick: got the jet reserved for you.

Just say the word and you can skip town, get those clubs whipped into shape. Might do you good to get away. What with your mom biting it on the heels of you being on administrative leave, Mick doesn't say. I smirk at my thoughts. My finger hovers, hesitating about committing to the truth and my feelings. An exhale explodes out of me as I tap out a reply. Me: not yet, man. Still working through my shit. Mick: I hear you. I've got good

temp people in place. You say the word when you want to escape, do something different. Word, my mind answers. Me: Gonna lie low for now, figure it out. Mick: ʼKay. You know where I am man. Before I can respond a second message pings. Mick: Where I've always been. I don't respond. I pull up outside the

gym, jump out of my car, and hurl myself up the concrete steps. Time to beat my body into submission. Too bad my mind is so uncooperative. It never shuts off.

TWO Simone “Balland? What kind of a fucked up name is that?” Tyler Grady asks. I cast my eyes to the floor, rubbing my hands together nervously. I stuff my anger. “It's French.” I'm switching out one bad gig for another, but the last place was a quasiescort service. Translation—eventual whore. This place isn't much better, but it has a good rep for a strip joint. “So should I call you Frenchie?” God, this guy. I shake my head. I need the work. I need to fly under the radar. I clamp down on my words. I'm

only allowed to be caustic inside my head. “Simone's fine.” “Okaaaayy,” he exaggerates the word. “Simone Bal-land.” He butchers the pronunciation and I roll my lip into my teeth to keep from correcting him. His bulging muscles and hard face motivate me as much as the job. Fear is a powerful preventative to what I call Smart Ass Syndrome. “Got something to say, Frenchie?” His unkind eyes take off the skimpy dress he's asked me to wear. Kiki told me he's a temp, a fill-in for the regular guy. What was his name? Super hero something... Tor? Thor? I don't know.

How'd he get right in front of me? I stumble back, and he laughs. “You can call me Grady, Frenchie...” A speculative look comes over his face, and he cocks his head. “Do you do things with that tongue... French things?” He looms over me and snaps his hand around my wrist. I feel the cool metal of my sterling bangles, thin as a willow wisp, slide between our locked flesh. “It's Simone, Grady.” I can't stop the clench of my jaw, the grittiness of the words as they escape my teeth. He laughs and jerks me closer. “You're gonna do a dance on my lap and like it.”

I'm going to like nothing he offers. I force myself to relax against him when what I really want to do is bite off his nose. I embrace the old violence and it allows me to escape the horror I'll have to endure. As I have before. Grady seems to sense my acceptance and leads me to the chair behind the desk. My eyes lock on the Black Rose insignia inscribed on a stack of business cards. We all know what happened to the billionaire owner's sister and what the Rose stands for. He falls into the chair, bringing me with him. I straddle him like a champ.

“Move your whore ass. Show me what you're made of.” I clench my eyes shut and imagine a beautiful man. A man who lives to please, whose every breath holds the wish of me in it. I bring him to the surface of my mind, all rough edges and raw love. He wants to adore every inch of my body. My perfect man doesn't care that I'm damaged, that I'm smart, that I don't have blond hair and blue eyes, that I’m not built like a model. Or that my goddamned last name has a silent D. Grady's hands are on my breasts. I scream inside for mercy.

For safety. Release. The door bursts open behind us, cracking the wall and I turn. Unbelievable. I suddenly feel like the meat in a sandwich of testosterone. In the doorway is a huge man, skin like succulent milk chocolate, eyes like black candy, and so many muscles they seem animated as he stands still, as if he's always in motion. Tats carve ebony ribbons from the bottom of his skull in a tribal pathway down his arms that peek from beneath a screaming red tee. “Simone?” His voice is harsh, bold... expectant.

I blink at him. I'm so blown away that, while Grady's hands hold my tits, I automatically answer, “Yes?” “Simone Balland?” he repeats, quieter this time. I nod, not daring to get off Grady's lap but dying to. He said my last name exactly right. “Get off him.” I struggle off, and Grady's eyes narrow. He twists my nipple as I go. I must make a small noise because the man moves from the door to around the desk in two strides. It must be fifteen feet, but he's in front of us instantly.

“Get the fuck outta here, Grady.” His thumb jerks over his shoulder at the door. The potential for violence is tangible, a scent in the air. Grady laces his hands behind his head, leaning back in the swivel chair. I jerk down my nude-colored dress, and Grady leers at me, his eyes tracking my movements. I lift my chin, and Grady looks at me as though he wants to knock me down for that small defiant gesture. I'm embarrassed by the interruption, and so grateful it feels painful. “Listen, Thorn, I’m just having a little fun. Don't be a cock-block.” Thorn, that's his name.

Thorn grabs a handful of Grady's shirt and jerks him up to nose level. “Don't fuck with me, Grady. I told you I was doing the lap with this dancer, not you. You. Fill. In. Got me?” I scramble out of the way. I'm not sure Grady does get it. I'm pretty sure I don't want to be in the path of the delivery. Grady leans in, and Thorn holds his position. The two men are matched in size, but Thorn has a presence, a swirling energy of anger and violence. I back away. Thorn’s the type of man I avoid. Grady's a low-life; him, I can handle. If I take a dose of his filth, men like Grady think they’ve won the battle.

All the time, it's me who has won the war. A sheet of paper wouldn't fit between their chests. “I said hold her. I was running behind. I said I'd be here, you dig?” Thorn clarified. I back up until something solid stops me. I plaster myself against the wall. Grady's hard eyes slim down on Thorn. “What's so special about this crack?” He tosses an angry palm in my direction. “Not that I have to answer to you, but it's a favor.” Grady nods, not giving an inch, but things don't seem as if they'll come to blows. “It's that mouthy snatch, Kiki.”

I gasp. Thorn tenses before he snaps his head forward into a cracking blow against Grady's. Grady staggers back, landing on the arm rest of the chair and spearing himself in the ass. He bellows, grabs his cheeks, and pitches forward from the rolling chair's momentum. I slap my hand over my mouth to stifle a suicidal urge to laugh. I slide along the wall toward the door. Where smart women go when things get fucking stupid. “Don't go anywhere,” Thorn says, not looking at me. He probably won't kick my ass since he’s doing it to Grady. Still, I give the door an almost

lustful glance. “I think we're all fucking clear now, right, Grady?” Grady's eyebrow drips blood, and he nods. Thorn's shoulders drop a little, some of the tension from the encounter leaving him. Grady rears up like a clever bull in a sneaky charge and aims to drill his fist through Thorn's crotch. I gasp for the second time. It's a glancing blow but it brings Thorn to his knees. A cheap shot. Grady looks at me and grins. I sprint for the door, and he jumps around Thorn, coming after me. Grady's hand lands on my wrist and I know how to break his grip. I've

always known. I twist savagely to the right and break the dominant grip of his right hand. He's so surprised, he hesitates. I slam the flat of my palm into the wound on his head. Using the heel of my pump, I jab his instep in a fast strike of precision and leverage, not strength. Grady howls, and his fist comes. I see it for miles and duck, driving my elbow into his solar plexus. He leaks as if he's full of gas before he lands on his muscular ass. The bigger they are, the harder they fall. I whirl around, and Thorn is there. I'm in self-defense mode to the nth degree, and I move in tight to take down

a guy who outweighs me by a hundred pounds and has eight inches on me. “Whoa, easy,” Thorn says as if I'm a horse. Well, this filly is escaping the stable. I move around him, and he doesn't touch me. He sticks his foot out in a classic judo move, and I'm so flustered I miss it until I’m tripping over it. I throw my hands out for balance, and he grabs my forearms and spreads them, jerking both hands behind my body and pulling me in tight. “Holy fuckballs, that's the hottest thing I've ever seen,” Thorn says. “Screw the lap dance. You're hired.” Grady moans from the floor, and

Thorn's face dips like he might kiss me. I bite his lip as though my teeth will meet. Thorn screams like a wounded animal and releases me. I jerk open the door, leave the two bleeding men behind me, and race out of the Black Rose with my dignity intact. And no job.

THREE Thorn Doctor Ludwig gives the wound one last suture, closing it expertly. “You know, you should get a tetanus shot, Mr. Simon.” I glare at the doctor. “Sure, I'll get right on that.” With all my spare time. Undercover cop, east coast clubs to shore up, and a wayward lap dancer who put the beat down on now-fired Grady. Really going through the staff like a revolving door. No fucking way is Thorn gonna deal with a chunk out of his ego the size of the Grand Canyon.

“You say a dog did this?” Ludwig quizzes. His eyebrows pull together. Fuck. “Yeah, did I goddamned stutter?” His face goes blank, and I realize I jumped his shit because I'm embarrassed. Stay classy, Thorn. “Sorry, Doc. I just—I didn't need this trumped up bullshit when I'm in the middle of housecleaning.” Ludwig's eyebrow rises. “I have some clubs Mr. McKenna needs me to streamline.” “Ah,” Ludwig replies, letting his surgical tools fall into a kidney-shaped container. They bathe in some strangelooking water. “That explains your foul mood.”

Not always. Ludwig strips off his latex gloves with a snap, rubber-banding them straight into a hole in the countertop labeled Bio-hazard. “Thanks, Doc.” I clap him on the back, and he lurches forward. He straightens the lapels of his white lab coat and pushes his wildly colored glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “I can't force you to get a shot, but that's a nasty wound on your lip.” I nod. It's all good. I'll slap on some of that ointment he handed me and find the person responsible. Simone Balland—French name. I'm fluent. My grandmother was Haitian.

Simone Balland puts the E in exotic. As I walk away, Ludwig calls out, “Mr. Simon?” I turn around. “Some dogs aren't meant to be domesticated.” He knows. Ludwig turns away from me, giving me his back. “You might want to keep that in mind.” I stalk out. I've got something in mind all right. * Kiki crosses her arms underneath her tits. “Listen, Thorn, I asked you to help out with Simone, not try to beat her up.”

I throw up my hands and pace in an angry march. “No—” I point at her, and she gets that look. The Kiki Look. Damn. She's so fucking stubborn. “I did not try to ‘beat her up.’ Man, you'd know it if I had.” She looks as if she swallowed a lemon. Whole. “Well then, how do you explain that?” Her palm flies toward my mouth. I unconsciously touch it. Stings like hell. “Things got out of hand.” Kiki's hoops swing as she nods. “How do things escalate from Grady meeting her for you because you were late to Grady getting his ass kicked by Simone before she munches on your mouth, huh?”

It sounds pretty bad when she says it like that. “I wasn't going to hurt her, Kik.” She rolls her eyes. “Duh. But don't you know when to go easy, Thorn? Grady, the dickless wonder, worked her over, the very thing I wanted to avoid by having you there instead. Then you think you'll what? Put your hands on her to calm her down?” “I—no.” I exhale in an angry rush. “I just didn't want her to leave.” I scrub my head in an angry swipe, wincing at the knot I put there. So worth it to clock Grady. “Simone bit me and pulled her freak out...” Kiki gets in close and I stand there,

waiting for a lecture. “I can't give you her number.” I grip her shoulders, looking deeply into her eyes. “Listen—Kik, I know I fucked up.” “You got that...” I give a rough exhale. “I wanna make it right.” She shakes her head. “I don't know Thorn, you're a hard man.” Hard man. I digest her words. I don't know what she sees on my face, but she's quick to add, “A good guy. You're one of the good guys. You saved Faren. You save girls like me... and Faren. But this girl? She needs...” Kiki looks down, hiding her face from me.

I tip her chin up with a finger. “What? What's so goddamned special about Simone Balland?” Kiki's eyebrow pops. “What—how did you say her last name?” I say it again. “God... it sounds exotic when you say it like that.” I bristle. “It's French.” “Ooh la la... and oui oui!” she says in a horrible French accent. She notes my sour expression. “What? Thorn!” She laughs and points at me. “Don't tell me you speak French?” Her disbelief kinda pisses me off. I don't answer. I just walk to the door. I'm frustrated and can't seem to redeem myself from the ego splat I took.

From a lap dancer. A very hot, hard-fighting chick with a French name and a body like Venus. I decide she makes my dick hurt as I flinch when my tongue runs over the bite she gave me. “What are you smiling about?” Kiki asks, running after me as I swing the door open. “Les possibilités,” I reply. “What did you say?” she asks, her eyes narrowing at me. I don't translate the French. I leave Kiki in a huff. I have something to think about besides looking for the man who's my real father. *

“God, Ty, no. I'm not going to help you find some chick you're jonesin' to tap. No.” “Tag, don't be an ass. Look at my mouth, pal.” I spread my palms wide as his hazels laser in on the wound. Detective Lance Tagger, fearless partner of lots o’ crime busts with yours truly, folds his arms. “You let a chick beat you down while some guy did a baby move to your gonads?” I grunt. “Yeah, you got me. Dumb move.” “Elementary move, Watson. Cover the nutsack. Don't leave the family jewels hanging like a bull’s-eye.”

I sigh and lower my chin, digging for patience. Which I suck at. Tag studies my face with a permasmirk slapped on his. Asshole. “Is she really that much of a distraction?” “It's not just that, Tag... I messed up. I was late. Kiki asked—” His eyebrow rises. “I thought she wasn't doing poles? Grad school or something?” I nod, not really listening. “Yeah.” I wave his question away. “I guess Kiki was leaving that day and ran into Simone...” “Simone?” Tag's lovin' this shit: the bitten lip, the hot girl who kicked my ass. Yeah, this is right up his fuck-withThorn alley.

Play nice, Thorn. “Yeah, man, Simone.” “God, okay. I'll look her up.” Tag rolls his eyes at me. “Don't fuck it up. The department finds out I'm lifting a name from the system, it'll be my wiener on a stick.” I nod. He plops down in his computer chair, and his fingers fly over the keys. I lean over his shoulder, one hand gripping the side of the desk. “Hey, Simon,” a beat cop greets me from across the room, and I lift my chin. “Surname?” Tagger asks. I tell him. “What? Say it normally.” “That is normal.” He gives me a sidelong glance. “Oh.

Is—is it foreign?” I nod. He turns back to the screen. “Spelling.” I spell it out. “Oh—the D is silent. Here she is. Simone Angeline Balland. Age: 23. Five feet seven, one hundred thirty-five pounds. Race: mixed.” “What mix?” I know so little about my own roots that I want to know hers. And maybe curiosity killed the damn cat. “She's French, Ty. Dual citizenship.” Now I'm intrigued. As if I wasn't before. I snort, and Tag gives me a look. She didn't have a trace of an accent. Of course, neither do I. Welcome to

America, where no one is what they seem. “No shit, bright one,” I answer. His lips thin. “Like you?” I shake my head, gazing at her photo. It's not a great one, like all driver license pics. Full, kiss-me lips, long kinky jet-black curls, pale skin with a spray of freckles over the bridge of a refined nose, and wide-spaced, slightly almond eyes. Brilliant green. They appear to see me, to follow me. Not the Thorn I show people, but the dude I hide. Simone Balland looks as if she can see my secrets. I don't know if I like that.

Maybe it doesn't matter. I tap her addy into the contact list on my cell. She can't know I'm a cop. I'm still undercover, just not operational. But I've got to make this right. It would be so wrong to just show up at her door. I go anyway.

FOUR Simone I take one of the many alternate routes to my small apartment in the seediest part of Seattle. I needed that damn job so bad. But I don't need a man like Thorn sniffing around like a second hole in my head. I'm lucky I got out of there when I did. My brows pull together. Kiki had said Thorn was better than Grady and I should meet with him. Well, I'd been forced to show my hand. I can defend myself, a skill I don’t want others to know I have. When fighting a man that much bigger, the element of surprise is

important. In the case of Thorn, it’s critical. And I'll never get a second chance with him. He's aware. I ignore the homeless, whose eyes rest on my striding figure in glazed focus. I'm not complacent. The drunk have pinpoints of hyperawareness that aren’t to be discounted. I'm not going to be on the receiving end of their attention. I avoid eye contact and make a beeline for my apartment building. Streetlights deposit pools of light intermittently as I walk, some burnt out, some still hold a bulb that flickers. The sporadic light lands on me like a strobe. I hold my keys like a weapon,

though the real one is a six-inch long rod of solid stainless steel that serves as a key fob. It's heavy and effective. I look right then left, inserting the apartment key into the main entrance and opening it wide. I step into the heavily shadowed vestibule. Initially, what made the apartment building attractive was the anonymity, a double entrance... and it’s cheap. I make a novice mistake I haven't made since I left France the second time. I move forward without visually sweeping corners. He moves in behind me, grabbing my wrist. I spin, bringing the karate weapon down hard on his hand. He grunts, grabs the steel rod, and chucks it

against the wall. It stabs the plaster, sticking out like a broken bone. I hear it fall and clatter down the stairs to my basement-level apartment. Mine is the only apartment with two entrances. Two locks. If I can get inside. The assailant grabs both of my arms at my elbows, pinning me to his body. Tall. Size: Big. I give myself time for a deep breath —centering. I whip my head back, hitting his chin. He howls and releases me. I duck low, coming in for the crotch

with my knuckles poised for a precision strike. He takes me by surprise, meeting me at knee level in a mirror of my crouch. Thorn. I hesitate. He moves in. “Stop! Fuck... it's me!” “I know!” I shout without stopping. My training takes me forward in unconscious follow-through. Then he's pinning me to the wall, my wrists above my head. I move my knee into central position. I don't know what the fuck is going on. The side of his hip comes between

my legs, immobilizing my body. I blew my opportunity by thinking, the kiss of death in hand to hand. I know better. I squirm, trying to break his hold on my wrists. No good. He's got a two-handed hold. I glare into his dark face. His chest is heaving, his eye tight with the damage I meted. “I won't hurt you.” “Clearly!” I yell. He slams me against the wall, my knotted hands behind my head as it bounces off them. “Stop,” he growls. I'm so frustrated, tears of anger course down my cheeks. I want to lash

out, but I'm helpless. I don't want to revisit those feelings that bring instant anguish. My eyes move to the wound on his mouth. Sutures stick up in clear spikes. Good. His lips flatten into a grim line before his eyes flinch from the tenderness. “If I let you go are you going to chop my nuts off?” “Maybe.” He gives a harsh exhale. “I came by to explain some shit to you, and you go all Rambo on my ass.” I nod, but I want to slam my head into his again. “That's what I always do when men I don't know charge me from

behind.” Thorn gets a sheepish expression. It looks out of place on his face. “I didn't think you'd talk to me if I called or texted. Hell, I didn't think you'd talk to me if I stopped by.” I think about it. “True.” His eyebrows rise. His face is filled with strong features: square jaw, straight nose, the bones are stark and unforgiving. A masculine face. “See? Ya left me no choice,” he says. And... I had so many. “Let me go.” “Are you gonna go batshit?” I think about it and can't help my lips quirking. “Maybe.” His lips twitch. He drops my wrists

and backs away—fast. I rub where he held them. “So?” I ask, my heartbeat returning to normal. Thorn’s eyes move from my feet to my face, and I scowl. All men look at me like that, hence the strip club job. Grady had promised me I could work off the books; Kiki hadn’t been sure. She said the owner did things to the letter of the law. Some rich guy who married her friend. A princess story. I didn't know those really existed. Fairy tales are bullshit. “Can we... do we have to talk through shit in the hallway?” he says. I look around the small vestibule.

Stairs lead to the upper floor. A second door leading to my apartment. I lift a shoulder. Kiki said Thorn is okay. He didn't beat me up but I've given him some marks. I take in the bruise on his chin that is colorless for the moment but swelling fast. My fingers touch the knot on the back of my head. “I guess.” I retrieve my keys and unlock the second door. I descend six steps, and the wall faces me, my door to the left. I turn to tell Thorn to close the outer door, but he already is. He locks it by flipping the deadbolt.

The stairwell plunges into complete darkness. My breathing comes fast. I smack the wall, trying for the light switch. Panic descends... I can't stand dark places. My small noises while I suck in breaths are all I hear. I forget that Thorn exists. I rustle the keys, trying to jam them inside the keyhole so I can get some light. I need to see. “Are you okay?” Thorn says by my ear and I scream. Instead of reacting, he scoops up my fallen keys and shoulders into the foot of

space not big enough for two people. He finds the knob and slides the key into the slot. The door opens, but I still can't see. I'm hyperventilating. “Hey, Simone,” Thorn says, pulling me through the door. A low light from the entry table greets me, but I'm deep into a full-blown panic attack. My palms slap the wall, and I slide down it as my vision closes in a black tunnel. “No, ya don't.” Thorn easily lifts me by the armpits and sets me on a chair beside the table. A gentle hand wraps around my nape and puts my head between my

knees. His thumb strokes the bones of my spine. “Control your breathing. Thorn's here.” His thumb strokes, and I concentrate on the sensation, following the slow swirl of his touch on my skin. I take a breath, and darkness presses against me like soft black wings. One more inhale. Exhale. Light breaks through, the murk of unconsciousness receding like a wave on the shore. Then thoughts and awareness crash in. Embarrassment. I lift my head and his hand is gone.

