Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Declan
The green band around Emery’s wrist is both a brand and a beacon. It glows with an ethereal light against her skin. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not to Emery. The mark is my curse to carry whether I want it or not. It shouldn’t be hers.
And my tattoos…they’ve gone mad.
They crawl under my skin with the restlessness of a nest of serpents.
The horse on my shoulder paws at my flesh, its head twisting as if trying to see the mark on her.
The braided tack along my ribs burns like hot iron, and the sigils writhe, screaming a silent alarm.
They’ve tasted her blood, and they’re alive and eager for more.
“Goddammit,” I breathe.
The shop answers with a shiver. Windowpanes rattle. Somewhere below our feet, the hollow thud of iron-shod hooves hammers a low vibration through the soles of my boots. A tremor that has nothing to do with the earth.
The glass display cases in the shop rattle. Emery’s eyes are wide, fixed on the mark around her wrist, her breath coming in shallow pants.
There’s no time to explain or apologize.
I yank her against my chest, spinning so my back is to the front door, shielding her from whatever’s coming. Her body’s stiff, rigid with shock, but she doesn’t fight me. Not yet.
Her smaller body fits against mine perfectly.
“We need to get out of here. Now,” I growl into her hair, my words clipped and urgent.
She pulls back and stares up at me with wide, wild eyes. “What are—”
“No time for questions. Move.” Fear coils in my gut, sharpening my tone.
He knows. The Rider knows. And he’s coming for her.
Keeping one arm locked around her, I snatch the keys off the counter.
The rattling in the shop continues. Emery whimpers and curls her fingers in my shirt.
I kill the lights and drag her through the back hall, slamming the door behind us.
I fumble with my keys, my movements jerky, but finally I get the key in the lock and turn the deadbolt with a satisfying click.
Every shadow on the wall seems to stretch and twitch like they want to detach and follow along.
We burst into the back parking lot. Fog rolls low, swallowing the glow of the security lamps. A cluster of tourists gathers near the west gate to the cemetery, flashlights bobbing, chatter harsh in the heavy night.
“Look at the fog, bro! It’s insane here!” one tourist shouts. “Perfect ghost hunting weather!”
My blood runs cold. Idiots. They’re gleefully walking into the hunting ground. They might make it out alive, they might not. The Rider’s nothing if not unpredictable. Anyone in his path is a potential casualty.
But Emery? He doesn’t want to kill her. No, he wants something worse. To mark her. Take her. Bind her to him for eternity.
Over my dead body.
Normally, I’d scare them off. But I’m torn.
Protect the town that’s decided tourist dollars matter more than tourists’ lives by encouraging people to visit the Widow.
Or protect Emery. The duty that comes with my name, with the oath that’s bound my family for generations, claws at me.
But the burn of her mark pressed to my side sears hotter.
My jaw clenches.
I can waste time warning them away, or I can get Emery to safety.
“Go on.” I nudge her toward my motorcycle.
“What? I thought you lived upstairs?”
“I do.” I shove my helmet into her hands. It’s the only one I have. “But it’s not safe enough anymore.”
Her fingers curl around it, hesitant. Christ. No one’s ridden behind me in years, and the idea of Emery pressed close, her arms around me—it’s the only thing I want, and I can’t let myself enjoy.
Emery
Helmet. I stare at the sleek black dome. It’s heavier than I expected. Solid enough to feel like a weapon in my hands. How do I even put it on?
Declan’s tense expression moves in closer. He throws a hasty glance over his shoulder, then pries the helmet from my fingers. “Here, let me help you. We don’t have a lot of time.”
“Why?” I hold up my wrist, still throbbing from the glowing green band. “What is this? What’s happening? Where are we going?”
He gently places the helmet on my head and secures the chin strap, his knuckles grazing my jaw. A shiver of desire sparks over my skin.
“I’ll explain when we get there. But we have to go, now.”
“I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before,” I blurt out, my voice high and shaky. I’ve never wanted to be on one before. They look like two-wheeled bets against physics.
But the idea of being pressed up close to Declan seems worth the risk.
“I’ll get on first,” he explains. “Then use my shoulder to boost yourself up and over.”
He grips the handlebars, swings his leg over the big machine, and settles into the seat. “One foot on the peg.” He points down to a small metal piece sticking out.
Clutching his shoulder, I tap my foot to one of the pegs, testing whether it will hold my weight.
