Chapter Eleven
MALICE
The engines start up one by one until the ground itself trembles under us.
I lean into the weight of my bike, solid and loyal, the only religion I’ll ever understand.
Our road sergeants, Noose and Rogue, take the lead, directing us into formation.
We line up outside the clubhouse, our cuts heavy on our backs.
The weight of what we’re doing today is suffocating.
I look around at all the leather, the top rocker that says Hell’s Heathens MC, the club insignia in the center—a skull with a dagger slicing through the top and coming out the bottom, a crown slipping off to the side.
Rolo taught me the meaning of these colors, of this brotherhood.
This . . . family. And now he’s fucking gone.
We’re Hell’s Heathens. Forged in fire, bound by blood, and loyal beyond the grave.
We ride not for glory, but for each other.
In a world that turned its back on us, we chose brotherhood.
We protect our own, stand for what’s right when no one else will, and never leave a Heathen behind.
Family isn’t born; it’s earned on the road.
Home is the clubhouse; family is the cut.
We live and die for each other. The only way out is back through hell’s gates.
Noose and Rogue slowly roll forward at the front of the lines, the rest of us falling in, the hearse carrying Rolo right behind us.
The air fills with motor oil and leather, but there’s no denying the thick weight of grief and rage.
Especially coming from me. There’s a sharp, hollow ache that sits right under my ribs, and I have to crack my neck side to side to ease some of the pressure.
Morgan rides with Saige on the back of her bike, and the respect I have for both of those women just grew tenfold. Rogue gives the signal, and I ease off my clutch, starting to roll forward with a knot in my throat.
Our formation is tight, four bikes side by side when the road allows it, tightening up to staggered pairs as it narrows around bends. The sound of us coming rattles the trees around us, a living heartbeat made of steel and gasoline, a thunderclap that echoes into the open space around us.
As we reach the edge of downtown Amberwood, people pull over, letting us take our final ride through, and showing us respect we don’t deserve.
I keep my eyes forward, my vision blurring at the edges as I try to maintain control.
This isn’t our first time having to do this, and it won’t be our last, but it sure as fuck is the first one that hurts like this.
The procession slows as we reach the mortuary, rounding the corner to head toward the cemetery gates.
Monroe stands at the edge of the street, a beacon of light in a pretty yellow dress that takes away some of my pain.
I watch her for as long as possible, soaking up some of her light, wishing I could bathe in it like she does.
The rumble drops to a low growl as we line the road to the cemetery on both sides, letting the hearse pass through the center. We bow our heads in respect to our fallen brother, the ugly, raw truth of losing him passing right by me. I’m no stranger to death, but right now, I’ve never hated it more.
As the hearse passes the front of our formation and into the cemetery, Chaos revs his engine three times, and we answer the call right back. It’s a final salute, the last rev, our goodbye to our fallen brother. The man who saved me.
That night, when I find myself standing outside of 7 Wildflower Lane, I don’t stay across the street. Using the shadows to my advantage, I walk around the house, looking for any sign of my pretty girl.
It’s late, much too late for anyone to be awake, but as I walk to the back of the house, I’m shocked to find her.
Behind the large house sits a smaller one, no bigger than a large shed.
It looks like it was renovated into a tiny house, perfect for my little pixie.
She has a garden out front that lines the entirety of the perimeter, filled with yellow flowers with orange centers.
The building is painted a light blue with white trim and flower boxes.
Monroe stands in front of a large window in a thinly strapped nightgown, showing so much skin I almost drop to my knees and crawl across the lawn. She’s ethereal. Her beauty unmatched.
She looks out into the abyss for mere moments before turning and retreating further into the room. My feet are moving before I realize it, leading me directly to her. A low growl rumbles through my chest at the sight of her sitting at the edge of a bed.
The nightgown lifts up her thighs, just barely hiding the paradise between her legs. She takes turns lifting each leg and rubbing lotion down every inch. What I woudn’t give to be those hands. To be able to touch every inch of her soft skin.
My cock strains in my pants, and I grip it hard, pinching the tip to stave off some of the pleasure pulsing through me. But then Monroe stops, setting her feet back down on the plush carpet and turning her head to look out the window. To look at me.
Our eyes connect, and even though I know she can’t see me, I know she senses me.
We hold each other hostage for a passing moment, maybe longer; time seems to lose all sense and meaning when she’s around.
She bites her bottom lip, and instead of getting under the blankets like she should, my little minx lies on top of them.
Her bed faces the window, and it’s like I’m standing directly in front of her.
Monroe’s dainty fingers slide up her inner thigh, and just before she reaches her panties, she pulls back. Ever so slowly, she works herself up, teasing, running her hands over her smooth skin. Her hips start to move, her knees falling open slightly.
When her free hand comes up and dips into the thin, silky fabric of her nightgown over her breast, I lose it.
Quickly, I unbuckle my belt, spreading open my jeans enough to pull my cock free.
My fist wraps around it, stroking from root to tip, sending pleasure scattering over my body with a shudder.
The hair on the back of my neck stands up, a chill working through me. I’ve never been so turned on before. Monroe is so close, all it would take is me opening the front door, and I could sink between those sweet thighs and bring us both to the stars.
How would she like it? I’m rough. I fuck like the demon that I am. Monroe seems like she’d want it soft and slow, passionate, and sensual. I want to try to be that for her. I want to give her everything she needs.
The only thing better than going in there and touching her is this. Watching her touch herself, knowing she feels me close, but not having proof. My dirty girl is putting on a show for the big bad hunter lurking just outside her window.
My eyes rake up long legs, from the pretty pink toenail polish all the way to where her hand has finally settled between her thighs. My view is blocked from seeing anything more, but I can imagine it.
Monroe arches into her palm like such a good girl, her back bowing, and I imagine what it would feel like to have her on all fours for me, head down, spine arched, ass out. I know she’s going to squeeze my cock so good when I finally take her.
Monroe’s eyes don’t leave the window as she squeezes her tit and fucks her fingers.
I jerk my hand over my cock in time with each of her movements, working myself over.
It feels so fucking good to watch my pixie girl play with herself for me.
She’s going to make an amazing plaything. An even better queen.
Monroe’s eyes squeeze shut, and I let myself go, thinking that she’s about to orgasm, but then she rips her hand away from her pussy and drops it to her side in frustration.
My cock pulses as my orgasm barrels through me. I brace myself against the trim of the window while I unload my cum all over the pretty yellow daffodils that line the front of her house.
When I’m spent, I find her on her side, the blankets covering her body like nothing happened at all. Seems like my woman needs a helping hand to get off.
“Don’t worry, pixie, your Heathen is coming for you.”
I’ve never wanted anything for myself, but I want Monroe St. James.