We look in each other’s eyes. I don't cry. This has been the most fucked up night since I got to America. Legally got here. Thorn's dark eyes search mine. “What the fuck was that about?” I shake my head, each breath better than the last. “I don't owe you an explanation.” Thorn sits back on his haunches. “Well, how about I stick around until I get one?” His voice is stubborn, his eyes resolute and unmoving. He's bad news. Violent, egotistical and aggressive. I like him. Too much.

FIVE Thorn I feel like the biggest dick in the world. Simone obviously has issues, and I should be checking that shit. But her beauty distracts me. It's not the trashy-ho variety I usually love and leave—it’s something more. She’s still wearing the outfit that she came to the Black Rose in. My eyes move to her slender ankles, trapped in impossibly narrow straps. I think of holding those ankles wide as I drive into her. I swallow hard, trying to dislodge the vision like water drops off a shaking dog.

They stick like glue. Helpless against my lust, my eyes drive up her body like a freight train. Elegant wrists dangle between knees where her head just was. I still feel the burn on my fingertips from where I touched the back of her neck. My second head is doing all the thinking, standing at attention. Her breasts are an offering of creamy café au lait between a haltertype system bungee-ing her delectable jugs. I close my eyes, calming my breathing. My lower forearm hurts where her keychain hammered me. I know from my police work and sparring with guys that

she's trained. I open my eyes and hers are on me. Hopefully she doesn't notice the tent I've just sprouted in my pants. “Karate?” I ask casually. It's the last thing on my mind. “Yeah.” She doesn't elaborate. Women are usually hot to yammer on about trivial shit. No conveyance of info, just a dump of words for dudes to trudge through to find the bottom line. But not Simone. She doesn't say why she held her own against me upstairs or why the darkness sent her into a spiral of panic. I hear Kiki in my mind, telling me to take it easy on Simone, to take care of

her. With the exception of the panic attack, she seems to do just fine taking care of herself. I hold out my palm. After a moment's hesitation, she slips her hand into mine, and I jerk her none-too-gently to her feet. She sorta stumbles into me, and I press her up against me. The hard-on that had gone away springs back to life between us. I often think how much it sucks to be a man. Can't hide dick. Literally. Simone says nothing, but reaches between us and squeezes my pole. I suck in a sharp breath. “Fuck me.” She strangles my cock and the pain rides that line of pleasure. My eyes snap

to hers. “No,” she whispers and increases the pressure. I open my mouth to tell her to chill out on the grip, and she releases me. “You're here to fuck me?” Simone asks. I've never had a woman talk to me like that in my life. Thorn does the doing. The fucking. The talking. I'm here to find out what's what, but instead I say, “Yeah.” Simone shows no surprise. She turns away from me and walks down the hall. I want to kick my own ass for blurting the truth. I need to find out why

someone like her is doing what she's doing. How come she can kick a guy's ass? Those are only the top-end questions. She almost had me back there. If she was a guy, I'd be out cold in a sleazy apartment entrance. Sheer size and muscle mass were my only saving graces. I follow her, watching the graceful sway of her hips and kinky, jet-black hair. It touches where I know the dimples at the small of her back lie. My prick throbs. She flicks on lights in her kitchen. They're under cabinet, so they chase away shadows but don't really

illuminate. I move toward her, out of my mind with want. I should be the cop here, question her about being French and wanting to work off the books. I should stay neutral for all kinds of reasons. Instead I reach for her. She grabs my hand, sucking my finger in a long, wet pull, and a drop of precum wets through my underwear. I gasp, my other hand cupping her ass through her thin dress. “I”—pull, suck—“was”—lick —“supposed”—smack—“to try out with you.” She drops my finger, and I knead her ass cheek. I want to dive a finger in her

honeypot so bad, I can feel it. But I'm no rapist. Simone needs to give me a green light, and right now, I don't have it. I have a woman in the literal palm of my hand. We were physically violent twenty minutes ago, then she morphed into having a panic attack before she squeezed my dick so hard I thought she'd kill it. She backs away, and I drop my hand. I want to explode. Simone scoots onto the kitchen table and puts her heels up on either side of her ass, giving me the show my dick's been begging for. Her panties bisect the lips of her

pussy, and I'm on her. That's all it took. Rational thought leaves me and it's all fingers, mouth and cock. Mine inside her, on her... my lips move along her jaw while my hand presses her hips forward from the small of her back. Simone groans, and it makes my raging hard-on bob, spurring me on like extra fuel in an engine. I jerk her hips forward as I spear her with a finger. Her hot cunt cinches around my finger like a vice, and a strangled sound erupts. I realize it's coming from me. I sound like an animal in heat as I pump that digit inside her. She leans

back on the table, and I help her, sliding her ass closer with my free hand. I stab her cunt, and my thumb swings up to her clit. Salt and pepper shakers roll off the table and bounce. We ignore them. Simone uses her hands to push the halter top aside. She tweaks her own nipples, and my eyes zero in on her. “Like that... no, lower,” Simone commands. I become a compliant male. A first. My thumb dips lower on her clit, flicking and rubbing in fast circles. I'm rewarded by her breathing picking up. “Oui...” she whispers. I almost stop what I'm doing.

But I'm so in the fucking moment, I can't. “Stick me—right now,” she says. My prick nods as though acknowledging the awesome suggestion. “No condom.” Her purse is beside her, and she tears a small package out of it. I don't question why she has a condom in her purse. I take it with my free hand, tearing the wrapper with my teeth. Holding it in my mouth, I jerk my pants down. My cock sighs with pleasure at escaping the prison of my jeans. I roll the condom down me, and she slaps my cock with her hand.

It hurts. I love it. I won’t be gentle. Then she says, “Fuck me hard, Thorn.” Jesus. I gulp air that’s suddenly not there. My hands tremble on her shoulders. I aim my cock at her pussy and slide in with a push that impales. We cry out together, and I open one eye to make sure I haven't actually hurt her. She squirms against me, slamming herself on me. “You're gonna make me cum,” I say. “Stop.” “No.” Her eyes challenge me.

I land on her, my knees straddling her thighs, and pump inside her. I use her shoulders to drive her against me, and I feel my neck tense, my head falling back. Simone's hand is between my legs, her finger running along that thin line that separates my asshole and cock. I'm using her good, pumping in her tight snatch and getting close, when her finger rims my asshole. Exit only, I almost scream. But with a delicate thrust, her finger enters. My sphincter squeezes on absolute instinct, and my orgasm jets out, slamming me from behind like a traitor. I cum hard from the ground up. Simone's finger is in my ass and my cock's in her pussy.

She screams as I come inside her, her pussy pulsating around me. We're locked together in frozen ecstasy, and I feel as if I've blown a fuse, that I've left my body. The sheer tactile connection is complete, our bodies frozen in a pulsating frenzy. It slows, and precious oxygen fills my lungs. I might live. Her finger slips out of me, and my cock softens inside her. I straighten, looking at the red marks I left on her collarbone from gripping her. My eyes travel down her body, and I see the evidence of everywhere I've been. Simone looks so soft and fucking

amazing, spread out underneath me. When I meet her eyes, I get a feeling I've never had before. I can't stop it from starting, but I squish out the tenderness as it germinates like a fucking seed ready to sprout inside me. It was an amazing lay. Fucking spectacular. But it's just fucking. She smiles, and that soft feeling tries to rear its head again. What the fuck is wrong with me? “Don't look so conflicted, Thorn,” Simone says. I feel my eyebrows rise as I tuck my junk back in my jeans. “What?” Conflicted, my ass. I feel

as though I can take on the world. I'm reconciling my shit as I stand there. “It's just sex.” Simone sits up, bringing her dress down demurely and crossing her legs, resting backward against her palms. She’s blown me away. “What?” I nearly shout. This is not how shit's supposed to go. No way.

SIX Simone His face is precious. “What?” he yells. I feel myself give a little secret smile in response. Thorn isn't used to not being in charge. That much is clear. I'm an expert at hiding how I feel. When it's a matter of survival, you pick it up. Either Thorn hasn't needed to learn that in his life of naked girls dancing on his lap, or he's genuinely surprised. It's nice to be the user instead of the usee. I love turning the tables. I measure my breathing as I do during a run. Control that, and the face goes with it.

He's a gorgeous, well-endowed man, and he took me just as I like to be taken. He cooperatively came a geyser when I plugged his ass. Also ten levels of hot. That won't get me the job, but it was a helluva an orgasm. My love parts are still deliciously warm and throbbing from his huge dick. I pop off the rickety kitchen table that almost didn't survive our tryst and head to the kitchen sink to wash my hands. Time to clean up. I hear the trash can pop open for the condom. I still haven't answered his insulted, one-word question. Large hands fall on my shoulders as I dry mine on a towel hanging by a hook

on the cabinet. Thorn moves my hair aside to lay petal-soft kisses on my neck, and I shiver. God, he's good. That's why he needs to go away. I move away from that wonderful trail of tenderness and turn to face him. “So why did you really come?” He grins. “Because it felt fucking hot as hell.” I can't help but smile at his brash honesty. He's such a tough man... but somehow, there's a tender little boy inside him. When he's not hiding, I see him in there. I mock shove Thorn, and he grips my wrist. I meet his eyes and stand on my tiptoes.

I can tell he thinks I'll kiss him softly, so I ravage his mouth, my free hand gripping his ass and hauling him forward against where he just was. “God,” Thorn breathes out. I release him. “Answer.” He frowns, dropping my wrist. “I wanted to see if you were cool after the bullshit with Grady.” I lift my shoulders, using my lack of response as a weapon. Men expect women to fill awkward silences. I've had an unconventional upbringing and don't fall into that trap. I see his frustration when the mine field I present gets dicier. “I'm fine,” I say. “You almost kicked our asses.” He

folds his arms and stands expectantly. I shrug again. He puts a thumb to his chest, then points at me. “Didn't we just fuck? Or am I imagining things?” I shake my head, definitely not imagining, and he gazes at my hair as it slides across my bare breasts I didn't bother to cover up. His breathing ticks up, and I level my eyes on his. Thorn collects himself, his hands clenching into fists. I'm playing with fire. Thorn is a violent man, but I don't think he’s violent toward women. I usually don't have sex with woman beaters, though I've misjudged. That was before.

“Where's Grady?” I ask. He blinks, his fingers loosening. “Gone.” I take a leap. “Do I still have a job?” He barks out a laugh. “Yeah.” “Good,” I say. Thunder passes over his face like a storm cloud. “Did you do me to get the job?” I search his face, weighing my response. “Yeah,” I lie and shrug. The little boy leaks away. It's devastating to see him go and also a relief. I can't keep a man. They're untrustworthy and good for only one

thing. Thorn was very good at that one thing. Very. My mouth waters just thinking about it. I hadn't done him to get the job. Work hadn't even been on my mind. I'm not ready to inspect what had been in my head too closely. Introspection is for people who want to improve through self-analysis. I just want to survive. I’m a bird with a broken wing. When I heal up, I'll fly away. Emotions cross Thorn's face until he settles on one: indifference. I steel my heart. It's better this way. “Come here,” he says, cupping his

hand at me. I sway over to him, my high heels well-used. We stare at each other for the space of a few breaths. He looks from my head down to my toes. “You're a beautiful woman, Simone.” A crack begins in the glass of my heart. He tugs me into his body. I don't resist, but I don't help either. One large hand covers my ass, and my leg rises to his hip. His palm slides from my butt cheek to the inside of my knee, and he jerks me closer. I gasp. I wasn’t expecting that, and

my head tips back from the sudden motion. Thorn captures it with his other hand, and his lips land on mine. They're as soft as mine were hard on his before. He moves over each centimeter of my plump lips, swollen from the passionate kisses he leveled on me earlier. His mouth moves to my throat as his hand slides from my hair to mid-back. His other hand lets go of my leg and cups my sex hard, tramping down on my clit. It throbs, begging for more. He suddenly releases me. I stumble back, unguarded and aroused. I feel warm from the love of his hands and mouth on my body.

He smiles, and it's cruel. “I don't fuck the help.” It's like a physical blow. I clamp down on my expression. The effort is ugly; the ice of his words fills my veins. I lift a shoulder in a parody of the lack of care he just demonstrated. “Whatever.” He stares at me for a pregnant moment and nods before scrubbing his face. Thorn can't hide his frustration, and I smile. I’m still winning. He's too volatile to pretend as well as I can. Not enough practice. “Fine.” Thorn tears his gaze away from my body. I stroll to the door, my heart beating

so hard I can barely hear my heels click. I slide the bolt and hold the door open. I turn, and he's right there. He moved right behind me, and I let my guard down. I flinch back. Stupid, Simone. Thorn gives me a thoughtful look and runs a finger along my jaw then down my throat. His fingers spread over my chest. I feel every fingertip like a small flame. “I won't hurt ya.” I nod. I can't trust myself to speak, but I already know he’s right. I'm pissed by how fast I turn dumb when he's around. It's like my IQ falls to double digits in Thorn’s presence. He steps away. “Show up tomorrow

at seven. I think I can get Kiki to swing by and show you the ropes.” I smile though I feel like crying. It's a such a surreal feeling I need to take a deep breath to steady myself. His eyes are sharp on my face, and I cast mine away. “You mean poles,” I answer and look back at him. “Yeah.” He stands still, filling my open doorway. He's such a large guy, his shoulders almost touch both sides of the door jamb. An erotic image of him driving against me as I hang on for dear life springs up in my skull. Thorn gives a slow blink, studying

my face. “Fuck it,” he growls and jerks me to him. His tongue stabs my mouth, and I moan in husky response. I don't even try for silence. It's as if he knows every sensual button to press. As though I sent him a list before we met, and he's going through it from top to bottom. Thorn pushes me up against the wall by my throat, torturing my mouth, and I begin to lose my breath. I don't ask him to stop. His hips press into my center, and I feel his cock split me. I give a little desperate gasp. Begging for air. Begging for more of the same. Thorn lets me go and stares at me

for one second. His fists rise, and I feel my eyes widen before his hands pound the wall on either side of my face. “You make me crazy,” he says with soft menace. I stand there mute and definitely dumb. Thorn pivots, stalking away. He latches onto the doorknob as he moves through the threshold, closing the door. The click is loud in the stillness of my apartment My heart races as I look at the closed door. Shaky fingers whisper over the lips he just kissed. I jump when the upper door slams. Only after a full minute ticks by do I

realize his last words weren’t uttered in English. My lips part in surprise. French.

SEVEN Thorn I get the fuck out of that apartment before I do or say something that'll do in my Thorn goal: Never, under any circumstance, let a fucking woman own me. I can't count how many one-night stands I've had. Dozens upon dozens. Simone wasn't a one-night stand or part of any plan. She's a tornado. I got in her path, and she swept me up. I slam out of her trashy apartment, leap up the short flight of stairs and burst out of the complex door. I suck in a lungful of shitty Seattle air like a

drowning man. I can't suspend my relief to be outta there; it washes over me in a cleansing sheet of rain. I look around, paying attention to the neighborhood for the first time. It's up the viaduct's ass. Bad hood. I glance over my shoulder at the door I just came through. I wrap my palm around the handle and try to tear it open. Locked. I jiggle it, and it holds. Okay, Simone has two doors she's safe behind. My hand drops from the handle. So why in the blue fuck does it bug me? Because it makes me anxious as hell to have her unprotected.

I gotta get out of here. My hands get crammed in my jean pockets as I stride down the littered sidewalk. I don’t look left or right, but I’m keenly aware of surreptitious movement around me. No jag is going to get a piece of Thorn. A chunk of it is already missing, courtesy of Simone Balland. I'll be Swiss cheese if I keep this up. * “Maybe he doesn't want to be found, Thorn,” Kiki says logically, her dark eyebrows arching. She makes sense, but that prick is responsible for some of the horror I can't

shake. He tried to fuck up my mom. She's worm bait now, and he's a part of that. Rex didn't slide the needle in her vein, but he made her a prisoner. Dependent. I escaped the hood, and in killing one of two serial killers responsible for Rose McKenna's death, I'd been falsely imprisoned at barely eighteen. A grim smile pulls at the corners of my mouth. No one had gotten a piece of Thorn then either. Prison had been child's play compared to my childhood. When Tag and the other boys in blue figured out the truth, setting McKenna up to exonerate me, it was with an eye toward using me. That was the first time

in my shitty life someone aside from Mick had placed trust at my feet. I allowed the exploitation. It enabled me to become who I wanted to be. Now I’m Thorn, not some statistic where people see a black man and assume the worse. I know what I am. I'm from a crap area, a tough street with tougher people, but I'm more than a number. Kiki snaps her fingers in my face. I wake up from my thoughts as if I'm dreaming. “Quit it, Kik.” She shakes her head, hoops twinkling and spiral curls bouncing. “Nuh-uh.” I smile. No one could easily

categorize her either. I know her mom's black. I've caught a glimpse of her; she’s dark like me. Kiki looks like a sister... but nah, she's got some white in her. Or Euro. Euro makes me think of Simone, of course. Now she has some interesting genetics. I want to know more. I don't need to know more. “Listen.” I turn to Kiki and she folds her arms over her tits. Somehow. They're double Ds. Thorn knows tits. I love tits. I remember Simone's in the palms of my hands. “God, are you, like, here? You okay?” Kiki asks. Not out of concern but

of the pissed off at you, not listening variety. “I'm okay, just distracted.” Kiki’s eyes chase the dial of her jumbo white wristwatch. “Well, ya better get undistracted because Simone will be here any damn second.” I know. It's driving me nuts. “I'm trying to pool our resources,” she says. “Haven't you tried to find out…” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “I mean, you're an undercover cop. Don't you have ways?” I laugh, folding my arms and leaning my butt against the desk. “It doesn't work like that, Kiki.” I scrub a hand over my short hair. The curl is coarse, springing back under my fingers.

She blows a chunk of hair out of her face and puts her hands on her hips. “Well, how does it work, Thorn?” I roll my eyes, asking for heavenly intervention. When I look back at Kiki, she's still waiting. “Tag's in charge of that. He's at the shop, gets his tech dick hard with all the crap.” I see Kiki make the connection, her face lighting up. “That's how you got to Simone!” I wince. “Caught you red-handed, pal.” True. “So just have Tag put the name Rex in the system. You know how to describe people...” “I was eight.”

Kiki hesitates then shrugs. “Rex isn't a real popular name. You think this pudwacker was a big deal?” I nod. “Yeah, without getting into the details—he wanted anonymity.” “What deets?” I look at her, and in that moment, my soul's bare. My eyes move to my feet, crossed at the ankle. They travel to the tats that cover the scars. “Grew up in Yesler.” “Me too,” Kiki says. My head snaps up. “I thought you were a lawyer?” She chuckles, rolling her eyes. They look like bitter chocolate. “Is this like when they say, ‘If she just lost weight,

she'd be pretty?’ Or”—she puts up a finger—“my fave, ‘You're pretty for a black girl.’” Her eyes narrow at me. Christ, I didn't think about any of that. Do people really say lame shit like that? Goddamned women peel the onion so thin you can see through the skin. “Fuck, Kiki, no!” I stand, my irritation level through the roof. Probably from no sleep and my dick trying to find a particular pussy. It's like a damn honing device gone spastic. I can't think, and I've suddenly ‘tarded out. I give a rough exhale. “I'm black too, if ya hadn't noticed. Ya got just enough junk in the trunk to satisfy, for fuck's sake!” I stab my hands in the air. “I was just saying if you lived in that

hood—damn, girl.” Our eyes meet. Understanding flows between us. “Yeah,” she says softly. A fat tear brims and spills over onto skin that's a light espresso with cream. She's beautiful. Kiki isn't black to me—or halfwhite or whatever the fuck else she is. She's a woman. I'm a man. I hate the categories that're made up by other humans who can't stand being in their own skin. Their discomfort with who they are doesn't mean jack to me. “So... drugs?” I ask. “Yeah.” “Prostitution?”

Kiki stares at me, giving a single nod. “You or your mom?” Horror washes over her expression like water on glass. Her face falls into her open hands. I take her by the shoulders. They round into my palms, and I grip tightly. “Thorn's here, Kik.” She sinks against me, and I hold her as she cries. For the both of us. Finally she moves away and dabs her eyes on her sleeve. I cock an eyebrow. She inhales sharply, letting the breath out in a mournful exhale. “Mom.” She went to my mom's funeral. She knows why Tasha died.

“Mine too,” I reply quietly, giving her more than I have to any human being. Mick knows. He was around for part of the fun. Aside from him, it's my bullshit and I own it. I study her face, the big puppy dog eyes, dark hair, and light mocha skin. “Your dad?” I know damn well I don't have the right to ask, but we're from the same neighborhood. We've both done okay. More than fucking okay. Somehow. Kiki shrugs, letting the sadness dry up. “My mom's still blasted all the time. She doesn't know... who he was.” I could slice her shame with a knife. She looks into my face. “I hid when the men were there.”

It sounds random. I know it's not. I jam my hands into the front pockets of my slacks and rock back on my heels. I blow out air. “Did they find you?” Her stare is my prisoner. I can't look away; neither can she. She doesn't answer. My head dips. “Me too.” My voice doesn't sound like my own. I told her something no one knows. Not even the mandatory cop shrink. I breathe evenly, feeling the sweat on my palms. My heart stutters in a chest grown cold with anxiety poised to engulf me. Fuck me, I'm losing it.

