Chapter 9
nine
. . .
Woodrow
Priscilla looks up from her book as I strap on my shoulder holster, concern immediately clouding those hazel eyes I can't get enough of.
"You're leaving?" She marks her place with her finger, sitting up straighter on the couch.
"Got a lead," I tell her, checking the magazine in my Glock before holstering it. "One of the guys from the parking lot. Might be able to get some useful information."
She sets her book aside, standing, crossing to me. Five days together and already she moves into my space without hesitation, her small hands resting on my chest. My heart kicks against her palm.
"Be careful," she says softly, the same words she's said every time I've left the cabin. Like they're a talisman that will bring me back to her.
I cup her face, tilting it up to mine. "Always am, little girl." I kiss her hard, possessive, marking her lips the way I've marked the rest of her. When I pull back, her eyes are dazed, lips parted. Perfect. "Lock the door. Don't open it for anyone but me. I'll be back in a few hours."
The Rusty Nail is a shithole—neon beer signs casting sickly light over sticky floors, the smell of stale smoke clinging to everything despite the state-wide ban.
Mid-afternoon, the place is nearly empty.
A weathered bartender polishing glasses.
Two old-timers nursing beers at one end of the bar.
And there, hunched over what looks like whiskey neat, is Baker.
Even from behind, I recognize him. Average height, wiry build, thinning brown hair. The back of his neck still bears the bruise from where I slammed his head into the van door. Good. I hope it hurt.
I slide onto the stool next to him, nodding at the bartender. "Jack. Neat."
Baker doesn't look up, doesn't register my presence. Not until I speak directly to him, my voice pitched low so only he can hear.
"How's the arm, Baker? Set properly?"
His head snaps up, eyes widening with recognition and fear. Good. He remembers me. His right arm is in a cast—broken when I twisted it behind his back, the sound of the snap still satisfying when I recall it.
"Fuck," he breathes, already looking for an escape route. There isn't one. I've positioned myself between him and the door, and even if he made it past me, he wouldn't get far with that broken arm.
"Not very friendly," I chide, accepting my drink from the bartender with a nod. "After our last meeting, I thought we were practically family."
"What do you want?" His voice shakes, eyes darting to the bartender, the other patrons. No help coming from those quarters. Smart enough to realize that, at least.
"Information." I sip my whiskey, savoring the burn. "Donovan. His plans. Specifically, anything involving a certain young woman I've grown…attached to."
Baker's throat works as he swallows hard. "I don't know nothing about that. I was just hired muscle. Just following orders."
"Just following orders," I repeat, setting my glass down with a deliberate click. "Funny how often I hear that right before I start breaking things." I smile, nothing friendly about it. "More things."
His good hand trembles as he reaches for his drink. "Look, man, I'm out. After what you did to me and Martinez, I told Donovan to find someone else. I don't want any part of this."
"Noble of you." My tone makes it clear what I think of his sudden attack of conscience. "But I need more than that. I need to know what Donovan's planning. When and where he's making his next move."
Baker's eyes slide away from mine. "I told you, I'm out. I don't know anything."
A lie. I can smell it on him, see it in the way he won't meet my gaze. I lean in closer, dropping my voice lower.
"Let me be very clear. The only reason you're still breathing is because I let you live that night. That can change. Quickly. Permanently."
He licks his lips nervously. "You don't understand. Donovan will kill me if I talk."
"I'll kill you if you don't," I counter evenly. "Right now. Right here. And I promise, it won't be quick." I lean back slightly, giving him space to think. "Or…you tell me what I need to know, and I make sure you have enough cash to disappear. Start over somewhere Donovan will never find you."
Hope flickers in his eyes, alongside the fear. Greed too. "How much?"
"Twenty grand. Cash." More than enough for a lowlife like him to vanish.
He considers for a long moment, clearly weighing his options. Survival instinct wins out. "Donovan's bringing in more men," he says finally, voice barely above a whisper. "Professional this time. Not local talent."
"When?"
"Tomorrow night. They're meeting at the warehouse on Elgin Street. Donovan's offering double the usual rate to whoever brings the girl in."
My blood runs cold, then hot with fury. So soon. Closer than I thought.
"What else?"
