Striker

42. Chapter 37

Iclutch the edge of the toilet seat, stomach heaving again, but nothing comes up. I wish something would so I could expel this dark, putrid feeling. Expel her words from my mind. If I’d not gone back downstairs, scared they were really taking Cora back, I’d not have heard her. I’d not have heard the things Rune’s done. Heard her sobs, begging them not to take her to my father.

Cora told them everything. These men who stole us, who’ve kept us captive. And she never once told me.

Probably because she was scared that I wouldn’t believe her.

And I don’t blame her. I almost called her a liar.

I almost told my best friend, my lifeline, these last few weeks that she was lying to me about Rune. I sink to the floor and crawl out of the bathroom over to the window. Pressing my forehead to the glass, I close my eyes. Her face is all I can see.

She’s not a liar. Part of me has known for a long time something was off. I saw it in the way he’d touch her. The way he’d say her name. God. How could he?

My mind whorls, flashes of him with her over the years, making me feel like I may actually be sick. The times he’d demand she be the one to bring reports. Demand she come to his office or to his house. He was hurting her while we lived at home with him, before we left for college. And all the times we came back to visit. My father’s been hurting her… this girl who was supposed to be like his daughter.

Like me.

My stomach heaves again and I clutch my middle. Clyde. Does he know? There is no way that he would allow my father to brutalize Cora. But then again, I never thought my father could do the things I just heard Cora say.

“Princess?” When Striker enters the room, I don’t look his way. They knew too and didn’t tell me.

“Is this why you keep saying he’s a bad man?” I ask. “You knew?”

“Yes, and no.”

I stare blankly out the window, his words barely registering. My gaze lifts to the ocean. How many times did I stare out this window, wishing I could go home? That I could hug my father again. Now I never want to touch him again. Or see him. Speak to him. Work for him. He’s not what I thought he was.

He’s so much worse.

“We knew he was hurting her,” Striker says. “But we didn’t know to what degree.”

I turn to face him, pressing my back against the window. “Does Clyde know?”

Striker shakes his head, eyes casting down to the floor, then back to me. “We don’t know for certain, but I don’t think so.”

His response settles my stomach some. The idea Clyde was complacent to Cora being abused all these years may very well be what sends me over the edge.

“Is this why you took us?” I shake my head as the words are leaving my mouth. No. I always forget about the missing puzzle piece. I’ve racked my brain, attempting to piece together so many explanations for their thirst for revenge against my father, but none seem to fit or make sense. Power, money. These men don’t need it. They’ve created their own. This mansion may be in ruin, but it’s a statement to their wealth. I look up at Striker standing above me. “What did he take from you?”

His eyes close briefly, then he sinks to his knees in front of me. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“Uncomplicate it,” I say quietly. His gold eyes look lost, like he’s not even in the room. “Striker, tell me, please.”

His gaze snaps to me, pupils dialing in and out as he regains focus. He sinks back on his heels and slowly lifts a hand. At first I think he’s going to reach for me, pull me to him like he does when he wants me close, but doesn’t want to admit it. They all do. Reaper, worst of all. They pretend they are big and mean and scary, using aggression to keep us from asking too many questions or from seeing that deep down, they just desperately want to be touched.

Striker lifts his hand to his head and I almost laugh, thinking he’s once again trying to run his fingers through his hair like he does when he gets irritated. They don’t realize that while they’ve been watching us, I’ve been watching them.

When his fingers curl into the top of his mask, my heart stutters. When he pulls and the thin fabric slides upward, my heart skips, once, twice, then pounds. At the first hint of his jawline, I nearly gasp. Even though I saw it before, saw the same full lips, and dark stubble, it’s still a shock. I forgot how perfectly sculpted his jawline is.

As he continues to slide the mask up, I see high cheekbones and I remember yesterday in his room, and as it slips higher, his wolfish, gold eyes framed by those long lashes, come into view and then suddenly I’m staring at his face. At a thin, sculpted nose. An intensely cut brow line. At warm, dark brown hair that falls around his eyes, frames his ears. A thick, masculine neck.

My first instinct is to shut my eyes. “No,” I whisper. “No.” I choke on a sob. “No.”

“Princess.”

I shake my head. No.

“We took you—”

“No!” I scream, digging my fists into my eyes. I don’t want to see him. If I see him, can fully identify him, it means only one thing. I’m never leaving. They’d never allow this unless they’re planning on disposing of me, or worse.

Never letting me go.

My throat tightens with a clawing panic as the weight of it all hits me.

It all makes sense. I had thought at first they took us so my father would comply with their demands. Pay money. Make some business deal. I thought my father would do anything to get us back, thinking about how we may get abused. Raped. Tortured. But no.

I know now why my father never came. Why they said he doesn’t know how to find me, or where to look. Why I’m so far away. Why Clyde hasn’t brought an army here to kill them all and rescue us. Why they’ve kept us here, alone, then feeding me little tidbits of sweetness. Slowly giving me comforts. Touching me so gently at times that I waited with bated breath for the next bit of tenderness. Made it so I’m so starved for contact, so desperate for them, I’d accept a spanking with my face in the dirt. That I’d willingly spread my legs and beg for them. Why Cora was treated so differently. They guessed she would be relieved to be here. To be away from Rune’s sickness.