My fingers tingle. A fine tremble comes over my body. “Thorn,” Kiki says. My head feels hot. “Thorn!” Kiki’s voice comes from a distance. My chin lifts, and there she is. I never felt her hands. She's got a manic grip. Her eyes search mine. “I'm here, Thorn.” I don't say anything. I almost do. I reach, I yearn, stretching for something unobtainable. Unforgettable. Then Simone walks in. I don't think how it looks to have Kiki wrapping her arms around mine.

Those cool green eyes go frosty in the moment it takes her to walk through the door. Kiki looks between the two of us. The moment of bonding shatters. My next breath is shaky, but I'm getting crap under control. Kiki turns to me. “Are you shitting me?” “What?” I've been asking that question a lot lately. Kiki tilts her head. “Is there something going on between you and Simone?” I look at her for a heartbeat and say yes as Simone says no. We glare at each other.

Kiki laughs and claps. She points at me. “You, my man, move fast!” I give a disgusted sigh. “Not helpful, Kiki.” But my eyes are already sliding to Simone, the woman who would deny what stands between us. She stares back. Haughty, unmoved. She sure the fuck wasn't neutral when I was putting my hot dog in her roll. Helllll no. It was perfect and alive. Simone looks at Kiki from under her eyelashes. “We've met, Thorn and I.” Holy fuck, have we met. Kiki smirks at the two of us. She loops her arm through Simone's, turning

her back toward the door. “Simone's going to work poles first, then she can come back and do that lap for you, Thorn,” Kiki tosses over her shoulder. Yeah, I answer silently. Because I'm worried what I'll say if I actually open my yap. Simone never turns around, and my eyes are glued to her ass. I think about her finger in me as I was buried inside her. Sweat beads on my upper lip. Simone's got me in a damn lather. I don't think I can stand a lap with Simone without doing more. Much more. I hear the music come on for the

poles and know Kiki will show her the moves. I think Simone's moves are pretty good without any training.

EIGHT Simone I follow Kiki out to the main part of the Black Rose. I walk the perimeter of the dais. Etched mirrors look like fractured diamonds as they line the three-foot high platform. It's not for royalty, though it looks like a throne could be there. Instead, a pole spears the center of a narrow but perfectly circular island. Essentially, it's a runway leading to a stranded bit of dance floor with a lone pole, like a de-leafed metal palm tree in its center. Kiki turns, sees my expression, and sighs. “Listen, I know that dancing with

a bunch of horny trolls watching sucks. Pretend you're a ballerina.” I'm great at pretending. I’ve left my body in favor of my imagination many times. Not by choice. I’ve protected my mind many times, and my body when I could. “It's okay. The BR has a good rep.” Kiki nods, and I watch her hair, admiring the way the soft spirals just touch the top of her lower back. She pushes it away as I watch. “What?” she asks self-consciously. “Nothing.” I lift a shoulder and glance at my feet. The rug is still nice, unlike some of the strip joints I looked at. “Just… your hair's so nice.” I lift my chin and smile.

Kiki barks a laugh. “Girl, in the dictionary where it says hot, your picture is there.” Now it's my turn to be selfconscious. I shake my head a little. “I'm not uniform enough, blond enough—” Kiki covers my mouth with her hand. “Fuck that noise. You've got a little color in you, and it's all the right kind.” Kiki circles me. “Nice booty”—I feel my face flame—“good rack, black hair —very big.” I smile, cocking a hip. She's right about that. Kiki comes full circle, and her eyes land on mine. “And those eyes—wow.” “You sound like a guy, Kiki.” She nods. “I've had those monkeys

looking at me for four years. I know what's what. And you being exotic is not a problem. No offense against white chicks, but as a dancer, that might not be where it's at. Faren did okay.” Kiki presses a nail to her lip. “Who's Faren again?” I ask. Kiki's a breath of fresh air. There're a lot of things people don't say, and it gets tiresome. Sometimes I want to just know, even if it's not perfect. Just say the words. “She's my BFF. That girl—now there's a girl who’s been through some deep shit. Anyway”—Kiki's eyes brighten—“she said she had ‘white girl pancake assʼ.” “What?” I laugh.

Kiki nods as if we're discussing religion. “God's honest.” She crosses her heart. “She told me that if she hadn't had years of ballet, her ass would be part of her thigh. But this?” Kiki grabs my ass, and I bark out a laugh. “This is some prime black booty.” She squeals in delight. “I'm only part,” I say, my smile so wide it hurts on my face. I decide I love Kiki. She's so vital. Kiki jerks her chin back, and her huge hoops skate across her collarbone. “Listen, it only takes a drop or two to have this.” Kiki turns and does this thing where her ass cheeks jiggle independently of each other. Not like Jell-O, like—independent

movement. “Oh my God!” I clap my hand over my mouth. Sometimes I slip up. What came out of my mouth was mon dieu! Kiki straightens, and turning, she grins. She nods really slowly. “See? Exotic!” She points at me. “Thorn told me you were French!” Kiki gyrates her hips, thrusting them in my direction with one hand piled in her hair. “Ooh, la, la!” I cringe at the accent. I love Americans, but sometimes they're just so much. They seem to fill up the space and steal the oxygen. Kiki laughs, bouncing to standing again. “What?” Her eyes scan my face.

She sweeps a dismissive palm my way. “God, you and Thorn... so elitist!” I frown. “No, don't give me that mug. I don't speak anything but the Queen's English so roll with it.” I remember something. “You're a lawyer.” Kiki goes up the steps at the back of the runway, very near where I'll go on stage. “Kinda—pre-law.” “So you've given up the dancing? How will you pay for law school?” Her gaze sparkles at me. I see determination, and I'm intrigued. “I'm going to suck up some crummy student loans.” She swings her hair over

her shoulder and glances at me. “I've done my time at the poles. It paid the bills, got me through pre-law debt-free, and I have a nice little lily pad downtown.” I hold my expression. Where I live is only known by Thorn, and I have a feeling he won't say. Seedy is anonymous, and I can fly under the radar there. Because I am being hunted. They will try to find me. Their prize mule gone? Their beautiful, mixed-looking benign quadlingual female? No, they'll come hunting. But I won’t make it easy. “Hey, girl—you've got the same

concentration problem Thorn has.” Kiki frowns. “Yes, sorry.” “No need,” Kiki says. “Watch.” The music is loud but not overbearing. She's at the start of the runway. Puzzle pieces of colored light land on her flesh, and their twirling is a nauseating dance of primary colors that fall like pieces of jagged rain. Kiki throws her shoulders back, and like a tiger, she prowls. Her dark hair shines like melted chocolate. Large, curling spirals take off from her head and land between shoulder blades that jut with her strut. Her ass undulates with round muscles that are somehow smooth as she strides on the balls of her feet.

Working in tandem, her butt cheeks move separately. I know she does squats or something similar. That level of graceful athleticism isn't achieved without work and practice. Like karate. Her heels click as she circles the pole, slender fingers wrapped around the metal rod. An image of Thorn's cock and my hand collides with the image in front of me. My imagination rolls with that scene. My breaths come hard and fast. I curse him. Kiki slings her leg around the pole and spins. That gorgeous hair tips back and grazes the ground at her feet. She jerks herself up and drops in a

crouch, ass to heels, and slides up, letting her sex barely touch the pole between her hands. Kiki hops, her legs apart and thrusts forward, letting the bar split her through the hot pink leotard. I watch the lips of her pussy wrap the pole. She moves backward... and forward. I'm dumbstruck. She pops her eyes open. “Getting this, Simone?” She humps the bar then slides down. She reverses her position, showing me her ass, and slides down the pole, her butt spread wide. Then she jiggles it all the way up the pole. Kiki takes off the top of her two-

piece leotard with a tweak of a tie and spins it away. It floats to one of the tables and lands over the unlit jar candle in the center. Her naked breasts heave as she spins around the pole in a huge loop and dive. Her head tips back, and her tits move backward toward her neck. She pops up, grabbing her breasts. She uses her hands as a pseudo bra and lifts, sculpting them like a push-up. “See how it works?” she asks. A male voice says from the back, “I do.” I turn toward a tall man in a suit I instantly know is hand-tailored for his body.

And what a body he has. Deliberately sloppy dark blond hair dumps over deep golden-brown eyebrows, and his eyes are so light blue they're like glaciers. They pierce the gloom, miss me entirely, and tag on Kiki. She looks as though she wants to barf. She's disrobed in front of all kinds of men, so why does this one make her stare like a wounded deer caught in headlights. The guy strolls to where her pink top landed a few minutes ago, and he picks it up with two fingers. His hand moves to his nose, the pink strings dangling from tapered and elegant fingers. He inhales deeply, a secret smile playing on his lips.

God. I watch it play out in high-def. Kiki is covering her breasts, her eyes round. “This isn't funny, Chet.” I turn back to the man approaching the stage. Cocky. My eyes scan him head to toe. Rich. Italian shoes, hand-engineered cologne. The bouquet sits just out of my memory's reach. His button-down shirt appears casual, but the cufflinks easily cost three thousand dollars, platinum with small glittering diamonds. Jet black. Chet dumps his expensive suit coat

over the back of one of the chairs as his thighs press against the lip of the stage. My eyes move to Kiki, who resiliently stands her ground. “Give me the top, Chet.” He shakes his head, and all that gorgeous hair slides around his neck, a cascade of low gold that nearly touches his shoulders. He folds his arms, the halter top embedded between heavily muscled arms that stretch the pale lavender shirt. “No,” he answers softly. “Come and get it.” So far, Chet doesn't notice me. “I'm training here, Sinclair,” she says. Kiki desperately throws a pass.

I fumble but receive. I turn to look at him, and those eyes nail me like icy bullets. A flutter of moments pass while he takes me in. Then he dismisses me, and I instantly feel better, as though a cloud has passed over sun too hot to bear. “That's not relevant, Kiki.” She stomps a high heel, and Chet smirks. “So is this, chump. Why are you here? For Mick? Use the phone, asshole.” I cover my mouth as Thorn enters the stage. The music thumps and the lights continue to pound Kiki with falling slices of color.

Thorn walks right up to Chet and takes a long look at him. His eyes fall over Chet’s shoulder at me, then move to Kiki. He lingers longest on her, and jealousy that is both instant and vicious sinks into me like smoke through cracks. I seethe, hating myself for caring. She’s a half-naked woman. It makes sense that Thorn would look at her the longest. “What the fuck are you doing here, Chet?” Thorn asks. Chet smiles. “Please.” His eyes flick to Kiki. “Call me Sin.” Thorn pulls a face. “Fuck that.” Thorn jabs a thumb at the door. “Leave through where you came. You want to watch the girls get their groove on?

Come back when it's operational.” “Mick said I could come by anytime.” I move closer and catch Chet’s eyes flash to Thorn. Thorn moves in until their chests are almost touching. “Good. News. Then.” Thorn plugs a thumb in Chet’s muscular chest. I gulp. Testosterone swarms the area like tear gas, and Kiki and I look at each other. “Since I'm manager, I'll go ahead and manage, douche.” “Here, Kiki, my sweet.” Chet flings the top toward Kiki. She catches it, and her beautiful

breasts are revealed for that second it takes her to catch it. Chet Sinclair loves her body with his eyes, smiling slightly when she slams her bits back into the halter. Thorn hesitates and my breath catches as he grabs Chet by the expensive collar.

NINE Thorn Chet's pansy cologne fills my lungs, burning my nerves along with insulting me with the cost. Fucker. He laughs in my face. I want to punch his teeth down his throat. Not liking the way he's sniffing around Kik. I wouldn't like it even if she dug him, but it doesn't seem like she does. “Wrecking my shirt, caveman,” Chet says in a low voice of warning. Thing is, I tighten my grip to a stranglehold, he would be tough to put

down. Chet's put himself through the paces of every kind of body conditioning and martial arts available. He's got the money for it. The time. God knows he probably smokes cigars while chucking bundles of cash in an incinerator at his McMansion somewhere in a neighborhood like Medina. I drop my hands and slash my eyes to Kiki briefly. She's dressed. “Thorn!” a female screams. It's like I hit my funny bone. Nails down a chalk board. Sticking my finger in a light socket. That voice lights me up from the inside out.

Simone. Her throaty tone has vanished, replaced with a high-pitched keening not of fear but warning. I turn back to Chet and meet his fist. It's not a glancing blow, and I see stars. I begin to topple like a mighty tree. My focus spins. Sharpens. I've been blurry and disoriented so many times, I absolutely go automatic. I let the primal boy out to play in the sandbox with Chet. I slash out blindly, striking hard where the mass of his body is located. I automatically guess where his sternum would be. “Holy fucking crow!”

I don't listen to Kiki. My red veil of rage descends, and I roll with my strike, landing on Chet. He maneuvers in a hip swivel, dislodging me in a classic counter. I bounce to my feet, and so does he. His perfectly tousled hair looks pretty fucked up. Loving it. I move my punch from my shoulder, and he blocks it with a forearm. He grunts, and I know I've numbed his arm. Chet moves in tight. At six feet two, he's an inch shorter than me and twenty pounds lighter, but he's so fast, he floats. Lunging low, he rolls from the hips and grabs me around the waist, tossing me on a table.

I bring my knee up, aiming for his balls. Assuming he's got some. He turns, protecting the jewels and I palm his head into the table. Boom. The crack of his skull resonates in time to the music. He jams the heel of his palm into my chin. Something pulls on me, and my instinct is to backhand whatever is on me. “Thorn.” A soft voice pulls me back as my chin strains against Sinclair's hand. “Chet!” Kiki screams. His hand releases my chin as he smoothly rolls off the round table by the

stage. We square off, the table between us. Kiki looks like a Barbie dipped in pink. So small and curvy, sitting on the stage glaring at Chet. He laughs, wiping his bleeding mouth. His eyes shoot a glance over her shoulder at me. “Have the girls protecting you now, Ty?” I hate his rich ass. I go to move around Simone when she moves into the line of Chet's body. His eyes widen. Then his head rocks back. The sound of slapped flesh eclipses the music. Simone doesn't hit like a girl. I know that first hand, Sinclair doesn't.

Sinclair shakes his head to clear it. His fists clench. I move Simone. “Don't, Thorn. If he thinks he's man enough, he can bring it,” she says. “Oh my God, Simone,” Kiki says, worry lighting up her face. “Don't... Fuck this, don't get between two dudes. Just sayinʼ.” “Their gender isn't relevant,” Simone says, her eyes never leaving Chet. Chet narrows his gaze on her. Her palm print is an angry mar against his fair skin. “I don't strike women.” There’s a beat of silence as the music cuts to a new song.

“I don't need your help, Simone,” I say. “I'm aware. I'm stopping the violence,” she says. What? “We through?” Simone asks. Sinclair butchers her with his arrogant stare. I want to beat him twice for the way he looks at her. She lifts her chin in response. Unflappable. Hot as fuck. Chet dismisses her and turns to Kiki. “Nice performance, Kandace.” Kiki looks at me then Simone. Finally, she looks at Chet. “Thanks,

I guess.” It's a rare thing to see Kik flustered —speechless. Kiki walks over to stand in front of him. “I—listen, I don't know what this is about...” She glares at me. I step back, throwing up my palms. “It's his bullshit. Chet Sinclair can visit the Black Rose anytime as a paying lech. Doesn't need to come at practice time.” “It was my understanding Kandace was no longer employed here. Yet, for the sake of being thorough, here I am. And here she is.” He spreads his hands away from his body with an arrogant smirk. I hate when he calls Kiki Kandace. Lots of hate for Chet-boy.

Kiki exhales in a huff. “I don't... but I'm training a new girl.” Chet runs his eyes over Kiki, and I want to beat on him again. I must make a move toward him, because Simone puts her hand on my arm. I look at her. Green pools of water look back. Calm like the sea. Endless. She gives a little shake of her head, so I notch my shit down, but it's ugly. Kiki fumes. “I can't have you coming here and beating up Thorn.” I make a noise. “He was not beating me up.” “I'm no pussy, Thorn,” Chet says. Why does that word sound so great coming out of the right mouth and so

wrong out of his? “Well, I have one, and I'm not one either,” Simone says. My lips quirk. I cover my smile with my hand, faking a small cough. God damn, does she have one. Chet tries not to smile and blows it, laughing. “Clearly.” “Fine.” Kiki’s hands going to her hot pink hips. “Does everyone have the stick out of their asses so we can begin acting like adults?” Chet glares at me but gives the chin dip that serves as nodding for the dickhead. “Yeah,” I agree, folding my arms. “Okay... God, ya pack of infants.” Kiki throws a look at Simone and stalks

off. “Come on, doll. Let's kick it into gear.” Simone turns, and I snap my eyes to hers. They'd been glued to her ass. Again. “You two get lost.” She looks at Chet. “You especially.” Chet Sinclair just grins, hands in his pockets. He's got a torn silk shirt that costs more than a week of my pay, and I make good bank. His face is swelling where I lovetapped his jaw. But he'll go away and get all doctored and adored because he shits money. Unlike my billionaire best bud Mick

McKenna, this prick was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. I frown. Nah, it was gold. And he's jonesing after Kiki. That's not my problem even though I'm a little overprotective of that chick. The girl I'm distracted over is getting ready to dryhump the pole. I'm dying to watch. I'm not proud of not being able to stay away, but it is what it is. I want to slide into her while she writhes underneath me on the stage. I shift my weight, hiding my boner. Kiki looks at me as I stare at Simone. Simone doesn't see me watching

because she's wrapping her sexy ankles in strappy heels. Kiki points at the hall that leads to the exit. Fuck. I stalk off. My injuries where Sinclair hit me throb; my ego is bruised to the core. That's the worst pain of all.

TEN Simone I breathe a sigh of relief as Chet and Thorn leave. “Is that... normal?” Kiki crosses her arms, hiking her considerable tits. “Well, Thorn and Chet don't get along that great.” I laugh. “Yeah, obviously.” I bend over to stretch, warming up for my practice set. Silence around Kiki is so unusual I look up, my fingers wrapped around my toes, my knees locked. My ponytail swings into my line of sight, and I toss it behind my shoulder. “Thorn has become overprotective

since this bullshit happened with my friend last year,” Kiki said. “What bullshit?” I press my forehead to my left knee. “Some crazy-ass was stalking her, and... he tried to kill her.” I whip my head up and stand. “Are you kidding?” Kiki jerks her face back, insulted. “Do I look like I'm kidding?” She doesn't. I blow out some air and press my forehead to the opposite knee, thinking about Thorn. Actually, he's never left my thoughts. “Faren used to do this revolving lap club Thorn had going on...”

“Above board?” I ask against my right knee. I hear Kiki's hair swish against her outfit and realize the music's been turned off. “Nah, it was illegal.” So Thorn’s willing to do things his boss isn't. Like screwing the dancers on their kitchen tables. I stand. Kiki looks around. “Damn, they cut the music. I'm gonna go get the musical loop started. Be right back!” Kiki walks off, and I practice walking down the runway. I'm used to heels from all the traveling I've done. I’ve walked irregular stairs, pathways, airports, and hauled luggage in those

things. Under duress. I get into the zone: feeling nothing, thinking nothing. It's like taking a breath. My body remembers and cooperates. I prowl down the runway. The goal is the pole. I move to the pole and grip it with my left hand as my right knee glides up the cold, smooth metal. I arch and undulate like a snake. The metal kisses my pussy then my stomach. My breasts wrap around it, and I throw back my head. My hair whispers along the lowest part of my spine as I reverse the serpent's ripple. I glide down the pole, my legs widening and toes pointed out.

I land in a perfect parody of the splits, my flexibility superb because of the dojo. My head grazes the pole as though in supplication. I take a breath in the stagnate quiet. I look up and see him standing there. I startle, hitting my head hard on the pole with a sharp, ringing clap. My Shepard. He has found his missing sheep. I bounce to my feet, keeping my arms loose. He keeps his distance. Shepard has one testicle now. I bashed in the other. We eye each other like opponents on the mat.

“Simone,” he says casually, though it is anything but. “Shepard.” “You've led us on a merry chase.” I don't change my ready stance. I wish I had better shoes on, though I can fight in heels if pressed. “You look beautiful.” He smiles, and it doesn't reach his eyes. “Fuck off,” I say in English. It fades and he raises his hands. “Keep them where I can see them, Shep.” He inclines his head. His arrogant and handsome face is feral, dusky and resolute. “Simone, you know you've left us

in”—he rolls his eyes to the ceiling—“a lurch, as the charming Americans call it.” I bark out a laugh. “That's rich. I served my time. I no longer answer to la foule Français.” Shepard's face grows dark. “How beautiful our mother tongue rolls off your lips; how vile are the words you speak.” I take a deep breath. He's being reasonable. For now. “Use another girl.” His eyebrows lift. They’re black like his hair, dark like his midnight eyes. “There are no other girls who have your unique... attributes.” He knots his hands behind his back.

