Chapter 28
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
Knight
O ver the next few hours, the number of times I curse Dante, then her, then myself, is either amazing in its excessiveness or its moderation.
I’m honestly not sure which.
Cursing Liz is different to cursing the prick known as Dante. I flick to another screen and look at the code, then lean back, keyboard on my thigh. I curse her because her shame and guilt brings out the urge to punish her like a caring Daddy Dom would.
Except I don’t really like punishment over that kind of shame and guilt. The kind she shouldn’t have.
The kind I’m betting was put there by King fucking Dante himself.
I curse myself for both denying myself the sweet, easy spoils of the moment tonight—what is this noble fucking thing in me all of a sudden? —and actually wanting her when I knew, and still know, she’s easy pickings.
If I went and knocked and announced it was me?
She’d open the door .
She’d open her pretty thighs.
She’d give herself over to me and pleasure and I’d willingly take that virginity.
It’s mine, anyway. I know it. Can feel it. Taste it in the air.
I used to collect them when I was going through a phase. Not for a while now, but I remember the thrill of being the first inside a virgin, the first dick penetrating her, owning her, the thrill of teaching, honing, and creating a girl for me.
Of course, when a woman was molded for me, by me, into the perfect plaything, I lost interest.
Now I prefer the game, the play, the woman who can pretend to be the virgin by being my dirty, filthy whore, giving her fantasies to me to explore with her. I like it when they act out so I can customize a punishment.
I still like virgins. I still love being first.
And Liz…
She’s different. She’s all the things I crave and more. And I don’t think she’d ever bore me.
Fuck. I put down the keyboard and log out. I’ll work tomorrow. It’s the early hours of the morning now and Pandora’s is closed for business. It’s not a night for the afterhours crowd. We change that up, partly to keep it interesting and partly to keep the cops on their toes.
I stretch, pick up the bottle of wine I got and take a slug from the neck. I need something stronger, I think, so I head on up to the club. It’s easier than raiding the wet bar that’s down here in the living room where impromptu meetings are held.
Not with outsiders; they don’t know about this part of Pandora’s.
Which makes me falter over Liz.
I know why I’d have her here, even without the mark. But Dante?
Shit, I trust the man, but sometimes the dude is complicated. And probably takes his denial bullshit into areas that have nothing to do with sex and everything to do with feelings, if you ask me.
No one does, of course, but in all the time I’ve known him, this is the closest to emotional I’ve seen him. Dante holds his shit close to the bone. Some might say under lock and key. I don’t know about that. He’s complicated, just not stone-cold like Reaper.
Reaper might have layers of ice that keeps his deadly nature in place, but the man’s deep. Untapped. He doesn’t give much away.
He doesn’t do what Dante did tonight.
Reaper kills. Brutally. Sadistically. With intent. But not with his control switch off.
Dante…fuck, I’m so mad at him I can barely see straight. He didn’t need to treat her like a whore. Like one of his kinky-ass, fucked up women who like the hurt, the treatment, who crave his punishments and denial jive.
Liz is…
Liz. Shit. She’s the other reason I’m going upstairs.
Less fucking temptation.
I’m halfway down the hall when voices from the club’s floor make my step falter.
Dante. And Reaper?
I push into the room, setting the bottle down on the end of the bar as I go behind it, shooting Dante a filthy look as I do. Smoke hangs in the air as Reaper stubs out his cigarette, his crumpled pack on the bar.
I look at it, and then at him, then I walk along the bar, searching for hard liquor, something I’m in the mood for.
If Reaper lights up again, something’s going on.
He talks more when he’s got things to say. And he smokes more when things sit in him. Since he’s not one for inner contemplation that I can see, I’m betting something’s going on.
“Make it rum.” Reaper fixes me with his stare.
I bow and pour us both a drink.
After setting his down, I lean on the back bar and gulp mine, refill it, then cross my arms, glaring at fucking Dante who is sprawled in the nearest booth.
There’s a bottle of whiskey on the table, and one foot’s on the long seat, his back against where it curves into the wall. He’s got on a T-shirt—black, of course—and jeans, very casual wear for him, and I focus on the tattoo that spills down his exposed arm. Because I’m not ready to look the fucker in the eye.
If I do, one of us might end up dead, and I’ve got an uncomfortable feeling that might be me. Fucker fights way dirtier than I do.
“It’s cute,” he says, in that goading way he has when it’s just us and he’s pissed off. At least I’m not alone in the sentiment.
“What is?” I take a sip of the rum, only now remembering it’s not really my drink. It’s Reaper’s. Then again, it’ll do. What the fuck ever.
Dante’s eyes narrow, and it’s a sleazy, mean smile he wears. “You all sweet on your first nibble of an omega?”
Reaper turns, blowing out smoke and I can almost hear him say, what the actual fuck is this ?
“Asshole,” I say. “Nibble? You say that like it’s a thing.”
“It is.” Dante’s look is savage. “It got us in this mess, Knight.”
I throw back the rest of the drink and pour another. Reaper’s gaze is now back on me. “I bit her, but that’s it.”
“And all the rest.” Dante’s dark blue eyes sear into me as he picks up the bottle and takes a slug.
