Chapter 11
November
“Let her go. Let her calm down.”
“I can’t. I love her,” Jace Park pleads with me, pushing against my hold on his chest. Turning, I watch from the landing as the woman dressed in metallic gold, calmly walks down the stairs towards the man, Ben.
My friend’s body practically vibrates, the muscles are bunched under his suit as he leans on the railing, his eyes trained on her retreating figure. “She won’t receive it now, Park. Give her time.”
“I can’t lose her.” He spins and hits the wall with the heel of his hand a few times.
Studying the way he bows his head, I’m at a loss for what he’s feeling.
He looks near tears. The same way Onyx looked when he found out that Ivory and his daughter had been taken by our rivals. “Fuck!” Jace shouts, gripping his hair.
When he walks away, entering another room before slamming the door, I let him go and walk down the wide, opulent staircase. I’d forgotten how mammoth his home is, bigger than anything I’ve ever seen, testifying to the man’s wealth.
When Jace casually mentioned the wedding and that there would be food. Onyx claimed he was going. The man doesn’t turn down food. New chef at the clubhouse that’s shit. Riggs is, of course, going because he’s distracted by Silas Kenzington’s secretary.
I came for one reason only. Her.
Any chance to see her, I’ll take because I want to be closer.
As much as I love my voyeuristic needs to watch her, to lurk around her without her knowledge.
I like being able to watch her and have her know it’s me studying her, like a predator watches its prey.
And so far I’ve watched. I’ve gorged on her.
Watching her every move. Even wearing a damn suit didn’t bother me.
The last time I wore a suit was for Ivory and Angel’s funeral.
I really should have been at the club. The Mestizos are getting worse.
Their leader is becoming increasingly greedy, including shipments that contain more children.
I got only a few hours of sleep after Onyx and I disposed of the last body of the driver we pulled over.
Returning to my house, I emptied my cooler, got my tools, and got to work.
I’ll finish tomorrow when the sun is out to help with the drying.
I always get a high after a hunt, and this one was especially satisfying.
The girls in that van were as young as 10 years old. Fucking bastard.
When I first spotted her during Silas and Dru’s vows, she was sitting like a queen a few rows ahead of me while her friends got married.
My fingers itched to trace her face, smooth the sharp curve of her jaw, and check if she had any additional freckles.
A waterfall of inky black hair trailed down her naked back, and sick bastard that I am, I wanted to mark that virgin skin, maybe tattoo her first, and then use my knife, see if her blood would match the color of the sleek dress.
When Onyx interrupted my perusal of her, whispering in my ear that Jace’s fiancée showed up, I was surprised.
The few times I’d been around him and Ms. Cruz, there was something there between them.
It was clear they were fucking. The man watched her like a hawk.
Discovering that he was seeing two women didn’t align with what I knew about the man, but then again, secrets are a part of my world, some so dark that they can never see the light of day.
But watching the gutting look on his face moments ago, he cares deeply about the woman who is not his supposed fiancée.
But then again, what the fuck did I know about love?
I came from a world where love was murky and dangerous.
Couples didn’t always survive the lifestyle of being in a biker club, and sex didn’t mean commitment and passion.
Often, it was used as currency or to curry favor and control.
I don’t know what it’s like to be beholden to one woman.
I’ve never had to answer to a woman, not even my mother.
As far back as I could remember, I’ve existed on my own, helping to take care of Ivory and myself while my mother was lost in her mind.
Her mental health had always been tenuous.
It was always my sister and me until she hooked up with the piece of garbage.
At that point, she was even more lost to me as a mother.
Watching the rest of the guests mill around, furious whispers tingling the air, I look for the one woman who definitely has a hold on me.
A woman I shouldn’t check for, seek out.
The woman I shouldn’t be anywhere near her, but fuck if that matters since meeting her months ago.
Months since the night I rode away from Jace’s mansion and followed her.
Weeks since I premeditated the death of her boyfriend, whose discarded body was found last week, identified as a drug deal gone wrong.
Hundreds of hours of stalking her. Thousands of minutes since I went home and fucked my fist for the first time in years.
I don’t like masturbating because nothing feels as good as a wet pussy, a tight ass, or a warm mouth.
I only come when I’m with a woman, period.
The last time I fucked a woman was over a year ago.
But that night, I couldn’t stop myself from taking my cock in hand, thinking about her wearing my cut, her calling my name, as she rode me.
In the fantasy, she didn’t get squeamish when I told her how I wanted her to use my blade.
She did exactly what she wanted, and I gave her what she deserved.
Scanning, I don’t see her blood red dress anywhere.
Heading back out to the backyard, I watch as the guests start to depart, with Silas directing everyone.
I grin tugs at my lip. He exudes power and control, and from what little Jace has told me, Silas Kenzington grew up in a similar cesspool.
The first time I met him, we almost came to blows, but we squashed any beef once he realized I wasn’t interested in his woman.
The woman who interests me is just as off-limits.
“Where is he?”
Pulling out a cigar, my third for the week, I light the tip. “Upstairs.”
Silas nods and walks past me back into the house, and I step out, breathing in the cool fall air and turning the corner, only to stop short.
My body tightens when I spot her standing alone, staring out at the sunset.
Pinks and golds are painted across the sky.