Hands that have beaten me. Hands that have loved me. His hands make me shake with fear. I’m so pissed I want to scream. A small noise comes from behind me, and though I wish to turn, I don't. I won't make an amateur move like that. Music pours out of the sound system, thumping. A spray of colorful lights land like cut glass on my skin. They land on Shepard as well. They cut his face in multicolored shapes that look like jeweled blood. I shiver, then Kiki is at my elbow. “Okay, sweet thing, let's see what you got.” I know when she sees Shepard.

She moves in front of me. “Who the fuck are you?” I smile. The better I come to know Kiki, the better I like her. Shepard sighs in frustration. He hates witnesses. Kiki comes off as bold and mildly crude, but the reality is she's smart, and she doesn't take the time to impress others with how they perceive her. “I am an acquaintance of Simone.” The ultimate lie. I can't risk Kiki's life, so I hold my tongue. Kiki turns to look at me, and Shep blows me a kiss when she can't see him. My hate blooms like a horrible flower, rolling off the petals like

stamens exhausted of their poisonous dust. She turns back to Shep. “Yʼknow, I don't believe you. Simone doesn't look like she wants to be very acquainted with you, so why don't you just take your pompous ass out that door?” Kiki points at the brightly lit exit sign. “This is off hours, pal. We don't want any scrubs until it's time.” She shrugs. He doesn’t move. His dark eyes find mine. “Are ya thick?” Kiki asks as his gaze slides to her. “Who are you?” he asks. I tense. “I'm the chick who is showing you

the door—now skedaddle.” A subtle flutter erupts in his jaw. Shepard isn’t accustomed to being told what to do. He steps toward us. I lower into a crouch, stepping beside Kiki. I see her turn toward me in my peripheral vision. “What. The. Fuck? This day has a case of The Dumbs!” Things get complicated when Thorn walks in, sees the three-way tension, and strides over to us. Mon dieu!

ELEVEN Thorn I never second guess my shit. Simone changes that. With a look, a movement of her eyes, the windows to her soul say so much. She's wrung my dick out in twenty-four hours flat. Is this fucking love or some shit? Because I didn't sign up for this. I throw an ice pack on my throbbing face. That dickhead Chet Sinclair. Why Mick deals with Chet is beyond me. Must be something I'm not seeing. Holding the icepack on the forward part of my jaw, I rip open my mini-fridge and grab a water. Need to cool off.

I finally have my hard-on under control, but my face hurts like hell, and I'm so gritty, I feel my anger rub against me like sugar gone bad. It covers me from head to toe. I roll the cool surface of the water bottle against my forehead, liking the silence for once. Usually the club has the tunes hard-hitting the entire day as dancers practice mid-day for sets that night. I walk to my desk and thunk down in the swivel chair, trying to open the books and get my head into bean counting. Mick likes his reports. They keep his finger on the fiscal pulse of the BR. After a few moments, I find myself

staring off in space, thinking about Simone. I shake my head. I need to avoid her. She's just a fine, fine lay. I remember her face as she looked up at me, imploring me to stop fighting Chet. I laugh out loud, shaking my head; she thinks to defend me. I don't know what to do with that. I can protect her, probably better than she can herself. Simone's got skills, no doubt, but she's still female. Not much of a match for Sinclair. I hear he likes shit rough. Pretty controlled bastard. I saw in his eyes he wanted to hit her. A tightness grows in my chest, and I try to put it out. Like a forest fire, no

matter how much I nail it with my extinguisher, the flame of tenderness burns brighter. I've never had anyone stand up for me. Mick has, but this is different. Simone has everything to lose. She walloped that rich turd Sinclair without a thought to the consequences. What if he'd gone to town on her? Did she think about it? I don't think so. The music blasts on suddenly. I sit up in my chair. The girls putting on a new music loop? I frown. A nagging feeling overwhelms me. It's that same instinct that had saved my ass about five hundred

times. Screw women's intuition. Thorn's intuition is solid. I walk to the door, turn the handle, and exit my office. At the end of the hall, I see some cat. He puts me on point immediately. There's no passing go with this dude. He's bad news. It comes off him in waves. I love that my skin is the darkest shade of brown. Shadows are my friends. I take in the situation from the dim corners of the dancing arena. It's only when Simone crouches into a defensive stance that I reveal myself.

* No guy alive doesn't take in the physical potential of another male when they enter a space. Some dudes do it quicker than others. Some do it when it's too late. It takes me the length of a heartbeat for an assessment that's as natural as breathing. There are degrees of readiness. Mine's honed like a weapon, and so is his. I'm not put off by his nancy suit and suave looks. Handsome doesn’t negate the world of evil. In Thorn's experience, pretty often means cruel. “We're closed now,” I say. “If you

want to see the girls dance, you need to come back tonight at seven.” His chin kicks up, and I think it makes a damn good bull’s-eye. Nah... it's a hair low. He watches me like a bird of prey, and I slow my stride, giving myself room. I chance a glance at Simone and see she's moved farther back. I take her retreat for the warning it is. She's afraid of fancy pants. If she is, then I’ll proceed with caution. Simone knows how to handle herself. “I come in the capacity as Simone's employer.” Kiki snorts in disbelief, and my

bullshit meter goes through the stratosphere. “Oh yeah?” I place my hands lightly on my hips. Ready. He mirrors me. Not good. “I'm Simone's boss. She doesn't have time for part-time gigs with smarmy dudes.” He insults me in French. I already recognized his accent. I have an ear for it. I learned French first, and it assimilates just like English to my ear. No hiccups. I feel my lips pull into a smirk. “That might be, ya douche, but if I'm an imbecile and an oaf, than you're a bigger one for assuming it.”

The girls gasp, and he narrows his eyes at me. I see not much surprises this prick. I get a sweet stab of joy that I have. Questions sprout in my mind like out-of-control weeds. Who is this prick? And why does he want Simone? Certainty that mimics pain drives up from my feet and lands with a thud that becomes a light headache. He's not having Simone. No one is. It's one of those shitty moments in life when you know you can't rule your bullshit. It rules you. “I don't recognize which province you hail from?” He sounds like a Parisian asshole. Same accent as Simone.

“I'm Haitian,” I reply in French, not that I need to explain dick to him. “Ah,” he says softly, tipping his head back in smug confirmation. “That explains so much.” I'm ready to put him back in his under-the-rock place he crawled out of when Kiki pipes in. “Okay, this all sounds pretty and that, but I think you guys are circling another fight, so you”—Kiki points at Frenchie—“leave. Come back when all the other paying guys do.” “Or not,” I add, still in French. His eyes cut to me. I keep mine on him like a dog fighting for dominance. The silence fills with loud music, never once taking the swollen feeling

from the air. Simone's silence has so much weight. I can't look at her right now. This guy seems to be waiting for my guard to drop. Not. Gonna. Happen. He swings his head, and I know he's looking at Simone. “I will talk with you at a later date.” She doesn't answer. He turns to me. “Who are you?” I ask. He smiles, and it's genuine. It makes my primal alarm system sing like a canary. “They call me Shepard.” That's so bizarre it's poetic. He lifts an eyebrow, and I return the

favor. “Thorn.” Shepard opens his mouth and laughs, throwing back his head. “That's precious, really.” “Why?” I ask. His smile vanishes like sunlight behind a storm cloud. “Why the moniker?” he asks. I nod. Fancy mouth to go with his fancy duds. “I tend my flock.” He speaks to me, but his eyes are all for Simone. I don't like where this creep is looking. I move in front of her. He frowns. “You are named for something that has beauty.” I shake my head.

“Thorn makes things bleed.” The unspoken warning lies between us. “Touché,” he answers softly. With a searching look, he turns on his heel and walks out. The very room breathes easier without him around. A new complication. I turn around to get some damn answers from Simone. She's gone. Kiki and I look at each other and she shakes her head. Simone has disappeared like a ghost. One thing's for sure: She haunts me.

TWELVE Simone I'm running again. Tears burn my eyes as I hold them open against the wind as I jog. I reach the door, jam my key into the entrance of my apartment, and swing that first door open. It opens easily and closes softly behind me. My heels clatter on the six steps to my apartment door. It's off the hinges, scattered like a wooden sheet of paper on the floor. I survey the mess while flipping my small baton, letting my keys succumb to gravity as I swing the fob forward of my body.

Without a door, it’s easier to enter without worrying about a bad guy hiding behind it. I hear a noise and recognize it for what it is: a drawer being tossed. My heels are left behind. I pad bare-footed across a minefield of dumped knick knacks, silverware, broken glass, and kitchen debris. I use stealth that is learned, holding hands out for balance as though walking a tightrope. I'm on the balls of my feet, and they swivel as I assure my footing on the carpeted hallway. The escape routes are behind me. It fills me with unease. Two exits are always better than one. I close my eyes. Small noises alert

me I have one, maybe two intruders. I open my eyes and weave down the hall like a dancer entering the stage. The bathroom door is to my right, and I hear makeup and bottles being shifted. Someone is rummaging through my things. My heart thumps, blood rushing like a river of noise inside my ears. I swallow. I blink slowly again, steeling myself to do what needs to be done. Straight ahead is the tiny bedroom that houses more than my escape duffel. Another man is there. It's not Shep. He never does his own dirty work. I move to the frame of the bathroom

doorway. The space between that door and the bedroom is three meters. I won't be able to surprise them both, but I can't have bad guy number one behind me. That's just bad form. I turn in a half circle, and his eyes meet mine in the mirror as I move in behind him. His eyes widen in the reflection. I strike him at the back of the neck with a precise tap that is as deliberate as it is forceful. I'm too small to catch him and make it quiet. Besides, his lack of tearing through my crap will alert bad guy number two. Too late. I spin out of the bathroom as number

one falls in a loud heap of garbage on linoleum. Bad guy number two is already moving to meet my dance steps. At this level of thug, gender means nothing. He assesses me as a threat. As he should. He strikes me hard. I block with my left arm, but it still glances off my chest. The blow numbs me from forearm to wrist, but I jab my six-inch solid steel baton into his Adam's apple, crushing his esophagus. He tries to howl, but I've made that impossible. He's a gasping fish without breath. I move in. I let the keychain fall as I palm the back of his head, and my left

knee meets his nose. It splits like a ripe cantaloupe. I hesitate as he staggers backward. Do it, Simone. I choke back a guttural sob of advance remorse. Women are supposed to give life, not take it. I suck in a breath. It's me or them. I don't have room for a kick. I flat palm the heel of my hand into his wrecked nose, driving the shards of cartilage into his brain. He spasms. Gorge rises. I stifle it. Not done yet. I hit the throat a second time with my bare hand. Powerfully.

Finally. His head rocks back and he falls like a tree that's been cut. His body slams on the floor with a thud that echoes in the apartment. I straighten. Closing my eyes and breathing deeply of the death I created, I hear no movement. Then a sound reaches me from down the hall. Like a cat, I spin toward that small noise, my hackles rising. Thorn moves into the doorway at the end of the gangplank of a corridor, a gun naked in his hand. Fuck. I can't kill him. I'm too deep in to play the victim. I can't tell him the truth.

Lies won't do. For the first time in years, I don't know how to handle this mess. My eyes flick to bad guy number one. He still isn't moving from his spot on the bathroom floor. The priorities of survival float to the surface like cream in milk. Emergency duffel. Ignoring Thorn, I pivot and dive for my closet. Tearing it open, I grab a compartmentalized black duffle. It has all that I need. I breathe a sigh of relief that Shepard’s dogs didn't sniff it out. It would cripple me. I jerk it out of the closet, my eyes sweeping the room. They land on my

assailant for a moment then move on. The cops will want to know how this happened. Thankfully I have no record in either system, and the name on the apartment lease is false. As is the name I go by now. Simone Balland is one of several aliases, but it was my favorite. It'll have to go away. Part of it comes from my family. Not that I think about where I come from. Ever. Thorn is moving down the hall. “Are you okay?” I nod. His hand grips the door jamb of the bathroom. Feet dangle out into the hall.

He crouches, feeling for a pulse. “He's alive.” Thorn stands, his frame so large he dwarfs the hall. His dark skin blends into the shadows. His expressive eyes seek my face. He's a beautiful man. I want him. We always want that which we cannot have. Thorn's gaze shifts to the intruder at my feet. I scoop up my keys with the baton. Our eyes notice the blood at the same time. “I've seen a few dead bodies in my time, Simone,” Thorn says. It strikes me as odd phrasing.

I have too. “Yes?” He doesn't respond. We stare at each other over the body. I need to get out of here and run. Again. Thorn holds out his hand, palm up. I stand there for a full minute, staring at what he offers. His hand never wavers, trembles, or disappears. Tears that haven't been shed in a decade scatter my vision of his unspoken offer like fairy dust thrown on water. His flesh wavers like a mirage. Maybe it's not real. I move my hand out, seeking. I touch his, and he grips my hand,

engulfing mine. He pulls me over the corpse and into his arms. I shake my head. “I can't.” Then I bawl. I sob as I never have before. I'm so tired of this life. Scared. So filled with empty I'm frozen in place. “Thorn's here,” he murmurs against my temple, his big body covering mine as I shake with sorrow against him. He wraps all my hair into his fist and presses my face against his chest so tight I can't move. I’m not frightened. I feel safe. Selfish. Right.

THIRTEEN Thorn “ʼKay, are we just a couple of fools, or what?” Kiki asks over the blaring music. Maybe. I look at where Shepard just exited then where Simone had stood behind me. The mystery shrouding Simone deepens, and I can't have this shit. My emotional rocker is in tough shape. Even I have to admit that. My mom just died. Bio-dad needs to be found. He has to atone. Period. I've got some girl I'm crazy for mixed up in something bad—I can smell

it. She’s also a martial arts expert. But she wants to be an exotic dancer. Maybe “wants” isn’t the right word. Maybe has to works better. I think of Faren briefly, about how she was hiding in plain sight. “I don't know what's going on exactly,” I yell over the din. Giving up, I turn. I gotta get outta here, find Simone. If I'm honest with myself, which usually isn't a challenge, I'll just admit she's got me in knots of worry. Shepard is bad news. Bad for her. I'd stake my life on it, and I just might have to. Kiki jogs after me, her heels like spikes of noise between the beat of the

music. “Thorn! Wait up...” I only think of Simone, consumed with her safety. She catches up to me striding out toward the exit. “Hold up, fucker!” I turn, and Kiki literally bounces into the wall of my chest. I grab her as she falls backward. “Gah!” she wails. “Don't just go off half-cocked! Use the big head, pal.” Half-cocked. Yeah. I drop my hands, and she rubs her arms where I held her. The sunlight hits me as I move through the employee exit at the back. She slowly walks through. It slams shut, and I glance back at

the smooth door. Exit only, it's smooth where a handle would be. We can't have dickholes sneaking in through the back. That was my idea. Cut the security bullshit in half. It doesn't allow someone in without a code. My mind circles around Sinclair and Shepard. Kiki looks at me. “Okay.” She blows a curl out of her face, and it promptly pops back into place. “Simone has some bad ass French a-hole after her.” This I know. I twirl my hand to keep her talking. I want to get to Simone, like, yesterday.

I scan the parking lot and see Simone’s vintage VW bug is missing. “Thorn... is he, is he French like you?” Kiki asks. I remember his voice, his accent. “No, not like me. Different countries. He's city, Paris. Haiti is another world.” A world of mixed cultures, ethnicity, Creole peoples, and voodoo. No, it's not like Paris; not like France. Just the same language, yet—not. Hard to explain that all to Kik. “Oh,” she says in a small voice. “I think Simone is running, and trouble has found her.” I level a look at Kiki. “I agree.”

“What're you going to do?” I laugh bitterly. “Why is this my issue?” Kiki grins. “So you went blazing out of the Black Rose to catch some fresh air? You searched the parking lot for her car ‘cause you give less than a shit? Right—don't blow me, Thorn.” Right. I can't fucking believe this. I peg my hands on my hips, chin down, eyes on the ground. I'm so mad I could scream. The seconds slide by while Kiki waits for a response I don't want to give. “I fucking dig her, ʼkay? Happy?” I growl. The silence pounds me like the heat of the sun above us. “That's why I asked you to take care

of her. She's the ying to your yang.” I lift my head. “What kind of psycho-babble is that?” Kiki lifts a shoulder, pushing her hoop with it. “The kind that's true, dude.” I storm off, pacing the open asphalt between the cars. “Fuck!” I kick a tire that's close and plow through the rows of parked cars. I can't go after her. Too. Fucking. Vulnerable. Too much of a fucking pussy move. I lift my head, and Kiki's watching, her eyes solemn. She says, “Just go after her. That fucker's bad news. Isn't your cop gut telling you that?” I kick a rock, and it hits the building

like a missile, popping a chunk out of the corner trim like a loose tooth. Hell no, it's not telling me. It's shouting it. I hate how goddamned smart she is. I stare at Kiki, daring her to say more. ʼCuz she's Kiki, she does. “Just go.” I throw my hands down like pistons at my sides. “God!” I bellow, hands clenching into fists, the cords of my neck like ropes strung taut. He doesn't listen. It's time to listen to myself. I don't look at Kiki. I pull my keys out of my pocket and stride to my Porsche. I break every law getting to

Simone's shitty addy. Not wanting to. Praying I'm not too late. * I cuff the steering wheel for immobility, tweak the alarm on, and shut the door. The cherry I leave on the roof. Let the dredges take my cop's light. It serves as identifier and warning in one red orb. I sprint to her apartment entrance. I look in either direction. Humanity’s indifference meets me at all sides. The latch had been compromised. The metal tongue that engages the striker

has been covered with tape. Fuck me. I tear the door open, run and leap over the short flight of steps to her apartment, landing on the balls of my feet at the base of the stairwell. I grunt softly at the impact. I have my gun in my palm before I've thought to do it. The door to Simone's apartment covers broken remnants of the contents of her apartment like a boogie board on top of an ocean. I don't surf it, but move between the islands of broken glass and tossed drawer contents. Someone's been searching. None too subtle either.

I wind my fingers around the grip of my weapon. The gun comes up, rounding each corner before me. I sweep the piece in my path. Silence greets me. I'm on intimate terms with the quality of silence, and this one has people in it. I don't know how I understand it, but it’s one of the aptitudes that allowed me to survive my childhood and nail perps by intuitive leaps of logic. I employ that now. I move into a shadowed hallway, gun first. I slide my arm down the hallway, dipping a sliver of my face into the hall like a crescent moon.

Nothing. Not a breeze, movement, shift or hint of anything. There are people here. I move into the center of the hall, a bigger target there isn't. So does Simone. I almost raise my gun, but her figure is all aligned in the curves of a woman. I recognize female instantly. I shove the gun into the back waistband of my pants. Simone watches me with shocky eyes. I move toward her slowly, feeling as though she'll spook. I ask her if she's all right, and she mouths yes when her eyes say no. Eyes can speak if you look hard enough.

My gaze shifts to an open doorway to my right, flicking back to hers. She tracks my movements. Glass and harsh light greet me in the bathroom next to me. A body is on the floor. Caucasian male, early thirties, two hundred... six feet tall. The assessment is automatic. I sink to a crouch and check the pulse at his carotid artery. Steady, but out cold. I stand. Simone is just standing there. Early shock. I scan her body for wounds. There's a red mark at her sternum in the deep vee of her leotard. Solid hit.

Rage surfaces inside me at the thought of anyone touching her in violence. A second thought hits me. Someone already has, and not just today. Simone is no stranger to violence. My eyes slide from the fresh wound to her hand. She's holding that small metal baton. I blink at the solid stainless rod. It's shaped like a dowel, maybe half a foot in length, half inch in diameter. It's coated with blood. My gaze lands on the perp at her feet. He's gone. He's got the look. There's something about a body without life. It doesn't look asleep; it lacks animation.

Our eyes meet. She seems to sway. Her eyes talk what her mouth can't. Simone looks at me with need. I realize I need her more. I hold out my hand to her. It's the bravest thing I've ever done. The body between separates us in death. Our lives stand at either side, but strangely parallel. I wish I'd seen it earlier. But Thorn is a master at denial. My palm floats in the air, disembodied and adrift. The seconds tick past. It's forever. A lifetime. My chest grows heavy with shame. Her rejection is more than my fragile little secret set of emotions can stand.

I didn't realize I had any left. I'm naked before Simone. I'm naked without her. Her hand sliding into mine is like cool water, and that knot of pain releases and becomes warm. I pull her over the corpse and into my arms. I want to cry for the first time since I was that eight-year-old boy watching my natural father beat my drugged mother. Then Simone does, and I don't have to. She cries for us both. “Thorn's here,” I say softly, holding her against me and folding all that kinky black hair into my fist as though it's a

rope that tethers us. It's so soft in my hand.

FOURTEEN Simone I'm so full of shame I think it leaks onto Thorn. I can't stop holding his hand. He hasn't let go of me since he pulled me out of that shithole. Thorn scooped up my duffel bag and dragged me out of my bedroom. When I hesitated over the glass on the kitchen floor, he tucked me under his arm like a football and carried me as if I weighed nothing. I held onto his arm as he did, and closed my eyes, pressing my head into his side. He set me down carefully and, without a word, hauled me up the stairs

of my apartment. He slings the duffel one-handed into the tiny trunk of his red sports car and goes to his side. I still can’t let him go. “Hey, baby,” he says in French. I cry harder. “Okay, okay. Come ʼere.” Football again. When we get to his side, he folds me into his car. I scoot across the seat. He looks at our linked hands and shuts the door with his left. Depressing the clutch, he shifts with my hand tied with his. Somehow, we get to Kiki’s in one piece.