The air around us shifts. The fog thickens, pulling tight as if it wants to cinch us inside a noose.
A low vibration travels through the pavement, steady and deliberate, like hoofbeats striking just beneath the surface of the earth.
My stomach clenches even though my brain doesn’t recognize the sound.
“Hurry,” he urges. “Use my shoulder for leverage.”
I grip his biceps, then move my hand higher. In an awkward and graceless move, I swing my leg up and over. But there’s nowhere to really sit.
“I…uh…”
“Settle in right behind me.” He starts the bike and the ferocious rumble of the engine startles me into the seat. My knees brushing his hips, I try to scoot back. Keep a respectable distance between us.
Declan reaches behind him, clamping one big hand around my leg right above my knee. A shiver races straight through me. His touch is rough but protective. “You need to be much closer, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart?
I slide down.
“Closer.” He twists the throttle, almost drowning out his instructions. He glances over his shoulder, his jaw clenched tight. “I’ve got you, Emery. Just hold onto me.”
He circles his fingers around my wrist and pulls my arm around, pressing my palm against his stomach.
His hard, flat stomach.
“Uh, this feels kind of…intimate!” I shout.
His muscles ripple under my touch and laughter flows below the engine’s snarl.
“You’re the first passenger I’ve had in a long time.”
What’s that supposed to mean?
Before I expend too many brain cells figuring it out, the bike jerks forward, then takes off. The engine rumbles violently beneath me, vibrating through every cell of my body. My free arm hovers over my leg.
“Both arms around me!” he commands.
I slide my other hand around his middle and beneath his leather jacket. He’s solid under my hands, heat and muscle.
Momentum carries me forward—or maybe I propel myself closer—until I’m snuggled up against his back. I angle my head, hoping I won’t hit him with the helmet.
“Where’s your helmet?” I shout.
“You’re wearing it!”
The fog swallows everything in the parking lot as the bike rumbles forward. The headlight carves a path of visibility only a few feet ahead of us before dissolving into the mist.
He slows but doesn’t stop at the end of the parking lot and turns right onto a side street. My whole world narrows to the rumble underneath me and the solid body in front of me.
A completely inappropriate wave of heat spreads through me. It’s just fear. Fear’s an aphrodisiac, right?
So are tall, grumpy, muscled men rescuing you from unknown danger.
Maybe it’s just from our bodies being pressed together.
As Wren so charmingly reminded me this morning it’s been a while since I “frolicked” with a man.
Being so close to such a fine specimen and sharing something so intimate as a tiny motorcycle seat must be responsible for the low throb between my legs.
He guides the bike through the fog, taking back roads I haven’t explored yet. The air cools and some of the fog clears.
The bike dips and I curl my fingers into Declan’s jacket as we fly down a long hill. The fog parts, revealing an impressive stone wall with tall iron gates looming ahead of us.
“What is that?” I yell over the constant roar of the wind rushing against us.
Instead of answering, he twists the throttle harder. I yelp and clench my fists in his shirt. Slowly the gates part as if welcoming us inside. I’m too scared to turn around but the low screech and clink of metal behind us suggests the gates closed.
The motorcycle’s growl deepens as Declan downshifts onto a narrow driveway choked with fallen leaves and scarred by potholes.
Small lights, almost smothered by overgrown trees and shrubs, dot the narrow black road. The scent of pine and damp earth envelops me. Blackness stretches ahead. Through the thick trees, something dark glistens. Are we headed toward the river?
Declan gently steers the bike to the left. From the skeletal embrace of the forest, a large house…or mansion emerges. At least three stories of dark stone, ornate gables jutting toward the sky, and what looks like a round tower with arched windows.
He stops in front of a set of stone steps leading to two massive wooden doors covered with an iron gate shaped like ivy. I stare, mouth open, at the house…mansion…castle? The dark stone is stained black in places from years of rain and probably neglect.
A wide, round patch of overgrown grass and weeds sits in the center of the circular driveway with an empty stone fountain in the center.
He kills the engine and an unnerving hush falls over us.
“Where are we?” I whisper.
He turns slightly and I glimpse his handsome profile against the night. A faint smile ghosts his lips. “Home.”
“Home? Whose home?”
“The Sterling home,” he says, his voice raspy and intimate in the sudden silence.
“Your home? But you live over the tattoo shop, don’t you?”
“Most of the time.” He lifts his chin. “Climb off first. Use my shoulder for balance.”