The crunch of my feet on the gravel makes her spin around.
She looks uncertain, wary. I watch her, not looking away.
It’s my opportunity to get my visual fill of her, now that we are the only two on the terrace.
There are tears on her face. Her mascara is running a little, and when she rubs her arms, warding off the chill, I step closer.
It shouldn’t bother me that she was crying; I see tears all the time - tears of men, women, and children.
But seeing her tears resurrects a part of my soul that I had reserved only for Ivory and Angel.
Moving closer so that we are only inches apart, a kaleidoscope of images is burned in my brain at seeing her up close.
I had forgotten about the smattering of freckles.
The liquid green of her eyes. The plush upper lip is slightly bigger than her bottom lip.
All the details I’ve missed despite my surveillance.
The floral smell that lingers around her.
She looks different than she does when she paints, pristine, and not wild.
Her hair is done in perfect loose curls.
I miss seeing her smudged, the frown between her brows as she paints. That concentration is my favorite.
The last time I almost caved and took her. Kidnapped her and took her with me the night she was painting. The man with her wouldn’t have been hard to subdue, but luckily, he left, leaving her alone. Seeing her pick up what looked like knives to paint made me rock hard.
I wonder if she liked the charcoal I made from her ex-boyfriend’s butchered and burned hands. I wanted to sign my name. When she left for the back of the studio, I picked the rudimentary lock and stepped into her space. I could smell her scent, something sweet and sultry.
I touched her tools, which were neatly organized in her leather knife roll bag.
I growled, enthralled by it. It looked like the one I owned that was made from the skin of a second kill.
Her painting knives were much too dull to do any real damage, but I took a pair, determined to sharpen them.
I gripped their wooden handles, already making a plan to sharpen their edges and turn them into weapons.
A weapon I wanted her to use on me, cut me as she rode my cock, but this time there wouldn’t be paint staining the blade; it would be my blood.
The image was so real, so visceral, that my cock started to weep cum, ready to make it happen.
I tucked the knives in my pocket, knowing she could catch me if I didn’t move quickly.
When I spotted tubes of paint along the wall, my darker side emerged.
The need to confuse her, alarm her. See her breathing increase, the way it would if I were chasing her, subduing her, cutting her.
Watching her touch the red paint, coating her fingers, almost had me leaving my hiding place in the shadows of some bushes across the street.
I wanted to reveal myself and replace the paint with the real thing.
I could smell her fear, her curiosity, and it added to my lust.
“Do you want me to go?”
She doesn’t look at me when she answers. “Do you want to go?”
Fuck. This woman. Her haughty, sassy response makes my cock perk right the fuck up. Instead of telling her exactly what I want, pinching the end of my cigarette, I tuck it behind my ear and slip out of my jacket, draping it around her shoulders.
She jolts and stares at me. “What are you doing?”
“You’re cold.” Her nipples look fucking delicious, pressed against the stretchy red fabric. My mouth salivates. When she takes the edges of my jacket and pulls it closer, I grit my teeth, wishing it were my cut that she was wrapped in, with the words El Búho on her back, and she rides my cock.
“Thank you,” she whispers as she continues to look into the distance.
I watch her out of the corner of my eye, liking that she looks warmer now.
I stuffed my hands in my pockets so I wouldn’t give in to my craving.
Relighting my cigar, I suck in another lungful, thinking about my focus for the last month I’ve been working on her gift.
I wish I could see her open it. But I can’t get cameras inside her friend’s penthouse. Kingsley Mark is too heavily guarded.
Camryn quickly wipes away her tears. “Sorry for crying.”
I don’t respond, watching her.
“I guess you don’t cry much,” she says it in wry humor.
Not since Ivory’s assault when she was 12 years old. “Why?”
“Why am I crying?”
I lift an eyebrow, waiting.
“My big mouth caused this. It’s my fault the woman, Mallory, is here.” She sniffs, and more tears run down her face.
I give in to temptation and touch her, tilting up her chin, smoothing my thumb along her delicate, refined jaw.
I grit my teeth at the soft texture of her skin.
I haven’t touched her since that night at Jace’s house, and the sight of her wet lashes and the trails of tears down her face hit me hard.
I’d love to see her cry, salty tears sliding down her cheek as she struggles to take my cock down her throat.
I don’t want tears of worry and guilt. I want tears of pleasure and sweet pain.
“Don’t apologize.” I wipe her tears, and her eyes widen.
I slowly slide my thumb across the curve of her jaw.
The same one I admired all evening. She trembles, and I step closer. Just a taste. One taste to hold me.
“Cam? Are you out here?”
I slowly release her smooth skin and curl my fingers into a fist, as if to hold in the velvety texture.
Turning, I watch a curvy Black woman with bright red hair, her face covered in freckles, walk around the corner.
She stops short when she sees us. I like her direct stare.
She’s not afraid of me, but is still cautious.
She looks at Camryn. I see the moment she notes the tears.
She frowns, protective energy radiating off her gorgeous frame.
I smirk and cross my arms, waiting to see what she’s going to do.
She walks to Camryn and rubs her back, watching me.
I respect it. She whispers in Camryn’s ear.
Camryn still looks at me and then down before nodding and leaving with her friend.
I trail behind, liking that Camryn is still wearing my jacket.