* A chain rattles then the door tears open. The air from the velocity of the door swinging causes Kiki’s hair to lift. “What on God's green earth?” She takes in the disaster of our clothes, our faces. “Kik,” Thorn prompts. She does a little jump. “No problem, guys, come right in. Kiki takes all comers, ne’er do wells, stray cats...” “Kiki, shut up.” He sounds tired. Kiki whacks Thorn on the back of the head. “No. Be nice or leave.” Thorn turns on a dime, looming over Kiki, and I think they'll come to blows. Kiki drives her finger into his chest.

“I'm sorry that you’re glued to Simone and pissed about it.” My stomach drops at her words. “And that some French dude is sniffing around your girl.” His girl. A flutter of excitement develops where churning was. “But! That doesn't”—poke—“give ya the right”—stab—“to treat Kiki like shit!” Thorn looks at our laced hands, and I let him go. He grabs me and shoves my body against his. I hide my smile against the flat planes of his chest. Thorn sighs, absently stroking my hair. “I'm sorry, Kik. It's been a day.”

Kiki vigorously nods. “Yeah, first Chet then that weirdo Shepard...” Thorn puts a finger under my chin. “We gotta talk.” I knew this would come. I shake my head, taking a deep breath. “Anything I say will put you in jeopardy.” Kiki rolls her eyes. “Jesus, ya assholes, I kinda want to know what the hell you're saying.” I feel my face grow hot. “I'm sorry. I just... When I get stressed out, English doesn't come first.” “What did you say?” Kiki asks. I glance at Thorn then at her. “I don't want to be responsible for your life.” “Moi?” Kiki asks. Thorn and I

cringe. She makes a face at our expressions. “Piss off, elitists.” I watch the fine wheels of her mind turn. Her eyes flick to Thorn, then gravitate to mine. “You mean my death?” I nod. “Well—fuck me.” “Yes,” I agree. “I need to get my drunk on to deal with these revelations,” Kiki says, moving into the kitchen. Clanking and muttering, including the occasional colorful word, reaches us. Thorn's lips twitch. “She's quite a character,” I observe. “Loyal as hell,” he adds. The way he says it makes me give

him a sidelong glance. “Like you?” He turns toward me. His palm goes to his chest as though he thinks I've asked the wrong person. I put my hand over his. His heart beats beneath our hands. I nod. “Like you.” He stares at me for a second, his hard eyes edged with softness. “Don't tell no one about Thorn.” I shake my head. “Never.” The secret of his still waters running deep is safe with me. I would never bring a drought to that. Thorn guards his goodness so well it would take someone seasoned to see it.

For what I have to say, he'll need it. * Kiki slurps the last of her drink, a Sex on the Driveway, and stands. She totters on her heels. “I'm getting another. Any takers?” “Ya don't need another one, Kik,” Thorn says in a dry tone. I have to agree, but since I'm a guest in her house, I stay silent. Her eyes laser on Thorn. “Just sayinʼ,” he says. “Yeah…?” Her eyebrows pop. “Don't.” Thorn's hands dangle between his knees. A muscular leg like a tree trunk

presses against mine as we sit on her couch. “Fine!” Kiki throws up her hands then looks at me. “Spill.” I take a deep breath. Thorn lays his hand on my thigh then lifts it. Go ahead, his gesture says. “I don't want you to die,” I begin. They stare at me. Kiki's eyes are round, and Thorn's are thoughtful. She gives a little laugh. “Girl, Kiki doesn't want to die either.” I nod quickly, blinking often. I wring my raw hands. I’ve washed them three times, scrubbed off what I've done. But my soul remembers: them or me. “La foule Français.” My voice is

barely above a whisper. Kiki taps her chin with a nail tip. “Frenchie?” I glance at my clenching hands and nod. “Yes. Shepard.” I lift my chin. “I am their mule.” Thorn gives me a sharp look. I feel he might withdraw from me. My bravery balances along a tight wire. “What—a donkey?” Kiki asks, and Thorn hangs his head. I meet Kiki's eyes. “No, I smuggle drugs to foreign countries and provide... comfort for gentlemen of the trade.” Comfort comes out something like criminal.

I let it stand. My remorse hangs in the air like the smell of rain before it falls. “So…” Kiki's eyes train on me with compassion. “You know I love ya, right?” I understand the American vernacular well enough to know she means she holds great affection for me. I nod. “So you put smack in your sweet spot, and then after it's delivered, you screw the men.” I close my eyes for a long second. That's not a perfect translation, but it’s close enough. I own it, though I am a prisoner. Was.

“Yes.” “How?” Thorn clips. His word is like a painful slap. I struggle not to become defensive. “The mechanics of it, or why I would do it?” Kiki looks from me to Thorn. “Holy shit… both, Simone,” he exclaims. I search his face. I find many emotions there, including the one I hope for: faith. Thorn has faith there's a good reason for what I've done. That he can put it somewhere in his mind that makes sense. I start at the beginning. “My grandmother is Nigerian.”

“I knew you were a sista!” Kiki says, palm up. I've never felt less like high-fiving, but I slap her hand anyway. Thorn's eyes move over my features. I know that a little bit of my ancestry peeks out around the edges, but generally, people aren’t sharp enough to guess it. They merely lump everyone of color into the same dim category: black. I am Simone. Actually, I’m Juliette Marcel, and I consider myself French.

FIFTEEN Thorn “I know a little about the drug trade,” I say carefully. I watch her face. Shame, remorse, and some other slice of bad hangs around her features, smearing them until I want to wipe away those feelings. Her eyes snap to mine. “What?” I sigh. This isn't very undercover of me, but basically, my goose is fucking cooked. If my DNA is found at her apartment, I'm linked to those murders. I'm obligated to come forward. It's my duty. But I can't. If I do, they'll stick a microscope up Simone's ass and never

let up. She's the victim here. I haven't heard her words yet, but I know it. The real story's probably worse than my speculations. I scrub my head, slowly letting out the air in my lungs. I think about how she never noticed the cherry on the hood of my car. “I'm an undercover cop.” Simone shoots up from the couch like a rocket. Kiki gives a little yelp and stands up too, knocking her empty cup over on the coffee table. Remnants of Blue Curaçao dribbles over the side and beats a dripping rhythm on the wood floor. “Shit!” Simone says in a strangled

word, making her way for the door. I try to remain calm when every fiber of me wants to freak out. “Simone,” I keep my voice low and steady, “where the fuck do you think you're gonna go?” I rise from the couch and move to her. I'm not letting her go out and run into what's-his-nuts. She looks so lush standing by the door, her misery like the pull of a magnet. Instead of adding to it like the dysfunctional Thorn of before, I want to erase it. A first. I stand in front of her. My hand goes to her nape, and I pull her toward me until our faces align. When a paper can't slide between our lips, I suck at hers.

Not gently either, sipping, pecking, and bruising her full mouth. I want Simone. Murderess. Drug smuggler. Whore for the French mob. My words are the shit, but my body shows her what it's really about. “God damn,” Kiki says. “I've got a guest room for all that.” Her palm swings behind her. My hand sweeps up from Simone's neck and dives into her hair. The other hand joins the first, and I hold her head, moving my lips over hers in a continuous press of heat. I can't stop. Kiki's comments roll off my back into the blankness of I don't give a shit. Simone struggles, and my grip tightens for a split second. I need her to

know that I want to possess her. I finally release her, and she steps away. Her hand automatically goes to her swollen, raw lips. “I'm not fucking you over because I'm the law.” I didn't fully appreciate that I wasn't until just then. “I'm telling you so ya know that what you tell Thorn, stays with Thorn. Maybe, because of the work I do, you know I'll get what you say.” Simone sinks in a recliner directly behind her, and my hands reluctantly trail off her body. She's not sitting to relax. She perches on the end of the seat like a fragile bird readying for flight. She lifts a shaky hand to push her heavy black hair out of her face.

“I'm more than a mule.” Sounds like a confession. Kiki moves to stand beside me. “I'm highly trained.” Her eyes bounce to ours then glance away. “Handto-hand combat, martial arts, sex. I speak four languages and have a running knowledge of the government in six countries.” Kiki whistles. “Damn, you're like a spy or something.” Simone shakes her hands slowly. I crouch, taking her hands in my own. “Then what are you?” “Yeah.” This from Kiki. “I'm a girl who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

I stroke her knuckles. They're missing skin. She packed some punches against those perps. Like anyone in a fight, she won't feel the abuse she sustained until it's over. “I was fourteen when I met Shep.” Her words are soft, but her breaths come faster when she talks about that French prick. I want to kick his ass so bad, I can feel the texture of his blood on my hands. “What?” Kiki asks. “I won't lie, I'm not digginʼ where this is going...” Me neither. Simone speaks to the hands I hold. They grow cool within my grasp. “He's a cherry picker.” I stiffen, totally connecting the dots

for the meaning behind those words. “He acquires new talent. Young girls who are exotic enough to blend into whatever country they visit, beautiful enough to appeal to many foreign nationals... and smart enough to be taught defense, linguistics, and etiquette.” “That's not all he does, is it?” Kiki guesses softly. The first hot splash of tears hits my hand. I gather her into my lap and sit back on my ass. “How old, Simone?” I ask, not wanting the answer, but needing it. She sucks in a sobbing breath. “Shep waited until I was sixteen.” What a dick. “That fucking perv!” Kiki yells.

I hug Simone tight. Kiki and me— we get it. We were used when we were young too. Doesn't make it right, but we know. Simone pulls away, looking deeply into my eyes. My heart. Soul. God damn. “Technically, no,” she says. “In France, sixteen is the age of consent.” Kiki makes a noise. “Yeah, if a girl that age is even consenting to anything.” Yeah. “I know what sixteen is... and any girl that age is too young,” I say. Simone nods. “Shep's considered a ʽtender picker.ʼ” Simone gives a little shiver, and not a good one. “Some would have taken my virginity the instant

they sealed the deal.” “Did you have a choice?” In a low voice, I add, “Did you fucking consent, Simone? Or was it just rape?” Her face tells me, and I pound my fist on the wood floor. Simone hops in my lap from the force. She waits through my outburst. “I knew what my place was. I didn't know anything about sex, naked men... any of it. He was decent to me, slow... But I didn't want to, of course. I was sixteen and had no one else.” I open my mouth. Simone presses her finger against my lips. “Thorn, they owned me.” Her eyes brim, tears slipping onto her face and I catch them before they fall. “I knew the

alternative was just someone other than Shepard.” She shakes her head. “If you knew what some of the other girls go through... My treatment was humane.” “There's not a goddamned thing humane about some man coercing a young girl to give it up because she feels there’s no other option,” Kiki says loudly. Simone nods. “You're right.” “Hell yeah, I am!” Kiki says emphatically. I exhale in a rush. “What happened?” “My family sold me.” She says it without flinching, like stating the weather being cold or hot.

I close my eyes. I know exactly where she's at. “My grandmother had a debt in Nigeria. They were calling it in. In that country, descendants can be made to pay an elder's debt.” Simone gives a helpless little shrug. “My parents knew that if I did this...” She clasps her hands harder. I hug her tighter. “Then your whole family wouldn't have to pay her debt.” Simone gives a single miserable nod. “But why did your French parents not see the atrocity of that?” “They love me, but my father is half-Nigerian. No matter how much my

mother wailed and cried, Shepard got me.” “Is that the fucker's real name?” Kiki asks. Simone shakes her head. “No, we all have false identities.” She trails her hand along my jaw, and I lean into it like a cat for a scratch. “What is your real name, Thorn?” I smile, and she feels my happiness fill her hand. “Tyson Marius Simon.” “Wow,” she breathes. “A mouthful.” I kiss her palm. I know what I want to put in her mouth. Then I frown. Her story sucks balls, and I'm thinking sex. Balls. Sex. Nice, Thorn. “Is Simone your name?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “My name is a secret no one has known in the seven years since I was taken.” I wait, and she looks at Kiki. But her eyes come back to mine. “Juliette.” “Oh my God,” Kiki says with a giggle of delight. “You're her Romeo,” she says to me. I guess I am. I kiss Juliette softly as my tough heart cracks, absorbing the wounds of hers.

SIXTEEN Juliette “Wait a second,” Kiki says, counting on her fingertips. “You're not twenty-three! I shake my head. “No, twenty-one.” Thorn stands awkwardly. My body weight has been on his lap for a half hour, and he has to be stiff, getting feeling back into his limbs. None of that shows. He walks me to the couch, cradled in his arms like a precious bundle. He sets me there and runs his hand down my hair. “Juliette,” he muses then smiles. “That's an even prettier name than

Simone.” “I got to pick my name. It's pieces from my family.” I look at them. Shame fills me, but I squash it. I don't see the expected condemnation, only compassion. “My grandmother's maiden name is Balland.” “I could listen to you speak French forever,” Kiki says. I bite my lip to keep from crying at the small compliment. God, I'm so shaky. “Hey, baby, settle. It's a good thing,” Kiki says, squeezing my shoulder. “I know. I just… God, I'm such a mess. I've finally talked about my dirty deeds, and it feels like such a release. But there's a lot of guilt mixed with it.”

Kiki nods. “I gotcha. I feel the same way.” She lifts a finger. “Not that I'm not some multi-lingual, gorgeous, talented, smart girl who was made into a drug runner and sex goddess. Nope. But I understand what it is to be made to do things you don't want to do.” I look into Kiki's wide-spaced chocolate eyes. She’s too wise to be innocent of some of what I've been through. We may not share the same experiences, but we’re in the same book. Thorn lifts my chin again. “It's not your fault, Juliette.” I nod, but my heart doesn't believe him. “I've had to do terrible things to survive. Things I never want to do again.”

“So you escaped?” Thorn asks. I nod. “Yes.” “That was brave,” Kiki says. “Yes,” I say without a hint of pride. It was something I could do, an opportunity I took. I leap, trusting for what feels like the first time in forever. “I—I was at a delegate's personal residence and there was a cherry there...” Kiki's eyes widen. “God, seriously? Is that what you call the girls?” I look at her. “Yeah. When a girl is first ʽpicked,’ she learns the ropes—if Shep is the man in charge for getting her feet wet in the trade.”

I admit yet another horrible revelation on top of the others. “A virgin can't carry an Easter egg.” Kiki just stares at me and Thorn groans. “What. The. Fuck?” Kiki says, looking between the two of us. “It's what women put in their vaginas to transport the drugs,” Thorn says, and I nod. Kiki looks so disgusted, I don't feel so bad about what I'm going to say. They need to know I don't kill people easily. “So this cherry is there in this group of male delegates—” “Name?” Kiki asks in a harsh oneword question. Like I can forget. Ever.

“Colette.” I inhale sharply. “Shep assigned me to watch her. There's always three sets of eyes on a cherry.” I tick them off on my fingers. “Shepard, of course. Then an experienced girl. In this case, it was me.” I look at them, and their faces are serious but not accusing. I go on. “And the Body.” Thorn's eyebrows lift. “A guard,” I say. “So what happened?” Kiki asks. I measure my breathing, sort of like I do on a long run. “I lost sight of Colette. The Body didn't know where she was, and Shepard had three of us under his watch. I was scared I'd be punished if a cherry got

plucked.” I hesitate, but finally, I tell them. “She was in a bedroom, and there were five of them.” “Delegates?” Thorn asks. “Yes,” I whisper. “They were taking turns on her.” Tears stream down my face at the memory. “The blood... They didn't even care that they had hurt her... She was screaming, but they had their hands on her—over her mouth. She couldn't breathe.” Thorn and Kiki appear to hold their breath. “Colette saw me, and I knew what I needed to do.”

“Oh God,” Kiki says, clapping a hand over her mouth. “You killed them,” Thorn guesses. I stand, my hands dropping from Thorn's. “Every one.” The silence is painful completeness. “Those fuckers got what they deserved,” Kiki says. Yes. However, their blood covers my hands even now. I wasn't strong enough to turn the other cheek. I had to make them pay. Thorn stands and tries to hold me. “No!” I scream and back away. His eyes tighten, coming for me. “I don't deserve love. I'm a killer,” I

say. “Simone—Juliette—no, baby, it's not like that,” Thorn says. I try to squirm out of his grasp, but he's too big. I'm too weak. Too sad. Just too everything. “They didn't deserve to live,” Kiki says. “I'm not God.” I still try to tear myself from Thorn's grasp. “No, ya don't,” he says, and I hit him. He holds my wrists. “Let it the fuck out!” he roars and I do. I scream in Kiki's condo. I scream until my voice goes hoarse... then it just goes.

I'm spent, collapsing inside Thorn's unyielding embrace. When he's sure I won't bolt, he carries me the two steps to the couch. Kiki gets in my face. “Listen to me: That was not your fault. You protected a girl who couldn't protect herself, Simone. Fuck… Juliette, whoever ya are. You protected her when you couldn't protect yourself.” Thorn kisses my forehead, and my head dips. “Juliette?” Kiki asks. My head's too heavy to lift, but somehow I manage. Her hard eyes meet mine. “What did Colette do when the last turd bird bit the dust?”

I hold up two fingers. Thorn says, “Two words.” I nod. Kiki grins. “I bet I know what they were.” I manage to say them anyway. “Thank you.” “I bet she was, baby. I bet she was.” They hug me on the couch, my new lover and friend. I can't accept what they give me. I can't. But it doesn't matter. My traitorous heart already has.

SEVENTEEN Thorn Drug smuggler. Whore for foreign ambassadors. Assassin. Then the worst fucking truth of all: I think I love her. I'm a cop who hung on to my undercover assignment by the skin of my teeth after the death of the perp who was after my best friend's girl. Now wife. I don't believe in love at first sight. It's for pussies. Thorn doesn't do love. Thorn does sex. I've only had sex once with Simone. Juliette—that's going to take some getting used to.

I should take her straight to the precinct and let what needs to happen happen. But her soft, warm body presses against mine, and I just can't. I can't allow more harm to come to her. It's not okay that they'll wound her without violence but with words. No one will hurt her again if I can help it. Kiki interjects, scattering the shit in my head. “Stay here, Simone. I mean, Juliette.” She sighs. I look around the tiny condo and wonder where she'll stuff Juliette in this place. “Numbnuts won't think to look here,” I say.

She shakes her head. “He's so connected. Shep will eventually find me. Maybe I have a day or two.” I squat until our faces our level, and I grab both sides of her jaw. “Why can't he just let you go?” She doesn't cry, but water sits in her eyes like a never-ending pool of poised grief. “Shepard wants me.” I feel my scowl. “You said he's some kind of perv, that he breaks the girls in, shows them what's what, then sends them on their un-merry way.” “True.” There's something more in her face. “Then what makes you special?” Kiki asks then blanches, realizing she

might have inferred Juliette's not special. I don't think Juliette has a big enough ego to bruise. Juliette doesn't notice. “I think I was his first.” “First what?” Kiki asks. “Cherry,” she says. I blink. Let me count the shades of fucked up. * I pace the small living room, noticing nothing—thinking about everything. I stare out the expansive glass that covers the walls and spreads out over Puget Sound. The water churns, deep

pewter and angry. Kind of like my thoughts. Shepard will come after Juliette. He's got some emotion wrapped up in his quest for her. It's more than business. So naturally, it's more complicated. I need to protect her. I chuckle, softly shaking my head. “What's so funny? 'Cuz, Thorn, I can't find any comedy right now.” I give Kiki a small smile as the drone of water comes from Juliette's shower. “I'm just thinking I need to keep Simone—Juliette protected.” Maybe, if I did my goddamned job, she could be witness protection. But no. My pits sweat when I think about the potential for her in that system. What

terrifies me is her being separated from me. Now that's honest as a two by four between the eyes. Kiki jerks her eyes up from what she's fixing in the kitchen and arches an eyebrow. “Yeah, sounds lame. That girl can take care of herself.” I scrub my coarse mat of hair. Twice. “Yeah, true that. But here's the thing: she's all offense right now. She's hell on defense, but everyone wears out on that one. We need strategy.” Kiki makes a sound. “Well, exotic dancing is out.” “Yeah, no shit.” I hit on something. It's crazy but just might work.

“What?” Kiki asks, watching my expression as she sets a plate of sandwiches on the table. They awaken the beast. My stomach gives an appreciative growl, and I grab one. She smiles. Bad shit happens, but hunger needs to be handled. Simplicity. I take a huge bite and swig of water. I work the food to the side of my mouth. “Mick wants me to shore up those east coast clubs.” Kiki nods. “Yeah, I know.” “My mom just died.” “Yeah,” Kiki answers quietly, her face questioning where this is leading. “I'm thinkin' it'll take me some time

to get past my inability to protect my mom....” “No Thorn,” Kiki says, denying my words. I hold up the hand with the sandwich. “It might not be technically my fault, but I can't help how I feel. Responsible.” The cheese and meet flop back and forth in my hand. I take another bite, leveling it between the chompers and a pull of water. I set the water bottle on the table. “Pffft.” Kiki doesn’t believe my role of protector for my druggie mom. She takes a small bite of her sandwich. Probably trying to soak up the booze. Kiki never eats enough. Typical of a dancer.