I was right the second I woke up.

It’s a complete mind fuck. But I wasn’t their target. I never was. It was my father they were planning on ruining, not me.

They’ve been telling me over and over and I refused to listen.

He’s not who you think he is. He’s a bad man.

When they had me on that table, I could feel it. The possessiveness. They’ve been telling me for weeks and I wasn’t accepting it.

I think I’ve known from the beginning. They claimed me—us—that night and I let them. They told me and I was too stupid to even hear it. Breaker told me in the club. I belong to Reaper. To them. They wanted me compliant. Submissive. And now they have me being all that for them without even having to try too hard.

I’m theirs. I belong to them. To punish. To please.

“You never planned to give us back,” I whisper, my heart twinging with a strange sort of ache.

What’s the worst type of pain you could inflict? Take something and never return it. Or worse. Take something from someone and turn it against them. And they’ve slowly been doing just that.

“No,” Striker says. “We aren’t.”

His answer is so final that I know I’m never leaving them. My own mind wouldn’t allow it when I had the opportunity.

A strangled sob escapes and I turn my face, burying it in my shoulder. The loss of everything I’ve ever had slams into me. My condo. My life and the dreams I had of taking over my father’s company. The silly dream of someday settling down with someone who actually loves me, not for my name or money, but because I’m me.

My father.

God. I’ve lost my father in a far worse way than I lost my mother. I’d rather have watched him die like I did her than have the truth ripping me apart.

But all of my love for him, my future with him, is lost anyway. Because it was all a lie. My father is a brutal man, but he always seemed to love Cora and me so much. Yet, he didn’t love her. You can’t hurt someone like that and love them. Love isn’t cruel. It’s supposed to protect and nurture. Now all my memories of him are stained. I want nothing from him again. And the worst part is they didn’t even have to convince me. Cora did it for them.

“Was this the plan the whole time?” I open my eyes and stare at him, drinking in his features. I’ve spent weeks with him. Shared moments that have been more intimate than that night in the club and I’m finally seeing his face. He’s beautiful. Sculpted full lips, hard jaw, stern but soft eyes. He’s a contradiction of himself. Soft lines and jagged edges. My heart hammers painfully. “Why? Why like this? What did he take from you?”

“You’ve been asking the wrong question,” Striker says, and I can’t seem to look away, completely mesmerized, like I’ve never seen a human man’s face before.

His words slam into me and I blink, scrambling to stand upright. He stays kneeling in front of me and part of me is glad. He’s too big. Too male. Too real. Before he was a mask. Faceless. Now he’s this man with expressions and sadness in his eyes.

I clench my jaw. I want to scream at him so that vulnerable expression is removed from his face.

“Who,” he whispers. “Not what Princess, but who.”

I remember the lock screen.

There were five of them. Now there’s just four.

“Who?” I ask. “Who did my father take from you?”

Striker sucks in a breath, and for the first time I can see how his jaw tightens. See how his brows furrow, like he’s remembering something he doesn’t want to. His eyes meet mine and I press my hand to my chest to keep my heart in place because it feels like it’s shattering into a million pieces.

“Our brother,” he says. “Rune Gavin killed our brother.”

A thousand questions run through my head, but I just say, “Why?”

“Revenge.”

“I don’t understand.”

He shakes his head. “That part will come later. All you need to know right now is that he brutally murdered our brother. He held him for weeks. Tortured him in ways, even we can’t fathom.”

I know my father has killed people, ordered people to be killed. Rivals or anyone who threatens his family or finances, or his role of political and business mogul favorite. But what Striker just said means my father is far worse than some business tycoon who craves power and money. He’s cruel. For fun.

Cora. He is cruel to her. He gets off on it.

Panic slams into me, making my heart race. I knew when I spent that night with these men that he could never find out. He’d go crazy and want them killed for touching me. What will he do now if he actually gets his hands on them?

Striker must see the fear in my expression because he grips my hips, pulling me forward. His face, his beautiful, perfect face, presses to my belly and my hands fall to his hair. I curl my fingers into the soft strands, marveling at how silky it feels, raking it back from his forehead as he looks up at me.

I don’t know what they did to me, but the thought of something happening to him, of my father taking Striker, any of them, somewhere and hurting them, of him ever getting his hands on Cora again sends fire and anger and terror crashing through me until I feel like I can’t breathe.

Striker lowers his face and presses his forehead to my belly. He pulls me to him tighter, turning his face, rubbing his cheek on the front of my dress. I’m reminded of that day in the garden. How he seemed so hungry to feel his skin next to mine and I can’t help but wonder what made him this way. So starved for touch. What life he lived that he seems so desperate to feel every inch of my skin. I think of all of them. How they all seem so hard and soft at the same time.

And god. I want all those soft edges and cutting hard lines. From all of them.

From Striker right now.

I want the too rough touch of Viper that forces me to give him parts of myself, the man who armed me when he knew I was scared, simply because he wanted me to feel safe. And that single act made me feel secure. That one gesture of trust on his part, that I wouldn’t use it against him, gave us our own little secret that I’ve carried around, reminding me they may keep me here, but I had the roughest, loudest one at my back.