“All the…” I stop, shake my head and I surge forward, hitting the bar with my fist as Reaper picks up his glass as if we’re having some kind of fucking afternoon tea. “Dude, she’s fucking irresistible. And you?—”
“Careful. ”
“No, you prick,” I say, adrenaline shooting through me, making the world vibrate a moment as my temper comes apart at the seams, ready to explode everywhere. It’s a wild experience. I don’t tend to explode. I let it out, bit by bit. But fuck.
This damn guy.
I suck in a breath, slosh some more rum in my half full glass and though Reaper’s barely touched his, he stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray and grabs the bottle, moving it out of my way. Smoke curls out from his nostrils like he’s a fucking dragon.
I look past him to Dante who’s doing an impression of the world’s biggest asshole with a sore paw.
I’m mixing metaphors, I think. But I don’t care. I’m not in the mood.
I should be downstairs, introducing Liz to the sublime side of sex, taking her virginity, worshiping her, getting our rocks off. I should definitely be there and not here with these two ugly dicks.
“You be careful. Glass fucking houses, man. Glass fucking houses. And yours is shattered around you. By you. Fuck, Dante, I didn’t kill someone because he put a hand on Liz.”
His eyes narrow. He takes a swallow from the bottle.
Reaper’s looking at him now. He takes the cigarette, ashes it and studies Dante. “You killed someone?”
“He deserved torture first.”
“And then,” I say, before Dante says more, “he dragged pretty Liz off and fucked with her.”
He doesn’t say a word.
Neither does Reaper.
They should start a podcast. It’d be great. Strong, Silent, and Dante. Fuck. I down my drink.
The reason it tastes so damn good now is I think it’s hitting me hard. Because the sharp edges are going, the explosion deflating a little.
“What I do, and when I do it, is none of your fucking business, Knight. This is my business, my pack. I invited you.”
His voice is a snarl.
And the back of my head starts to burn as I grab the rum and fill my glass. Reaper’s eyes flicker. I think that’s his version of a wince.
This time, Reaper picks up his drink. “Dante.”
One word. Quiet, low. Measured.
But Dante’s attention’s hooked and he lifts his eyes to Reaper. Narrows them.
“Back the fuck down.” Reaper reaches for another cigarette from the crumpled pack but doesn’t light it. “You too, Knight.”
“Keep the fuck out of it, Reap.” Dante lifts his bottle in the air.
“You invited us, set it up with Ghost,” Reaper says.
Dante goes still.
“And,” Reaper continues, “I don’t give a fuck who you recruited, strong armed or sent an engraved invite to. We are the Unholy Trinity. The three of us. We have our places, but it’s ours. Not yours. If I’m wrong?” He shrugs. “I walk.”
Dante stares at him a long time, then finally he nods and looks at me.
“That prick deserved to die.” He holds my gaze. “He touched her. Douche would have tried to fuck her and you know it. As for the rest? Lizette was fucking panting for it.”
“Panting?” I say to him. “You’re a cocksucker.”
His smirk is nasty. “No. She is.” He lifts the bottle to his lips and knocks back a mouthful. “Not very good. Yet. But still a revelation.”
“Guess you couldn’t keep it up to fuck her properly,” I snarl.
“It’s all fucking, Knight. Every hole. Matter of perspective.”
“Matter of manners,” I say, skating close to wafer-thin ice. No matter what I say, he’s the Dante of the alphas in here. And I don’t give a fuck. The difference in standing is miniscule, but present. And…yeah. Right now, I don’t care. “You’re talking about Liz.”
“She’s a commodity,” he says, a bitter note in his voice. “And she’s not your little girlfriend. Fucker.”
I know what I want to say. Cross all the lines. I want to pin him to the wall and pound my fist into his smug face. Pound some sense into him.
The bite mark’s keeping her here, I’m aware of that. But he’s not immune to her. None of us are.
If he truly believed all the shitty things he said about her, she’d be locked away somewhere. Unholy Trinity prison style. Locked up, kept away, and then released into the arms of her ugly, old council-chosen alpha mate to be.
“I should beat you,” I snap.
He swings his foot to the ground, sliding out of his seat, and stands. He picks up the bottle, gripping it by the neck. “Like to see you fucking try.”
Before I can take a step, fucking Reaper enters the fray.
“If you two are finished measuring dicks and pissing on imaginary walls,” Reaper finally says, “I have something to say.”
“The job went well, I know.” Dante’s not done, as Reaper says, pissing. I’m not sure I am, either.
We’re not fighting, exactly, over her. Liz’s worth a fight, and she’s also, young as she is, able to choose for herself. If that’s what this was about.
But it isn’t.
We all chose each other. If she wants one, she apparently wants all. I’ve been reading up on the old, dark days, before the Council, religion, and the internet. Fuck, before TV. Packs used to have two or more head alphas. They shared the role of rule over their pack. They were the fucking religion.
Inside that rule, a hierarchy was always in place. God’s fucking right hand, with Michael to the right, Gabriel to the left and Uriel to the front. Raphael was a turtle, I think, but I’m losing the point. He might have been behind that God.