“Then there was wanting to find Rex,” I say, crossing my arms. Kiki nods. “I don't know if it's right to blow off whatever fucked up grief I need to figure out or put finding bio-daddy on hold, because my pecker's in a twist about Juliette.” “I think it's more than your pecker, dude.” That's what I'm afraid of. Thorn's not afraid of jack. Except now—I am. Kiki gives a small shrug and takes another bite. “Maybe it's the perfect thing, Thorn. You go jerk a club into shape and take our girl with you. She distracts you.” Kiki looks at me and

inhales deeply. “Heals you.” I whirl around, my back to the sea of glass and water. “I don't need healing, Kik. I'm not some simp trying to work through my mind shit.” Lie. Juliette stands there in a towel. Neither one of us heard her approach. My gaze rolls down her body like she’s my favorite candy, and my dick pops a boner. God. I track the water droplets that slide from her neck to that tender spot between her breasts. Her eyes are emeralds in the sweet coffee and cream of her face. Hair like kinky ink springs back

from wet to dry as I watch. “Huh. Don't need anybody or anything, Thorn?” Kiki asks in a droll voice. I resist flipping Kik the bird. I move toward Juliette, and she meets me. “Don't take me,” she says. “Just let me go, and you do what you need to do. I can survive. I can avoid Shep.” My decision’s made before I know it. “No.” She cups my face, and her other hand holds the towel around her tits. My eyes burn. I've never felt like I do now. God help me, I can't let her go. Won't.

It was so much easier when I was numb to life. This is my chance. Happy has come calling and contentment is MIA. Somehow, the status quo isn't enough anymore. * I sort through Juliette's “escape duffel,” and my sense of things going sideways deepens. She's got five different passports, contacts to turn her green eyes brown, wigs, and money from five different countries. A shitload of currency. But there are no drugs.

“Damn, baby, you've got enough money...” “Three months,” she says, taking a small gun apart and oiling every piece. I watch her cram a cleaning rod down the barrel of the tiny 380 Colt. She sights it, one eye scanning the beads at the end, and slaps the whole thing back together, carefully priming each section with a tramp down using a lint-free cloth. Then she's on to her knives. She doesn’t have many, but all are martial arts oriented. She even has a throwing star. “You're not just a mule,” I say, pacing over to the door. Juliette looks up from sharpening a

familiar-looking blade. “No.” A black light would light that thing up with blood spatter. She rubs lanolin and Neosporin on the abrasions of her knuckles. My gaze moves to her hands and locks on. “I don't know if I'll have to defend myself again. If I fight in too quick of succession, my knuckles will be stiff because of the wounds. But if I use this”—she holds up the lanolin—“it allows flexibility, suppleness of movement.” Her lips twitch. “And who knows what those guys were carrying, germ-wise.” She lifts up the tube of antiseptic ointment. My eyes are steady on the

implements of the trade. Her lip begins to tremble and I come off my lean against the jamb. My body fills the doorway, casting her in shadow from the light behind me. Juliette brushes her hand over her cheeks as she cries for the cretin she killed. Who knows what happened to the other. I'm not broken up about them. They would have incapacitated Juliette and returned her like a broken doll to that French pimp, Shepard. I grab her duffel. The door I shut and lock. Her eyes never leave mine. Expectant.

Alive. I fall even harder. It's not something I can stop. The iron control of my emotions, my life—and everyone in it— slides down the slippery slope that is Juliette.

EIGHTEEN Juliette I feel guilty. I feel sublime. It is slow this time, our lovemaking. I don't think either of us understood what we were starting in my apartment just days ago. Now he takes me as if he'll lose me. He savors each touch. Thorn sets my weapons on the nightstand, and it’s just he and I. Kiki is out getting supplies for the short time I'll be here. The quiet is profound—swollen— as he strips off my clothes. My skin is still damp from the

shower as I lie back and toss my arms behind me. Thorn accepts my unspoken invitation. He slides my shirt up and over my head, leaving it in a knot behind me. I keep my arms where they are. When sex isn't a maneuvering technique or something required, it becomes organic. Each caress builds on the last, our breathing propelling us like two mountain climbers toward that mutual peak of ecstasy. I can lie here and not think. I can let my instincts guide me for pleasure instead of survival. Thorn has given that gift to me in the handful of days I've known him. He blanks my head. His large hands are

espresso against my cafe au lait skin. Dark and perfect, they trail down between my breasts. Then his mouth is there, his full lips pressing into that soft spot that separates what his hands now knead. I groan, scissoring my legs at his touch. I'm full-breasted, but his hands are so large they overwhelm my flesh. He squeezes, and I make a small noise of encouragement. “Oui,” I whisper, and he responds in French. He calls me his sweet. It's a common expression for the French, but whispered in his gruff tones, I respond, parting my legs. He swims between them.

“Too many clothes,” I say, panting. He ignores me, wrapping his hands around my waist and bringing his mouth to my nipples. He laves one until the bundle of flesh fills his mouth in a hard pebble of arousal. Thorn moves to the other, suckling until I cry out. “That's it, baby.” “Please...” I'm boneless. I'm wet. I want to be taken by Thorn. I want to watch him while he does it. Before, I left my body so I could perform. There is no performance here, it's all interactive, spontaneous lust. And maybe something else, though I don't analyze what.

“Hey,” he smooths the crease between my forehead with his thumb. “Stop thinking so hard.” His finger enters me and my hips shift down, forcing him deeper. I groan at his delicious penetration. Thorn sits up on his knees, his finger continuing its slow pump inside my body. He's tossed his shirt aside. Every inch of his gorgeous body is mine to see. I look him over. He's not a cut pretty boy, but a man whose muscle mass is naturally a part of his structure. His strong hips lose their pants in a onehanded slide, and they drop to his knees. His finger never stops. His thumb sweeps up, and my thoughts cease. All I

feel is how near that tantalizing edge he takes me. My legs spread further, and I don't realize I've closed my eyes until I hear a noise. My eyes pop open, and I see that Thorn has sprung himself free. I felt him two days ago. He was a lot to take in, but he's so much more in the glaring light of day. Gradually, my eyes flow from his huge cock to his face. He sees my desire and makes another strangled noise. “Fuck me, Thorn.” I'm dripping for him, so saturated the sheets are damp underneath my butt. His eyes glint like captured coal. “No.” Thorn presses a second finger

inside, and my hips buck as I slap the bed, my fingertips digging into the sheets. He leans over, and his mouth covers my clit in unrelenting suction. He pulls my nub into his mouth and stabs inside my sex with his fingers as my ass comes off the bed. I scream, his fingers deep, his mouth holding my clit captive. I begin to pulse deeply around him and he cups his fingers slightly. Waves crash into my core and flood my channel as he keeps up that gentle friction. The sucking on my clit grows lighter. I float back to Earth in pieces like golden dust motes. My heart is racing, my palms

sweating, and my pussy is giving his fingers loving hugs. I inhale deeply and let it out slowly, trying to come back to myself. “Oh my God.” Thorn smiles and wipes my juices off his mouth. His face is naked and perfect in that shining happiness, and I realize he hides himself from everyone. But not me. Right now, he's more than Thorn. He's my man. He centers his prick at my entrance, and my hand is there, gripping the silky flesh. I can't wait to have his love in me. I increase the pressure, and a drop of precum squeezes out of his slit. I sit up, and he sits back on his

heels. “Nah, no, baby.” His eyes tighten. I don't think Thorn was ready for the control to switch so quickly. “Yes.” Even to me my voice sounds evil. There's something so fragile, yet so powerful about breaking down a man as indestructible as Thorn. I grab his cock and suck off that crystalline drop as if my life depends on it. His head falls back, and his Adam's apple climbs and drops. “Don't—Juliette, I'm gonna go.” He grabs my hair and hangs on. Instead of moving me off the head of his penis, he pushes me down to the root, and I gag.

He holds me there, and I relax. I get the game. I come off him and slam back down. Again. And again. He groans and jerks himself out of my grasp. “No,” Thorn grunts. He flips me over. My ass is in the air like an offering, and I feel him arrow in on my opening. Thorn gives me no time; he just rams home. My body can't adjust. He fills me, stabbing as if to kiss my womb. It's exquisite. The pressure, the fullness of him. I don't give him time to own it. I pull forward and shove myself back on

all that length and girth. I gasp at the size. It's too much. It's just right. My every nerve ending is stoked by him. There’s no gap in our flesh for anything but erotic friction. Thorn grips my shoulders and shoves me back against him over and over. I grunt, feeling the pressure of an orgasm to rival the first. It's not shallow from clitoral stimulation but deep from the penetration from behind. “Almost,” I whisper, burying my face against the sheets. My hands are planted on my ass as I spread myself farther for him. My fingertips dig into my butt cheeks as I open myself.

The orgasm builds, hanging on that edge of rolling down the hill of completion. Thorn slides a finger into the bud of my ass and I tumble. I barrel down the hill, unstoppable. I steady myself with my hands as Thorn rams so deeply into me, I think he'll come out my throat. My orgasm strangles us both, his cock in my tightness and my breath stolen as I revel in my body's satisfaction. He releases, and I grip the sheets, listening to myself mewl. His cock drives into me, his finger inside my second hole. Two such sweet penetrations I can't

survive. “Stop.” I'm too fragile to stand the pleasure. I can't take it. “No,” he says and buries himself further. I gasp, letting go of the cotton as my head drives forward across the bed. I come again, sinking into the oblivion of his understanding of just what I need. Sometimes no means yes, and Thorn knows the difference. It's why I think I might love him. That revelation makes me as sad as it does happy.

NINETEEN Thorn I'm in such deep trouble. I curl up next to Juliette instead of going to work at the Black Rose. I should call Mick, let him know how my life has gone to shit. I won't. My hand slides down her naked side, and she sighs, shifting her legs and flinging an arm around my neck. I feel myself go to throbbing attention against her back. She jerks my head to above her lips. We hover. Then I dive and our lips press, and it's not tender. It's hard.

Urgent. We gasp when our lips peel back. Simone's gorgeous green eyes fill with tears. I grab her face with both hands, rolling over on top of her. “No, baby, no waterworks.” I catch her tears as they slide. I hope they're not for me. God knows, it's been rough and fast. Is this the way love hits? A belowthe-belt sucker punch that's all pain? Juliette shakes her head, and I plow my fingers through hair that's all kink but like bent silk to the touch. “It's not you, Thorn.” Thank Christ. “What is it?” I push her hair away, making her

face as naked as her body. Her makeup is long gone. Her bare beauty stares back at me. I kiss her nose, and a feeling of long-neglected tenderness strangles me. Juliette sighs, closing her eyes, and I ignore my feelings of weakness as I kiss each lid. The salt from her sadness makes my heart clench like a fist of pain. “What isn't it?” She gives me a sad smile. I prop pillows up against the headboard and drag her against me. “Talk to Thorn.” She cups my jaw. “Why do you talk about yourself in the third person?” Doc's words fill my mind. It's a distancing technique. People

speak about themselves that way when they're damaged emotionally. My mouth opens to say something, and I realize I can't sound smart like Dillinger. Juliette waits. Her green eyes probe. I swallow hard. “I had a tough upbringing.” Her gaze holds compassion but no pity. Thank God, ʼcuz I don't want any of that. I hear clanking in the kitchen. Kiki's back. Juliette's gaze moves to the door then back to me. “It's locked,” I say. Juliette nods with a twitch of her

lips. “I think Kiki knows we've been together.” I grin. Yeah, she does. I don't keep secrets when I'm in lust. I stare at Juliette and wonder why just a glance causes this terrible warmth to flow from my chest to the tips of my fingers, my toes. Just a look. It's painful. It's fucking frightening. “What do we do now?” Juliette asks. “I have to do certain things to keep my job.” I give a sharp inhale. “I'm seeing a head doc.” It's legit; I've lost my fucking mind. She's got the goods on me now. Juliette smiles. “That's good,

Thorn.” My heart thumps like a lump of dead flesh in my throat. Rising, purging. I take a deep breath and let it out nice and slow. I shake my head, bringing the thin sheet up over us both. “No. It's because I killed a perp. There was a ton of media around it because Mick—” “Your friend? The owner of Black Rose?” I nod. “Yeah, the rich billionaire's pregnant fiancée who was almost killed by a serial killer's son? Yeah.” I scrub my head. “It was sensationalized, and the media almost outed me as undercover.” “But they didn't?” “No.” I smile at her.

I think about Shepard and how he took a fourteen-year-old girl out of the safety of her home to be trained as a drug mule, assassin, and prostitute. What kind of sick fucker does that? I want him dead. Hell, I'd forgo all the protection I’ve been promised as a cop to have a go at him. “What's that look for?” Her brow furrows as she searches my eyes. I look away. “I hate Shepard.” “I loved him once.” My eyes snap to hers. “He hurt you —took your cherry.” Juliette bites her lip. “True. But I also felt like he saved me from what it could have been. In his way, he loved me.”

“No, Juliette, a man doesn't love a woman when he robs her of childhood. Fuck, I know this.” I'm fierce on this point. I remember the needles, the dark. The men. The horror. It's as real as me sitting here with Juliette. I can reach out and touch it. I know the antidote is within reach. If I can find my biological loser of a dad, he can explain his sadistic bullshit. And if he can't... well, I have a plan for that too. A payment plan. In blood, like how he made us bleed. But I can't convince her that Shepard didn't do her any favors. He

should have left her alone. So I switch topics. “I need to visit my shrink, keep the head appointments going.” I pull her in tight against my chest. “I’ll go to one more—they're mandatory—then I can call Mick, and we can take a little break. Go to the east coast. Create distance.” “Why?” I shiver as her nail climbs the tight space between our chests. My breath stills when she tightens her fingertips around my throat. My heartbeat is frantic against her hand. Our eyes lock. I pull my shit together and plow forward, “Mick has clubs in the east that need some Thorn attention to operate

smoother.” She pulls away. “Shep will find us.” Her full lip trembles. I run a thumb over it, revealing white teeth and a tongue I want against mine. “Shhh, no, Juliette. It gives us time. I'll figure something out. You have dual citizenship, right?” She nods. That gives us options. “Don't cave on me now, baby. You've made it this far.” I don't say that she killed a man with her hands today. Each murder is etched on a face that should have never seen it. Lived it. “Why do you want to help me, Thorn?” Her eyes scan my features.

I hold them for a moment before they sag into honesty—defeat. I want to lie so badly, it courses through my body in the guise of adrenaline. But it's not. “I always thought that love at first sight is bullshit. No one finds their perfect ʽwhateverʼ right away.” Juliette closes her eyes in resignation. “I know,” she whispers. I suck in a breath. I'm so close to one of those fucking panic attacks, I shudder from it. I grip Juliette, turning her face toward me. She's ethereal in the sunlight streaming in through the window. It lights her. I'm afraid to close my eyes

and she won't be here in the shadow of my body. My mind. I open my eyes and her nipples harden under my stare. I brush black hair behind her shoulder and trail a finger along her collarbone. Gooseflesh rises like a command behind my touch. My hands go to either side of her neck and rest there, her pulse beneath my fingertips. Juliette places her palm above my heart. Flat. Sure. I take a breath. Then another. “And then I met you.” I've told her. The revelation paralyzes me. She'll fuck me and leave. That's

what women do. That's what Tasha Simon did with her neglect of me. It was absolute, her protection of the boy I was, non-existent. And Thorn doesn't want a replay of that shit. Instead of slipping out of the bed and out of my life, Juliette rises to her knees and moves in close. Her naked breasts encase my face as I meet her. She tenderly turns my head and places it between them. Her hands wrap around my skull, and my breath warms her. I hold still, frozen in my terror. The trust. My arms snap around her smaller body, and she moans so softly I barely

hear it. “I love you too, Thorn.” My fucking heart splinters. The fissures are enough for entry. For Juliette. She slips in without effort and I stop resisting. Juliette doesn't run when I leak against her body. She knows sadness, and accepts my grief like a sponge. Her love is tougher than my anger.

TWENTY Juliette I don't want to stop touching him. I feel as though if I do, he'll disappear. I'm the rose, and he's the thorn. We can only be together. I watch him talk with Kiki, and I hide my smile behind the cup of tea. My sex throbs from what he's done to me. From the thought of what we'll still do. For once, I don't have shame with sex. Thoughts of Shepard invade, and I shove him away. I can't tell Thorn the deepest secret, or he'll leave me. It's unforgivable. Instead of dwelling on my morose

thoughts, I smile and chat with Kiki as Thorn calls Mick. Can he take me to the east coast with him? Sure, Mick says. Will we fall apart when I go with him? Will Shep find me? Unknown. The tea sloshes slightly as I lift the cup to my lips. Kiki snaps her fingers at me. “Hey, hornie toad, where'd ya go?” Her eyes peek over the rim of her mug. I laugh. “I'm...” I tuck my wild hair behind my ear. More wild because of my interlude with Thorn. I remember his profound sadness— so like my own. It makes me klutzy.

I swallow some tea, and it burns my tongue. I set the cup down, looking out her window at the churning Puget Sound. Rooftops cut the bottom of the view into irregular chunks, the sea appearing to cover them with gray foam. “I think I like him a little too much.” “Uh-huh.” Kiki nods, blowing on her tea. “So it's more than hot monkey sex?” Another laugh bursts out of me. Thorn twists in the bar stool, raising an eyebrow with his cell pressed against his ear. I wave, and he flashes a knowing smirk before he turns away again. Kiki searches my face. “Yeah, looks like you got it good.” She winks. “Better

you than me. If I ever get hit between the eyes with the love flogger, just shoot me. Kiki don't play that way.” I didn't think I did either. She stares at me a beat longer, contemplating asking me more. Instead of pressing, she lets me off the hook. “Thorn!” He's laughing into the phone. He covers it with a palm. Kiki lifts some papers. His eyebrow pops. “Gotta go, my man,” Thorn says into the phone, his eyes on Kiki. He nods. “Yeah, have to visit the head doc, then I'll blast off to New York City.” He listens for a moment then nods again. His intense gaze finds me.

“I will.” Those words are for me. He swipes the cell screen with his thumb and stands, moving toward me like a black panther. Lithe, elegant. Primal. “Damn, baby, aren't you bringinʼ it.” Kiki's lips twist as she pops out of her seat to meet him. Thorn says to me, “Mick told me to tell you hi, and he's glad you're accompanying me.” Those are so unlike Thorn's words, I know they're from his friend. I smile at him. Kiki slaps the papers into his hand. “What's this, Kik?” Kiki smiles like a cat with cream. “I've been doing a little digging. Trying

to find bio-creep.” I half-stand when I see his expression. This is a part of his life I don't know, that he's only intimated. “What?” Thorn barks. “Settle down, stud. Check it out.” Thorn tears open the envelope and scans the contents. His incredulous eyes find Kiki's. “How'd you find this?” She rolls hers. “I'm pre-law. I've been researching what I thought his connection to you and Tasha would be. Somebody has to do something besides hump like a bunny all the time.” Thorn laughs and gives me a weighted glance. “Jealous?” Kiki smiles, lifting her shoulders.

“Yeah.” Her eyes go to me, smile fading. I straighten, and my palms go flat on the table. “What is it?” “French national.” My eyes ping-pong between the two. I'm not a big believer in coincidence. Thorn's gaze, which beheld me with tenderness earlier, now narrows with suspicion. I hold up a palm. “Wait a second.” I swear in French. Kiki sighs. “Your cursing sounds great too.” I ignore her, looking at Thorn. “I—I don't know what this has to do with me. I mean, your real father?”

Thorn nods. “When was the last time you saw him?” Thorn skates his fingertips over his forearms in an almost nervous response. My eyes move over his skin. It's been hiding in plain sight. The scars. They're old, scattered over his skin like spoiled salt, the tats hide them. They accentuate the scars for someone who looks for them. I do. I see. I see everything. The pain in his eyes matches the painful remnants of his past. I want to run to him and kiss every atrocity leveled against him, but Thorn's eyes are hard. He cannot be pushed. Kiki

looks between us. and I sweep my eyes away from the evidence before Kiki notices. His shoulders drop in apparent relief. Kiki says, “I don't know what the French angle means but I'm not digginʼ the trend.” Kiki passes between us, but our eyes stay on each other. She ignores us as she stands at the wall of glass in her high-rise condo. The view goes on as far as the eye can see, but today it's intimate. Today the clouds roil with portent. Angry. “Thorn's mom is Haitian—French.” Kiki pauses as though in question, and Thorn nods before his eyes roam back to

me. She continues, “You're French, but Nigerian too.” I nod. She folds her palm around her chin. “I smell a skunk, so there must be one.” “No.” I swing my head toward her. “What tie could there be?” “I don't know, but...” “It looks like my father might be this man.” Thorn holds up a picture of someone. I know him so well I feel lightheaded. Shepard kept me from him through sheer determination alone. Thorn sees my face. “What the fuck? Juliette, what is

it?” I grip the chair behind me and sit down hard. My head goes between my knees. Thorn's hand palms my nape. I think I might breathe someday. “Tell me, Juliette, what is it?” I see their feet on either side of my chair. My head's heavy, but I lift it. I look between Thorn and Kiki and see what I should have the minute I saw them in the same room. Resemblance. To each other. “Roi,” I whisper. Thorn's eyebrows meet in a harsh line of anger. “This is not fucking funny, Juliette.”