"That's all I know, I swear." Baker glances at the door, like he's already planning his escape. "Now what about that money?"
I smile again, the expression never reaching my eyes. "In my truck. Let's step outside."
We exit through the back door, into the alley behind the bar. The moment we're out of sight of the street, I slam him against the brick wall, my forearm across his throat.
"Wait! You said—" he chokes out, eyes bulging.
"I lied." I press harder, cutting off his air. "Did you really think I'd let you walk after you tried to take what's mine?"
His good hand claws at my arm, ineffective. I ease up just enough to let him speak.
"Please," he gasps. "I told you what you wanted to know. I'm out. You'll never see me again."
"Not good enough." I drive my fist into his gut, feeling the satisfying give of soft tissue. "You put your hands on her. Scared her. For that alone, you deserve much worse than I'm giving you."
What follows isn't pretty. I don't kill him—not because he doesn't deserve it, but because a dead body raises questions I don't need right now.
But when I'm done, when I leave him crumpled and bleeding in that alley, he won't be walking straight for weeks.
Won't be using that other arm anytime soon either.
I pay for it, though. My knuckles are split and bleeding. A lucky punch has left a cut over my eye that's dripping blood down my face. My ribs ache where he landed a desperate kick before I put him down for good.
Worth it, for the information. For the message it sends. Touch what's mine, and there will be consequences.
By the time I make it back to the cabin, the sun is setting. Blood has dried on my face, stiffening the sleeve of my jacket where I wiped it away. My hand throbs with each heartbeat. But I'm alive. And I have what I needed—confirmation of Donovan's next move, time to prepare.
Priscilla opens the door at my knock, gasping when she sees me. "Oh my God, Woodrow!" She pulls me inside, her hands fluttering over me, assessing the damage. "What happened? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," I grunt, shrugging out of my jacket with a wince. "Just a little disagreement with our friend from the parking lot."
"You're bleeding!" She guides me to the couch, pushing me down gently. "Stay here. I'll get the first aid kit."
I watch her rush to the bathroom, concern etched on her beautiful face. Something warm unfurls in my chest at her worry, at the knowledge that she cares whether I live or die. When was the last time anyone gave a shit if I came home in one piece?
She returns with supplies, kneeling between my spread thighs. So fucking perfect, looking up at me with those big, worried eyes as she cleans the cut above my eyebrow.
"Does it hurt?" she asks, her touch feather-light as she dabs antiseptic on the wound.
"Had worse," I tell her, wincing slightly despite myself. "Much worse."
She frowns, concentrating as she applies a butterfly bandage to the cut. Then she takes my hand in hers, turning it over to examine my split knuckles. Her touch so gentle, so careful. I'm not used to being treated like something fragile, something worth preserving.
"You did this for me," she says quietly, not a question. "Hurt yourself protecting me."
"I'd do a lot worse to keep you safe," I admit, watching her delicate fingers work. "Kill anyone who tried to take you from me. Burn the world down if I had to."
She looks up at me then, something fierce and tender in her gaze. "No one's ever cared about me like that before."
The vulnerability in her voice, in her eyes—it sparks something primal in me. My cock hardens painfully fast, need surging through me with the force of a tidal wave. I need to claim her. Need to remind myself that she's safe, she's here, she's mine.
I grab her wrist, pulling her up onto my lap, mindless of my injuries. She gasps, straddling me, her hands bracing on my shoulders.
"Woodrow, your hands—”
"Don't care," I growl, my hands already pushing up the hem of her dress—my t-shirt, knotted at her waist to make it fit better. "Need you. Now."
Her pupils dilate, that sweet flush creeping up her cheeks that tells me she wants this as much as I do. "Yes," she breathes, lifting her arms so I can pull the shirt off in one smooth motion.
She's naked underneath—has been walking around my cabin with nothing but my shirt covering her perfect body. The thought makes me even harder, my cock straining against my jeans.
"Such a good little girl," I praise, hands cupping her breasts, thumbs teasing her nipples into hard peaks. "Walking around ready for Daddy's cock whenever he wants you."
She moans, grinding down against my erection, her bare pussy leaving a damp spot on my jeans. "Only for you," she whispers, her fingers working the buttons of my shirt. "Only ever for you."