My point, and I have one, is that in the old pack rules, there was a group of strong alphas who ruled their people and had their places in the top tier.
They all shared one omega. A special one.
I read that, too.
Dante’s the God in this fucking situation. We all know that. He’s the most alpha-alpha I’ve ever met in my life. He takes the name he chose seriously.
And, when I think about it. The Unholy Trinity?
Yeah. I’m meant to be the one who thinks and keeps us on the narrow. It might be a dark, twisted and morally gray narrow, but a narrow it is. I lead that way. I’m the consciousness. One in a metaphorical armor.
And Reaper? He’s a no brainer. It’s in the name. And he fucking looks like a warrior angel. The type that puts demons to shame and makes most of them shake in their snazzy demon boots.
But a reaper isn’t just about killing and being a dedicated psycho who’ll stop at nothing to protect what’s his—though he will—it’s about the sorting of souls. Culling those who need it, and letting those who don’t go.
I don’t think I’ve seen him ever kill an innocent.
But I’m digressing. I have a sip of the cheap rum that’s not that bad. Maybe the whole rum thing’s growing on me, or possibly it just seems that way because it’s making me soft-edged.
“Yes, it went well.” Reaper’s tone is mild, but holds something.
I wouldn’t mind getting stinking drunk, but I’m not going to. I haven’t finished.
“Wait.” That something filters into my brain.
Dante’s frowning at Reaper and I look at him too. I point at him .
“You,” I say, slowly because I’m sure I’ll slur if I speak normally, “said something.”
“Fucking save me from baby alphas who think they can hold their liquor,” Dante mutters.
I swing my gaze at him. “Jealous she wants me?”
“She wants all of us, moron,” Dante says. “And know your place.”
“I do. Extremely well. And you need to?—”
I stop.
Because Reaper’s shouting at us. It’s so loud it shuts me down flat.
Yet he hasn’t uttered a word. Not really.
He stands there, still. Then he shifts his gaze from Dante to me. And when we listen to that silent noise, he studies his unlit cigarette.
“The job went well, mission accomplished. Message received by those who needed to hear it. I also won back the money.” He pauses. “It was very high stakes.”
“You play poker?” I ask.
Dante looks at the heavens. “He’s one of the best. Rarely plays.”
“After the game and the job, I sent Julien home with the winnings. It’ll be in the safe. Then I went to an after-hours titty bar.”
“Thanks for sharing your quirks, but?—”
Again, I shut up. He doesn’t look at me this time.
“You learn things at those kinds of places. People also come to talk. Drinks are cheap. Ghost’s definitely back in town.”
There’s a beat.
“Way to bury the lede,” I say, picking up the rum and sloshing a little more in my glass.
“You sure?” asks Dante.
Reaper nods, just a slight movement of his head. “I saw him. ”
I’m so intrigued and uneasy I pick up my glass and put it down, forgetting to take a sip. “What did he say?”
“Nothing. We didn’t speak.”
“Did he see you?” Dante asks.
There’s something in his tone that makes me sober up a little.
Liz—she’s safe. And Ghost doesn’t know about her. Even if he did, why would he care?
“I caught a glimpse. So, yes.”
“Maybe he didn’t know you were there,” I say.
“Ghost is like me. He’s only seen if he wants to be. He chose the name Ghost for a reason. Me seeing him is deliberate. He wants something. Or it’s a warning.” Reaper stops talking.
“Or,” Dante says, “he’s with the Council and after Lizette.”
“A little bit overkill. She’s just one of many omegas,” I say.
Dante snorts. “ You think she’s special.”
“To us,” I say. “But yeah, it’s weird. I thought he was long gone, and wouldn’t dare step foot in Starlight City again.”
“He does what he wants,” Reaper says. “As for Liz? I don’t see the connection. Yet.”
“We need to work out what he wants. And why. And who for. I’m going to take it as a message for us.” Dante rubs his eyes and sits.
As Reaper picks up the ashtray and the purloined rum, he gives me a questioning look, but I’m not going to join them.
I’m not strategy. They are. I can do it, but my skills lie in other arenas. I like to use my gifts with tech to find secrets, paths, information. Then I can construct my own strategies or take that to the table and sit with them.
Now isn’t the time. I need to sleep.
So I leave, heading downstairs, and I find my way to Liz’s door.
I knock.
It creaks open a few seconds later.
Liz is a vision of post sex dreaminess, all mussed and sleepy. She’s in a large shirt and girly boxers that show off her slender legs.
I don’t think, I just slide my fingers in her hair and kiss her. Long. Deep. I take my time, licking paths along her tongue, delving into her, letting it rise and fall with a rhythm all its own, sex and soft, warm lust, sweet desire, all the things that make a girl sigh and melt and tremble.
Just like Liz.
She’s so fucking warm. Smells so good.
Reluctantly, I break the kiss.
“You taste like rum,” she whispers.
“And you taste like wet dreams.”
“Why are you here?” Her voice is breathless.
I don’t really know where the words come from, but the moment they hit air, I know they’re right, perfect and I’m a step closer to having her virginity, that thing she desperately wants to give me.
“Wanna go on a date with me?” I ask.