Kiki's face swings from one to the other of us. It's like a tennis match and I'm losing. “King?” Thorn's hands go to his hips, his face in hard planes of disbelief as he translates the French word. “King? What king? Nah. No, kids, this guy's a French thug. His name is Roi Rexford Laroux. Wait”—Kiki swings up a palm—“he's a king dick. Does that count?” I can't answer. I'm so numb I don't feel, think. Roi is King in French. Thorn looks away, and I feel as though the sun's warmth is gone. The burning heat of his gaze should cause me relief. Instead it leaves me icy. “He's connected to the French mob.

Prostitution, drugs—the works,” Kiki adds. They look at me. “How do you know this prick?” Thorn asks. He grips my shoulders and gives me a small shake. “Don't tell me this fucker had you? This prick that— God!” Thorn shouts and stalks off. This man who could be his father. That is almost certainly his father. Kiki's eyes widen. I shake my head miserably. No, Roi didn't have me. Shep saw to that. When he made me his wife.

TWENTY-ONE Thorn I'm going to blow a gasket. It's not if but when. A throbbing vein in my head keeps time with my rabid heartbeat. “So this prick, my sperm-donor... is what? Some fucking French kingpin?” I throw up my hands. Juliette bows her head, her shoulders rounding. A horrible sound comes out of the lips I just hammered with my special flavor of brutal tenderness. It's a sob. Fuck me. I don't walk—I stride like my life depends on it.

I'm at her side in a second. I jerk Juliette from the chair. It's what I know I can do. I nail her lips again with the hardness of my emotion. My love. Because that's what it is. I fucking love her. The thought of Rex touching a hair on her head makes me insane in ways I can't count. I latch onto her hair with my fist. “Tell me he didn't.” I move my lips over her mouth, and she matches the press, neither one of us breathing. “Touch you —ever.” I tighten my hold on her hair, and she gasps, her pain threshold reached. “Thorn, settle the fuck down,” Kiki

says. I ignore her. “No,” Juliette answers me. I reward her by softening my hold. I pull away, but we're still tethered. She wears my kiss in a red so deep, it looks as though it'll be a bruise tomorrow. “Tell me. Fuckinʼ tell me before I go crazy.” “Too late,” Kiki mutters. I shoot her a glare. My eyes go back to Juliette. A primitive protection blooms inside me like a raw sore. It won't heal until I beat down every person who's ever hurt her. “Shepard kept me from King.” “Kept you?” I growl.

“Protected me,” Juliette says, swiping tears that flow again. I suck in a rough breath. “So this prick is head French honcho. Shepard cherry picks”—Juliette flinches, but Kiki goes on—“breaks in the girls, spends time on the ones who can do everything, and King gets the best.” Kiki summarizes all the bullshit perfectly. Juliette's silence is confirmation. I fold my arms. “There's more?” Juliette pushes her black hair behind her shoulders. “Roi had a run when he was in America, strengthening ties for his... activities here.” I want to go to her so badly, I step forward. Then I remind myself that my

bio-dad is basically a French pimp. “When?” Kiki asks. I look at Kiki. She's circling the knowledge before Juliette gives it to us. A knowledge that's been obvious since I saw the prick's photo, Juliette's reaction —and remembered Kiki's history. Juliette raises her chin. “In the 1980s. He was here in Seattle.” Kiki's face blanks. “A man like that would have needs. Be used to getting everything he desires.” It's really better if she puts the puzzle pieces together herself. I face Kiki slowly, waiting. “Oh my God,” Kiki whispers. Yeah. My hands fall to my sides. “Who's your dad, Kik?” It's a

beautiful and raw realization, the only good thing in this whole fucked up mess. She shakes her head in apparent denial. “Some white dude.” She says it slowly, unbelievably. I shake my head. Not just any white dude. “No.” I stab my finger at the 8 x10 glossy photo on the table. He looks European because he is. Just like I'm not “black,” I'm Haitian. I'm also more. As Kiki is. We gaze at the photo. The subject is unaware of being photographed. He’s a muscular man, his face slightly in profile. Full lips and a roman nose are framed by dark hair and light eyes, color unknown in the black and white still shot. He's tall. The scale is obvious

because a small woman of color stands by his side. The only thing that mars the photo is the dangling cigar that's jammed between his cruel lips. * Kiki's hands fly to her mouth like captured birds of nervousness. She shakes her head, curls flying. “It can't be?” Juliette moves around me, and I fight against touching her. She places a hand on Kiki's back. “There were a lot of children made when King spread his seed.” Kiki's eyes widen, her hands falling limply beside her.

“So this goddamned chump went around fucking everyone and leaving them with kids?” Juliette is silent, not denying Kiki's words. Her nod makes me want to howl. I turn away from them both, hiding my thoughts. We stand together in the deafening silence. I whirl around. “How do you know? And… what women...?” Juliette sighs. “He doesn't... enjoy a woman unless she is non-Caucasian. He preys on woman who are needy. Malleable.” More silence fills the room like thick molasses.

“Beautiful?” Kiki asks in a sad voice. I close my eyes as Juliette whispers yes. My mother had been beautiful. “How?” Juliette's green eyes are filled with the tragedy of her knowledge. “Drugs. He’s very convincing. They’re young; he’s rich and foreign. He offers drugs, gets them hooked. Uses them, and when he becomes bored…” I never knew my mom when she was sober. She was always using. My eyes go to Kiki. “Was your mom ever...” I search for the word, trying to be sensitive when it's not even close to normal for me.

“Okay?” she supplies. I nod. She shakes her head. “Always fucked up. Still is.” “Maybe it's just coincidence?” Kiki wants to believe her mom's a statistic, that this premeditated evil does not exist. When we both know it does. Juliette stares at her knotted hands. “You can get DNA testing, Thorn.” Her eyes seek mine. “You have the resources.” Kiki turns me, her hands biting into my biceps. “I want this prick held accountable. He might be responsible for ruining our mothers before their adulthood even began.” My eyes lock with Juliette's. “Is this

really possible? This Roi—Rex, whatever. He's really getting women hooked on drugs so he can fuck them and leave them?” Juliette hesitates. “He does.” Her eyes well with tears, shimmering emerald anguish. My fists clench. “It’s sport for someone like King.” “He does it still?” Kiki asks as though she can't believe it, her eyes filling, her hand against her heart. “Yes.” I pull Juliette gently to her feet and curl Kiki against my side. “He's a fucking animal. Seeking out the most fragile people and preying on them.” I've seen some sick shit in my time

—participated in some—but I've never been a pimp. To fuck over a woman to get her in bed? That’s a sort of rape in my book. To beat my own kid for a perverse thrill? That brand of fucked up is beyond what I can stomach. Doesn't sound like I'm the only kid he abused. “How old was your mom when she... had you?” Kiki asks against my shoulder. I do quick math. “Sixteen.” Kiki's large brown eyes roll to mine. “Mine too.” “He was here for six years,” Juliette confirms quietly.

Fuck me. I'm twenty-nine and Kiki's twenty-three. It makes miserable sense. “Sounds like Tag's gonna have some visitors coming in,” I say. “Yeah, bro.” Kiki’s voice is small, sad. I hate hearing her without that energy she brings. Rex has robbed of us of more than our mothers. I try to ease her anguish. I'll spare Kik that if I can. “Don't worry, might just be coincidence. You might not be stuck being my sister.” A smile fills Kiki’s face. She steps back and punches my arm. “That's the only good part of this whole sordid saga.” My eyelids are on fire from her

words. I look at my feet, jamming my hands in my pockets. Fuck. I take deep, even breaths. Counting them out. These two girls have found their way into Thorn. I can't get rid of them. I don't want to.

TWENTY-TWO Juliette This can't end well. I know it, but Thorn doesn't. I repack my duffel as Kiki watches, but she's not really here. She’s staring out the bank of windows. Her fingers are loosely wrapped around her cup of tea, long grown cold. “I can't believe Thorn is my bro.” I can't either, but now that the three of us know, it all makes sense. They're far more alike than they realized. Smart, quick on their feet, strong personalities that don't take no for an answer. I love them both for different reasons, and some of the same ones.

“God... I could have done a lap with Thorn.” Kiki shudders. I smile. That's too funny, in a sick way. “That would have been bad.” Kiki stands quickly, her finger still hung up in the handle of the tea cup. It skitters on the table, rolling toward the edge. I snake my hand out and capture it mid-fall. Kiki's eyes snap to mine. “You've got the reflexes of a cat.” I don't reply, righting the cup again. Kiki moves to the kitchen and grabs a washcloth. She wipes up the drops of spilt tea on the table. “What's the life like?” Kiki asks. Thorn's gone to his “head doc”

appointment. I'm packing, and Kiki's staying with me until he returns. I should disappear so Thorn can live his life without me, but I'm too selfish to do it. I hate myself. I love Thorn. In a week, I've fallen for him as if he’s a bottomless pit. I keep falling. No landing breaks my descent. Kiki's waiting for my answer. “It's awful.” I raise my head. “It's also wonderful.” Kiki's surprise is comical, and I laugh. “So not funny, Juliette. Just sayinʼ.” “I know. But they took a fourteenyear-old girl out of a poor household,

told her she's beautiful, shaped her into a sophisticated, quadlingual, highly trained martial artist, and showered her with riches.” I shrug. “Okay,” Kiki says slowly, “but you took off. You dumped all that awesomeness to go on the lam.” I smile at her old expression, and she waves it away. “I can pull out the verbal stops when I'm in the mood.” “I see that.” Her phone buzzes. She glances at the screen, pursing her lips. “Who?” I ask, sipping my cold tea. “Chet Sinclair, no E.” “Is that bad?” I ask. She nods vigorously. “Hell yes.”

Kiki sounds somewhat unconvinced. My eyes meet Kiki's. “I left because I knew I was a flame, and I'd be held accountable for the murders of men more important than me. I'd burn brightly, and when my fire started to burn out, I'd be extinguished.” “You have a shelf life, and when your expiration is up, poof—you're gone.” “Exactement.” Kiki stares at me. “You skedaddled while the going was good.” I nod, though it's so much more. It is all I can say. “Why is this Shepard wasting his time? Doesn't he have a bevy of broads to do his nefarious crap to?”

I laugh. Kiki has a way with language. I might speak four, but she has a gift with her native tongue that I'll never possess. “He does,” I answer. “Why you?” Kiki searches my face. Because he wants his wife back under his thumb. Instead I say, “He wants me to help run his business... and I still have my usefulness.” If I don't partake, there is always the threat of handing me over to Roi, though I don't think Shep could bear it. Kiki’s dark eyes, so expressive, latch onto me like a barnacle. “Listen, Juliette, Thorn seems like a tough dude —and believe me, he is. But you

seem”—her hand waffles back and forth —“you're under his skin. It isn't going to be good if you work him over.” “Work him over?” I smile. “God, you dirty bitch. I know you've worked him over—no deets, baby.” My eyebrows rise. “What I mean is—don't hurt him. I know you're all Kung Fu and shit, but I'll still kick your ass. Especially if he really is my brother.” I cover my mouth, choking on my deception. Do I love Shep? No. Did the young girl I was? Yes. But I am her no longer. Thorn has

changed all that. This rough man speaks more than my language; he speaks the language of my soul, my body. My heart. I look into Kiki's eyes. “I think I love him.” “In a week? Is that even possible?” I lift my shoulders. I wouldn't have thought so. Never in my wildest dreams. My mind briefly touches on my dream man, the one I conjure when I can't escape what’s happening to my body. That black shining knight come to rescue me is Thorn. My mind gasps. Kiki looks away, turning her cell over so the screen faces the table. She

taps her finger on the phone, seeming to decide something. I inhale shakily. Her eyes are steady on my face, considering. “Okay, so your ass-kicking is on hold.” Her eyes capture mine. “For now.” I nod. For now. * “I don't like leaving ya.” Kiki's eyes move around the parking lot of the small airport where Mick McKenna's private jet waits. “I'll be fine,” I say. I don't let on I'm so jittery I'm bouncing off the walls.

I killed a man and wounded another. My fingerprints are all over that apartment. The name in the system won't trace to me, but who else who knows Thorn, also knows about his connection to me? “When did Thorn say he'd be here?” she asks. “Three.” I glance at my small wristwatch. It's noon. Kiki rolls her lip into her teeth. “I have to get to an orientation for my next stint of school.” She glances at me. I cover her hand. “Thank you.” She puffs up her lips, looking puzzled. “For what?”

I think of all the things I can list. “For Thorn.” She wags her finger at me. “You got it, girl. I had a feeling about you two. Now look!” She sweeps her hand along her windshield. “He's squiring you off for some quality time. He digs you big time.” Her eyebrows move up and down. She grins. I grin back. “I dig him too.” Kiki's lips quirk. “You sound so funny when you try slang. Somehow, it's not you.” “It was discouraged. Unclassy,” I say before I can sensor myself. “Eff them.” I nod.

“Yes. Definitely.” Kiki leans across the seats, hugging me. “Text me if you need anything.” “Thorn will take care of me.” She pulls away. “If you let him.” I didn't realize Kiki was so insightful. “True.” “Get outta here, Juliette.” My real name sounds like music. It makes me sad. I slide out of her Fiat, my fingers clenched around the handles of my duffel. Each step takes me farther away from Shepard and deeper inside the lies I've woven for Thorn. I can't win, though it's all I can think of managing.

I walk toward the small building that houses the planes of those who can afford private transport. I don't stand out in a place as diverse as Seattle. I chose this region on purpose because I look like what I am: a woman of mixed ethnicity. I want to blend. Shepard never thought I did. I remember his words. * “Ma cherie,” Shepard says, his hands everywhere on my naked body, “he shall not have you.” I shudder. I don't want to lay with the King of the French Mafia. I want to be like a normal sixteen-year-old girl,

putting on makeup and staying up half the night giggling with my girlfriends. Instead, I am clay. Shepard molds me. He protects me from the perverse affections of the monster who ruins others. “How?” I ask, hating the quiver in my voice. Shepard's dark eyes find mine. He swipes my tears away with his thumbs before rolling over on top of my body. He presses my knees wide, grabbing either side of my face in a hold that hurts. “He cannot have the one I marry.” A thrill of fear like lightning strikes my guts, causing them to quiver with a deep-seeded resignation. His words kill

something inside me. My freedom. It's the first time I realize I don't belong to me. I'm no one. Shepard pushes into me. With each thrust a little piece of me floats away. I scatter like dandelion seeds on the wind. Going everywhere and nowhere. * “Miss?” My face jerks up at the man behind the counter. “Are you well?” he asks. I swallow. No.

“Yes, thank you. I'm fine.” His eyebrows rise. They’re a fine silver that matches his hair. “Are you the young lady traveling with Mr. Simon?” I nod. “You may consider waiting in Mr. McKenna's private lounge.” “All right.” I scan the building, and shame floods me. I should have been more aware, counting exits. Stupid, Juliette. My paranoia is its own monster. The older gentleman rounds the counter and takes my elbow. His touch fills me with anxiety. Nerves. “Through this door, Miss Balland.” I move to the door he indicates.

Silver tone lettering scrolls across the door: McKenna Enterprises. He sweeps it open with his right hand. His grip on my right elbow tightens. It hits me—a silent D. No one says my name correctly. I look into the room. Shepard sits at a bar stool. His suit is impeccable, elbows casually behind him as his Italian-encased shoe swings over crossed legs. “Is this she?” the older man asks. Shepard nods. But I'm already moving toward Shep. I drive my left palm into his solar plexus. He grunts, and with an expert twist, he wrenches my elbow. I squeal like a

stuck pig and make my counter move count. I drive my elbow up like a wing into the beak of his nose. Shep laughs. “So feisty. Subdue her, gentleman.” Three men pour from the corners. I shrug off my jacket as I turn and wrap the arms around the old guy from the counter. He carries himself well and tries to deflect my maneuver. I'm better, knotting the arms across his face and shoving him at the same time. He falls, temporarily blinded. I turn, and the largest one comes for me. “Careful, she's a tigress,” Shep

calls. He knows what I'm capable of, but the thug coming for me doesn't. He grunts a laugh, and I strike him hard in the jaw. I can't afford to hit teeth this soon. It'll tear up my knuckles before I can get the others. He drops where he stands. I timed my hit perfectly and nailed the exact knockout spot on the jaw. The other two come for me. “Bitch,” one says. I crouch, hands loose and ready. I don't waste time on words. He moves in, fast for his size. I swing in a classic roundhouse kick, aiming for his jaw. He jerks backward, and the kick takes him at half-speed.

A fist sails over my head. I clutch the other man's arm, moving behind him as he follows through with the punch. I slam my instep into the back of his knee, and it caves. I jamb his arm between his shoulder blades and shove. He stumbles forward into a freefall. I turn as a hand lands on my throat. My eyes flick to Shepard's. Amusement fills them. Hate flares inside me like a lit match. Two men are down. The old man came at me from behind. Stars glitter in my vision and I slam my palm into Strangler's locked elbow. It dislocates and he howls, dropping me. I whirl, bringing my foot into old

man's stomach. It drives him into the wall. Shepard is suddenly there. Pain arrives, and with it—fear.

TWENTY-THREE Thorn I don't consider myself an intuitive dude. I'm more a gut-instinct kinda guy. My instincts are all worked up into a damn lather. I pace in front of Dillinger's door. My appointment is in five minutes. Juliette is safe at Kiki's. The jet is fueling at the private airport. Why do I feel like I've got ants in my boxers? My skin creeps with it. I crack my knuckles, and the receptionist looks up. Gotta tone my shit down. “Can I get you a glass of water, Mr.

Simon?” No, you can get me out of here so I can get to Juliette. “No, thanks.” A buzzer shrieks, and I about jump out of my shorts. Fuck. I scrub my face twice. Bubble-gum Snapper gives me the green light. “Go ahead, Mr. Simon. Dr. Dillinger is ready for you.” I burst through the door. The doc looks up. “Mr. Simon?” He’s clearly concerned by my freaky attitude. I dial it down. “No problems, just have a busy agenda. Trying to push stuff through.”

“Yes, well... you seem under duress.” Yeah, I can't get this girl off my mind. She’s got a stranglehold on my cock, and when that lets up, she leads me around by it. Not a problem, doc. I blurt, “I met someone.” Going for honesty's jugular. Turning over a new leaf. Or twenty. His eyebrows raise. “Please, sit.” My eyes shift to the couch. Fuck that. “Nah, not today.” “All right.” Dillinger strolls over to his normal seat and settles in. I exhale. “That's fine progress, Mr. Simon.” “Ty.”

He nods at my correction and cocks his head, waiting. “I can't...” I'm so frustrated I could scream. “I think it's progressive that you're willing to trust someone, Ty.” I lace my hands behind my head and pace across his office. My elbows stand out from my head like wings. He studies me as I go back and forth. “I don't trust anyone.” Dillinger stares at me. “Yet since our last session ten days ago, you have met someone who has you in an apparent state of unravel.” Well said. I stop, my hands dropping to my

sides. “Ya ever meet someone who seems to just tap right into who you are?” I punch my fist into my chest above my heart. “Right here.” Dillinger's smile lights his face. “I did indeed.” Well isn't he the fucking cat that ate the canary. He's got all the answers, eh? I peg my hands on my hips, my neck jerking forward like a duck's. “And what did you do?” He lifts his left hand to show me a narrow band of gold encircling his ring finger. “I married her.” I sink into any chair that'll hold me. I put my head in my hands. *

Juliette His elbow is against my throat, and my back is on the ground. The men I've disabled roll around beside me, moaning as they hold their various injuries. “I do not like to hurt you, Juliette,” Shepard murmurs in French. His dark eyes are hard in his handsome face. “I know,” I say. I drive my knee into his nuts. It's a glancing blow, but he loosens his hold in an instinctive reaction. I spin away, jump to my feet and turn. He slaps my face. It doesn't sound like much, but a slap delivered by a man as strong as Shep snaps my head back

like a flower bending on its stem. My head rings as he charges hard. Shepard wraps me up tightly and pounds me against the wall. I gasp as the wind's knocked out of me. He kisses me, and I turn my head. He forces my head back into place. He grinds his mouth against my lips until I submit, opening my mouth to keep from being cut by his teeth. Shepard forces my arms open, pushing my wrists against the wall as he plunders my mouth. His strong legs pin my own. He trained me. Shepard knows my body and how to tire me out before he got to me.