I stand suddenly, lifting her with me. Her legs wrap around my waist instinctively, arms looping around my neck. The movement sends a stab of pain through my ribs, but I ignore it, carrying her to the bedroom.
I toss her onto the mattress, watching her bounce slightly, hair fanning out around her like a dark halo. She's so fucking beautiful it hurts to look at her sometimes. So perfect. So mine.
"Take those off," she urges, nodding at my jeans as she spreads her thighs, giving me a view of her glistening pussy. "Need you inside me."
I strip quickly, hissing as the movement pulls at my bruised ribs. She starts to sit up, concerned, but I push her back down, covering her body with mine, pinning her to the bed.
"No one takes you from me," I growl, positioning myself at her entrance. "No one touches what's mine. I'll kill them all first."
"Yours," she agrees, her small hands framing my face. "All yours, Woodrow."
I thrust into her in one smooth stroke, burying myself to the hilt in her tight heat. We both groan at the sensation—her perfect pussy stretching around my cock, taking me so completely.
"No one takes you from me," I repeat, establishing a hard, claiming rhythm. "No one takes what's mine. I'll breed you right here to prove it."
Her eyes widen at my words, her inner walls clenching around me at the promise. "Yes," she moans, lifting her hips to meet each thrust. "Please, Daddy."
The pain in my hands—all of it fades away, replaced by the primal need to claim, to mark, to possess. I hook my arms under her knees, spreading her wider, driving deeper.
"Look at you," I praise, watching where our bodies join, my cock glistening with her arousal each time I pull back before slamming home again. "Taking Daddy's cock so perfectly. Made for this. Made for me."
"Only you," she gasps, her hands clutching at my biceps, nails digging into skin. "Only ever you."
I lean down, ignoring the protest from my ribs, to capture one perfect nipple between my lips. I suck hard, teeth grazing the sensitive peak, making her arch beneath me with a cry of pleasure-pain.
"Gonna fill you up," I promise, moving to the other breast, giving it the same treatment. "Pump you so full of my seed it takes root. Make you round with my baby so everyone knows who you belong to."
Her eyes roll back, her breathing growing ragged as I pound into her. She's close already—I can feel it in the fluttering of her inner muscles, see it in the flush spreading down her chest.
But I need more. Need to see her completely undone beneath me. Need to know she's safe, she's mine, she's never leaving.
I slip a hand between us, finding her clit, circling it with my thumb as I continue thrusting into her welcoming heat.
"Come for me, little girl," I command, my voice rough with exertion and emotion. "Come on Daddy's cock. Show me how good I make you feel."
"Woodrow!" she cries out, her back arching off the bed as her orgasm hits. Her pussy clamps down on me like a vise, rhythmic pulses milking my cock, drawing me deeper.
The sight of her coming apart beneath me, because of me, pushes me over the edge. I slam into her one final time, grinding against her as my release tears through me. Jet after jet of hot cum fills her womb, marking her from the inside, claiming her in the most primal way possible.
"Mine," I groan, collapsing onto my forearms to keep from crushing her with my weight. "All fucking mine."
We lie tangled together, both panting, my cock still buried inside her, her legs wrapped around my waist as if to keep me there.
I should move—my weight must be uncomfortable, my injuries are starting to throb again now that the adrenaline is fading—but I can't bear to break the connection. Not yet.
"Did you find out what you needed to know?" she asks finally, her fingers tracing patterns on my sweat-slicked back.
I nod, pressing my face into the curve of her neck, inhaling her scent. She doesn’t need to know the details.
Her body tenses beneath mine. "They're still coming for me."
"They can try." I lift my head to look into her eyes, making sure she understands the absolute certainty of what I'm saying. "But they will fail. No one takes you from me. No one."
The fear in her eyes fades, replaced by something that looks dangerously close to love. Her hand comes up to touch my face, feather-light against the bruise forming on my cheekbone.
"My protector," she whispers, and the simple phrase hits me harder than any blow I took today.
Because that's what I am. What I'll always be for her. The shield between her and a cruel world. The sword that strikes down her enemies. The wall that keeps her safe.
No matter what it costs me.