His erection lays between us, and I choke back a sob. Thorn! my mind bellows in anguish. “I smell him on you,” Shepard says as his nose grazes my neck. His kisses make me shiver in both memory and revulsion. “I will cover his scent with my own.” “No,” I say. I bite his lip. Blood pours from the wound, and he leaps back. I run to the door, jerking it open as his palm slams against it. I clamp my left hand against my right fist and drive my elbow into whatever part of him is behind me. He grunts, and I rip the door open.

Roi is there. His surprise is not greater than mine. His fist smashes into my face. I tumble backward in slow motion. Something soft meets me. Shepard's arms. His blood falls on my face like metallic rain. He's saying something but I can't hear him. The darkness is absolute.

TWENTY-FOUR Thorn Dillinger shakes my hand. “I don't think you're in need, anymore, Mr. Simon.” “Ty.” I throw him a bone in the form of a small smile of my own. He cleans his glasses with a cotton handkerchief from the pocket of his button-down. Dillinger holds the glasses up to the light and sets them back on the bridge of his nose, adjusting them with a tapered finger. “I will give my recommendation that you be reinstated to full service.” “Yʼknow, Doc?” His eyebrows rise.

“I think I'm going to take a small sabbatical.” He grins. “You do have quite a bit of vacation time on the books.” I cram my hands in my pockets. “That's a no-shitter.” His smile becomes wider, more knowing. Before, all I had was my work. Now I have something more. Worth. “A word of caution,” Dillinger says. The feeling of disquiet I'd had when I first got here returns. “Sometimes we seek the very thing we run from.” “Riddles, Doc?” He inclines his head. “You have not had things easy, Ty. It would be very

normal for you to pick a relationship with complications. It’s a replacement for dysfunctional dynamics, because they are familiar.” “Yeah, I know. She has issues.” Dillinger's eyes capture mine. “Some you may be unaware of.” “Okay...?” “Guard yourself.” I pull my chin back. “I always do.” Dillinger shakes his head a little sadly. “No. Before, there was nothing to guard—no one mattered.” We look at each other for another moment that's so oppressive, I feel as if I've stopped treading water. The fullness passes, and he claps me on the shoulder.

I nod and walk out. His words swirl around in my head. That session was my last, and I'm glad. Why do I feel as though it's only the beginning? My cell buzzes. I pull it out of my pocket and swipe. Tag: We need to meet. ASAP. Me: What's doinʼ? Tag: Not here. Starbucks at Pike. Me: Stupid parking. Tag: Use the cherry. I think of Juliette's story and shove it away. Tag means the cop light.

Me: Yeah. I jog to my Porsche and throw the red strobe on the top. I drive to Pike Place, but not before I look at the time. An hour and a half until the jet leaves. This had better be good. * I pull up and double-park. I take in the surroundings, seeing nothing unusual. Tourists dot the area with their umbrellas. I stride to the Starbucks. Tag stands, his chin lifts in greeting, and I move around the three-foot ornate

metal fence and sit in an ass-numbing metal bistro chair. “What the fuck? What's with all the cloak-and-dagger shit?” I ask. Tagger leans forward. His light eyes seem to storm, the bit of gray in them like an angry cloud. “That chick— Simone Balland?” He nails the D, and my teeth clench. “Yeah?” My guts drop to my shoes. I know what's happening. “Why didn't you tell me she was a suspect?” Huh, wasn't expecting that. “ ʼCuz she isn't.” We stare at each other. Tag flops back, one arm sailing over the back of the chair to dangle behind him. “Says

who? We've got a stinker at an apartment leased in her name, and signs of a beat down but no body.” My face shuts down and I knot my hands, elbows going to the table. I rest my chin on them. “Okay.” Tag leans forward, cupping his hand toward himself. “What level of fucked up is this?” I blow out air. Tag whistles. “Must be bad.” I nod and glance at my watch. One hour, eighteen minutes. “Got a hot date?” Yes. “No, I just—I'm meeting Simone to fly outta here.” “Shut up. You—” Tag plows fingers through his sandy hair, then points at me.

“You do not-do not... run off with a suspect in a murder.” “It was self-defense.” “Well, great, so she flees? Pfft.” His front chair legs slam on the concrete as he leans forward. I nod. “Listen, it's a long story...” Tag leans back again, spreading his arms. “We're all ears at the precinct.” Truth time. “She's running from the French Mob.” The legs come down with an echoing clunk, but the pedestrian traffic and noise of the market mask it. “No shit.” I nod in the face of his shock. “Yeah.”

“So you're what, hiding her?” Tag’s eyes narrow, and he shakes his head. Then his eyes light up. “You're boning her? God, Thorn, grow up. You've had more tail than I can shake a stick at.” I don't know what my face does, but Tag puts up his palms in supplication, offering benevolence. I stare at him. He stares back, his face going through an assload of speculations. Finally, he settles on the right one. “You're gone on her.” He clasps his hands together, shoving away the coffees we don't touch. My head bows. My hands dangle between my knees as I neither confirm nor deny his statement.

“Holy fucking crow—I never. Shit, man.” I don't look up. I feel embarrassed, vulnerable as hell, and exhilarated all at the same time. I never share shit. Tag's chair scrapes back. I watch his feet come around to stand by my chair. He waits, and I lift my head. His hand is there. I look at it. Then I take it. He hauls me up and I tower over him. “I'm happy for you, you morose dick.” I grin, and he claps me on the back. “It's okay, Thorn. Now let me help you.”

I leap. Again. “Okay.” We take off toward the airport, cherries flashing like a pulse of blood on our cars. My stomach settles to something like normal. I can save Juliette. I can save me.

TWENTY-FIVE Juliette The slap wakes me. “Please, Roi—do not.” “She is alive only because she is your wife. Look at the trouble she has caused.” A sharp pain like a million bee stings lights up my cheek. The same one Shep backhanded. His felt like a love tap compared to the King’s. I catch Roi’s wrist and roll off the surface I'm on. I stumble, driven to my knees from dizziness. “Stop hitting me.” The King crouches next to my face.

“No.” He shoves me backward and my forearms cross to defend my face. He hits them away. I scuttle backward, flipping to my feet and gliding into a defensive crouch. “Juliette, no,” Shepard warns. My eyes flick to him. His face wears our fight, as mine does. “I can't let him beat me and not defend myself.” My gaze shifts to Roi, and I see his resemblance to Thorn. His huge body is all Thorn, his nose, jawline, the shape of his eyes. It catches my breath. Only his pale skin and soulless eyes speak of their differences. Shepard closes his eyes. “I know.”

Roi moves in, and I smile. He says, “You can't win against me.” “Then I'll die trying, you murderer.” “Sticks and stones, my lovely Juliette. I will do more than beat you. I will break you.” Shep begins to move forward. “Do not think it, my little Shepard. I have given you your leave to keep this one all to yourself. But she lost the sanctuary you provided when she chose to leave our nest.” I search for weaknesses. Though Roi must be nearing fifty, his body is rock solid. He expects perfect physical condition in his employees. Combative readiness. He expects it most of himself.

* Thorn We pull up to the airport and disengage our lights. I pop out of my car, and so does Tag. We look around. Something doesn't seem right. Too quiet. Tag gestures toward the sliders. “Shouldn't she be milling around on her cell in the lounge area?” The place is a ghost town. I nod slowly. I have an idea. “She might be in the private lounge.” Tag looks again. “I don't like it.”

My head swivels toward him. “Why?” He shrugs, moving his neck as though to release tension. “I don't know, dude. Feels wrong.” Good enough for me. We pull our guns at the same time. He sweeps his eyes to my weapon. “Same thing?” I think about my growing gut feeling. “Yeah.” “Hang on.” Tag makes a quick call, then we move in, sliding along the wall. I hear a distinctive noise. Flesh being slapped. Then a feminine noise. The deliberate stifling of a whimper. Tag's arm is across my chest. He

shakes his head. I didn't realize I’d moved. I know it's Juliette. But I nod at Tag, and we wait, listening. I've never wanted to move more than I do during those three minutes of conversation. Finally Tag gives me the signal, and we go through the door. I know who I'll face. It's the most important turning point in my life. I’m meeting my nemesis. As I see her face, I know something has eclipsed my revenge. * Juliette

I gulp when I see his erection. He laughs in delight when I realize his intent. “I won't let you rape me,” I say through my teeth. “Let is not part of the equation, Juliette.” The King’s face darkens. “Allowance is no longer afforded you. Shepard cannot keep you safe. I will take you until you beg. Then I will take you more.” Shepard makes a strangled noise. A small sound of air moving causes me to look toward the door. “No one is taking shit,” a low voice says, filling the room. Commanding it. A thrill courses through my body

like electrical current. Thorn. Roi surges into my space, and I strike the soft underside of his jaw with my knuckles. He's so fast. I have only that thought before he wraps his arms around me like a pretzel, jerking me against his chest. His body fits against me like Thorn's, and I cry out at the injustice of genetics. All that strength will be used against me in violence instead of the vicious tenderness Thorn uses to bring me tighter to him. Thorn's eyes meet mine. A man I don't know follows closely behind him, gun drawn. My eyes zero in on the barrel. That

black endless circle of metal bearing down on Roi. On me. “Thorn,” I say in a miserable voice. The voice of a broken female I've never been in my life. His eyes flick back to mine from scanning the room for hidden dangers. The answer's in them. He'll die to save me. “You have no jurisdiction here, cop.” Roi's smug voice teases Thorn. Thorn will not be teased. “Diplomatic immunity—there is nothing you can do.” Roi turns my face and gives the wounded side a long lick. I squirm, trying to get away. Roi’s eyes find Thorn again.

“However, you may watch as I break one of my whores.” “I don't think so, Dad,” Thorn says. Roi's body stiffens. I try to move away, but he clutches me tighter. They look at each other as the seconds swell to a minute. I see an arrogant smile wash over his face from the corner of my eye. His palm captures my jaw. He jerks it from left to right. “She is beautiful, even wounded, no?” My eyes plead with Thorn. I hate Roi’s hands on me. I hate what he's done to the man I love. “She is mine,” Thorn says and charges.

“Thorn! No, fuck!” the other man cries and lunges after him. Roi’s hand slides to my neck and squeezes. I gasp. “I will break her neck. This fragile bird so many men care about.” He seems to pause thoughtfully as Thorn circles us. Thorn’s tats are like stripes of anger that cradle his face, slithering into the crevices of his open shirt. His forearms bunch in readiness. “Or we can share in the breaking of this one,” Roi offers. Thorn grins like a shark. It’s the only time he reminds me of Roi. “You're a sick fuck,” Thorn says in

French. Roi laughs from his belly. “I know who you are,” Roi states conversationally. I wait. The room holds its breath. “Your mother was a good lay,” he clucks. Thorn makes a noise deep in the back of his throat. Anguished. Roi watches him closely. Thorn doesn't rise to the bait. “I see your face go soft when you look at our Juliette. You love her.” Thorn doesn't answer. His eyes do. Roi nods. “You might love her less if you understand she belongs to

another.” I struggle in earnest then. Thorn can't learn this way. Not this. Thorn moves forward as I bite down on Roi's arm, and Roi hits me again. I stagger and fall into Thorn's arms. He drags me against him, cradling me like a precious package. My consciousness is fuzzy around the edges. I’ve been hit too many times. Roi strikes a pose, his finger moving to his jaw. “Shepard?” I see the stranger’s gun move toward the silent Shepard. “Tell the good policeman and my

wayward relative who Juliette belongs to.” Shepard raises his chin and shoots his gaze at Thorn like a laser. I close my eyes in a grief so absolute, it steals my thoughts. Nothing is left but my lost hope. “Juliette is my bride.” Thorn's hands convulse around my arms. He turns me to face him, and my head falls back. He captures my head in his palm gently. I can't look away. Betrayal is all I see. Roi reaches behind his back and raises a gun as Thorn curves his body around mine.

An explosion sounds from behind us. Deafening—complete. Roi pivots, his arms flung out as he spins like a marionette whose strings have just been cut. Blood flies in an arc that hits Shepard's face. He blinks at me, then he’s gone. “Stop where you are!” the man who shot Roi bellows. Thorn keeps looking at me. I close my eyes against what I see in his face. Sirens are close, wailing their song of protection. I feel Thorn lift me. Though he's all around me, I know

he’s no longer there. Hope flees, and along with it, my heart.

TWENTY-SIX Thorn People in white swarm around me like bees. I fight against swatting them away. My irritation has its own zip code. “We were lucky, so lucky,” Tag says. It's been hours since Juliette was admitted to the hospital. She's been cleaned, dressed, and questioned. That prick Shepard is missing. Her husband. Roi... my father, and the slow murderer of a dozen women, is dead. It should feel final. Vindication is finally mine. Instead, I feel as if a giant came

along with an ice cream spoon and scooped out my guts as I lay gasping for air. “We won't get nailed, Thorn. They've been looking for this guy for fucking years.” Tagger shot him, so he's on a little vacation like I was. Not because he did anything wrong. It was defensible, totally. But that's the way it works. Somebody dies by a cop’s hand, and you're a cop... an internal inquiry begins to turn its ugly wheels. My DNA is being matched to Roi’s. Normally, we'd be waiting for two weeks, but with a foreign national involved, it'll be a rush job. I don't think my undercover career can survive this

scandal. The best we can do is keep it off Mick's ass. The blood bath happened where his jet is kept, so the media will be all over him again. I look through the glass and just make out the top of her head. Ink spills over her white pillow. My palm makes a print on the window. I move away before she sees me. Tag jogs to keep up with me. “Whoa, Thorn. You're just going to leave, buddy?” I pivot, and he bumps into me. “Here's the thing... she fucking did the stiletto tap dance on my chest.” I clench my hand and bring it to my chest. “She sucked the life outta Thorn.” I swirl my hand over my heart. “He's in

there somewhere but right now—no oxygen, ya dig?” Tag nods, his eyes kinda buggy. “I do.” “Good.” I burst through the double glass doors of the hospital’s entrance and suck in a lungful of moist Seattle air. I turn around. Tag's still there. “What?” I ask. “Thorn—” he begins in a soothing voice. “Uh-uh.” I wave away his words like a tick trying to bite my ass. “Come on, dude. Give her a chance to explain!” I whirl around and our noses almost touch. “There's nothing to explain. She

played me. I'd go to the ground for her.” My eyes feel dry and tight, like they want to burst. “I did.” I walk away before I fucking cry like some pussy. I swipe my cheeks as I move to my screaming red car. Matches my mood. I ignore the water on my hands. * Juliette “Okay, you're so telling Kiki what happened,” Kiki says. I sigh, pulling on my low-slung combat-style boots. I take my time lacing them, not looking at Kiki. “Where the eff is Thorn?”

I still don't say anything. “Juliette, ya better look at me or I'm gonna blow a circuit!” I look up, and Kiki gasps, stepping back. She says, “Who the fuck messed up your face?” I grab my purse and move through my hospital room door. She follows. “Juliette! Stop, you pain in the ass!” Ignoring her, I slap open the hospital’s main doors, wincing at the pain. It's phantom pain. Don't know where I got it, just have it after a fight. She runs in front of me and grabs my elbows. My face pinches. She latches onto the spot where that old guy grabbed me, and it hurts.

“What? God... what's going on?” Kiki lightens her grip, and I relax. “Tagger, that insensitive doofus, calls me and asks if I'll pick you up, Mick won't answer one question, and Thorn won't pick up his phone!” Her eyes search me from head to toe. “And a gang of goddamned gnomes beat your ass. What. The. Hell. Happened?” I blow out my frustration. “I lied to Thorn.” “You mean lie-lie? Or white lie or...?” “Lie by omission.” “Kinda like white lie then?” Kiki bites her lip. I plunge. “I'm married to Shepard.” Kiki cringes.

That's very much the reaction I would have. I move around her, looking for a cab. My dead heart still beats. I raise my hand when I see a yellow cab. “How could you be married to that a-hole? He screwed you over! Tell me it isn't true!” she pleads with me. “It's true.” The cab stops, and I turn, giving Kiki my full attention. “You've been so good to me. I'm so sorry.” Kiki puts her hands on her head. “This can't be happening. It's like a goddamned nightmare.” The cabbie honks, and Kiki scowls at him.

“Don't go,” she begs. “I know there's something reasonable in this mess. Please tell me—I'm a good listener.” I hold my eyes open, but the tears still fall. Kiki steps into me, grabbing my hands. “Don't go, Simone—Juliette, whatever!” “You go now!” the cabbie shouts through the open passenger-side window. I turn. He's Iranian. I tell him to fuck off in Farsi. Kiki bursts out laughing, and I do too. “I don't have to speak the language to know that one,” she says.

The driver swears, his wheels squealing as he roars off. “Can't stay classy, can ya?” she asks. I shake my head. “No.” “Come on, us tacky broads have to stay together.” * One week, one hour, thirty-seven minutes, and a breath of seconds since I've seen Thorn. I wrap my arms around my knees, the borrowed pajamas soft against my skin. It's two a.m., and here I sit. Insomnia—again.

I look at the letter for the tenth time. Registered mail from France. The postage is old. Many times it's been delivered and forwarded. Finally it has found me. The freedom I should feel is hollow. The divorce decree is legitimate. Shepard is no longer my husband. He was trying to give me a gift. Somewhere in all that callous packaging, he loved me. Enough to let me go. But the man I really love, who I chose—he won't have me. Everyone has tried to contact Thorn. He's not answering. Gone like a ghost. Thorn haunts me.

I hear a door open and close, and my heart rate ticks up. Who could be here? The police have taken care of everyone involved. They arrested my father, who lives in the US, for the human slave trade of his own daughter. Shepard is still on the loose, but the real evil has been expunged. Roi is no longer King. The dead can't rule. A soft knock comes at my bedroom door and I look up, startled. Kiki comes in and closes it tightly. Her eyes have lost the vestiges of sleep. Her palms flatten on the wood. “He's here,” she says. My heart lurches. “Who?”

“Jesus—Thorn. Duh.” “Why?” I ask. Kiki rolls her eyes. “Find out, fool!” She steps away from the door, and Thorn enters. He's so beautiful I want to cry. This man who was tortured as a boy. I want to dump myself into his arms, but I know that's not the way to fix things between us. He glances at Kiki. She leaves. He and I stare at each other. His presence fills the room, overwhelming me. Thorn crosses his arms. “I'm listening.”

“It's two in the morning.” I instantly want to kick myself. He shrugs, and I watch his muscles like a starving animal. “Can't sleep,” he says. I feel my cheeks warm. “I can't either.” Silence hangs between us. “I—Thorn.” I hang my head. “Shepard married me to keep me from Roi. He tastes all the new girls, and Shepard knew that if he was my husband, Roi would respect that. He wouldn't have me.” I don't look up. I can't. “I'm sorry,” I whisper. “So sorry.” His arms come around me, and my nose fills with the sharp scent of soap,

his light cologne, and him. Gradually, my arms go around him. “I know.” His voice rumbles against my chest. I pull away, and his fingertips touch my face lightly. He traces the healing bruise on my face. “What do you know?” “What I need to,” Thorn says, his eyes glittering down at me. I search his face in the gloom. “What do you know?” Thorn smiles. “That you're never going to be married to anyone.” My eyebrows pop. “But me,” he finishes. My heart stops. “You can't know... I mean—”

His finger stops my protest. “Thorn knows.” I shake my head He nods. “I've always known.” “Known what?” Breathe, Juliette. “That the wait is over. It's finally fucking over.” He's lost me. What wait? My face scrunches, and Thorn smooths the pucker between my brows. He trails his thumb over my eyebrow and down my face. It stops at my collarbone, and he wraps his hand around my shoulder, kneading it. A little moan escapes before I can stop it. His eyes darken from that one noise. “The wait for what?” I ask. He presses me to him, all of him

against all of me. My eyes close, and my tears soak his shirt. Neither of us move. “The happy, Juliette,” he says against my hair. “I've found the happy, and it's you. It's always been you.” He's no longer speaking in third person. Thorn is finally him.

THE END Read More

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MARATA EROS NEWS If you enjoyed THORN, please consider posting your thoughts HERE and help a reader discover a new series. Thank you!

Acknowledgments I published The Druid and Death Series in 2011 with the encouragement of my husband, and continued because of you, my Reader. Your faithfulness through comments, suggestions, spreading the word and ultimately purchasing my work with your hard-earned money gave me the incentive, means and inspiration to continue. There are no words that are sufficiently adequate to express my thankfulness for your support. But know this: TDS novellas continued past HARVEST only because of you. I truly feel connected to my readers. It is obvious to me, but I'll say the words anyway for clarity: a written work is just words on pages if they are not read by my readers. As I write this I get a lump in my throat; your enjoyment of my work affects me that deeply.

You guys are the greatest, each and every one of ya~ Marata (Tamara) xo

Special Thanks: You, my reader. My husband, who is my biggest fan. Cameren, without whom, there would be no books.

About the Author

Marata Eros (the pen name for Tamara Rose Blodgett) is the author of over seventy titles, including her New York Times bestselling novel, A Terrible Love and the #1 international bestselling erotic Interracial, and AfricanAmerican TOKEN serial. Marata writes a variety of dark fiction in the genres of erotica,

fantasy, horror, romance, sci-fi and suspense. She lives in South Dakota with her family, and enjoys interacting with her readers.

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