My body craves the silent man who forced me to be close to him, touching me so gently that I felt secure, even though the world around me was uncertain.

My mind, parts of my heart, wants that darkness that lives in the man who even though his body tenses with some old need to seek revenge on Rune, he can’t help but crave me the same way I crave him.

I crave that softness from the man who could barely contain himself that day in the garden. Who wanted me so badly he couldn’t keep his hands off me. Not because of my father’s name. My father’s name made them all hate me.

It is me they want. Me, they desire.

Me, Striker’s showing his face to right now.

Like he can sense my need climbing, his grip turns harder, edged with desperation and then suddenly his hands aren’t gripping my hips, they’re sliding down my legs, gathering my dress and pushing it up. His nose digs into the underwear over me, and my back hits the cold glass. Shoving my dress up higher, he breathes in. The guttural groan he emits makes me throb. My fingers tighten in his hair as his hot breath fans over me, and I grip it at the roots, nails clawing into his scalp. Striker makes another sound, like a gravelly moan, and with one hand, he grips my underwear and drags them down my thighs. I step out of them.

Striker grips my thigh and hooks it over his shoulder, and I groan in anticipation. Before I can tilt my hips to meet him, before I can even think, his mouth is on me. His tongue swirls over my clit, then lower to my opening. My head falls back to the glass and I move my hips in little circles as he devours me, completely mindless, the scrape of stubble on my skin sending me higher and higher. I’m still so keyed up, every nerve cracking with desire from last night, that it doesn’t take me long to crash over. I cry out at the sudden orgasm crashing through me, faintly aware of his moans against my flesh, and how my hands hold him tightly to me.

Still coming down, my eyes barely focused, I let out a gasp as his tongue travels up higher, over my stomach, then even higher as he stands, pushing my dress up. When the material catches under my breasts, he takes his free hand and grips the little row of buttons over my chest and rips it open. I gasp, my back thudding against the window. An animalistic desire pours through me, and I reach for his belt, the same belt that I got just last night, as he leans down and tugs my cotton bra aside and takes my nipple into his mouth.

The sound of the metal clanking sends a weird shiver through me, remembering the cutting pain as he cracked it over my ass. Striker grips my thighs and lifts me up, sliding my body up on the glass, the wood of the panes digging into my back as his mouth drags up my neck to my jaw. I turn my head, feeling the heated trail he leaves as he moves to my mouth. We crash together, so desperate that I moan, parting my lips for him to sweep his tongue past my lips. I taste myself, my desire, on his tongue and it sends me higher.

My fingers weave into his soft hair, and I use it to tug his mouth to me harder. He breaks the kiss long enough to free himself, and then the heat of his dick is pressing into me. Even though I’m ready, already wet and needy, when he pushes into me barely an inch, I bite my lip at the sting.

Nothing he’s doing to me right now is gentle. There’s a carnal, starved edge to his movements, and as he pulls back, I suck in a breath, waiting for it. He slams forward so hard I cry out, squeezing my eyes shut, the burning pain mixing with the blinding sensation of being so full.

“Oh, fuck,” he hisses, pressing his open mouth to mine, holding still deep between my thighs. He adjusts his grip, bringing me up higher on the window, giving me a second to adjust to him, but then he pulls back and does it again. I whimper, my hands falling to his shoulders. “You feel so good.”

I nod, my head hitting the window, watching his face as he slips out. My eyes flutter when he drives in again and his brows furrow like he’s in pain. Then he drives in again and again, and all I can do is hold on as he fucks me. Feel him moving in and out. Feel his desperation mixing with my own. The intense way he’s watching me, thrusting in so deeply, placing hungry kisses on my parted lips, makes me crave more. Harder. Faster. Until this cutting desire is released.

The force of his movements feels like the window should be shattering behind me. And there’s a part of me that wants to break through, shards of glass cutting me, stripping everything away. Tearing into my skin, bleeding me dry until I’m no longer me. Until I’m no longer Rune’s daughter. Until all that’s left of me are the pieces they’ve created and formed into this new woman. The feral woman who spreads her legs on the forest floor. Who arched into the belt.

Right at this moment, I don’t mind being his. Theirs. I want them all here. Touching me again. Claiming me again. Like they did last night. Like they did in the woods. Like they did in the club.

Teeth scrape over my collar bone hard enough that I cry out, but it just adds to the intense swirling fire burning through me, building low in my belly.

“Come for me, Princess,” he grates. “I want my name spilling from your lips as I fill you up.”

I nod, ready to obey. Ready to please him. To let him have me.

“Come on, beautiful,” he grates out. “Give me another one.”

Like his words bring it forth, I cry out as another orgasm crashes through me, my walls clenching down on him. Striker’s groan scrapes out of his throat, and his movements become jerky as heat floods between my thighs and he’s fucking his cum deep into me with sloppy, desperate sounds, as curses and praises tumble from his lips.

So perfect.

So beautiful when you fall apart.

And then it’s just silence except for our heavy breathing and the distant sound of crashing waves. He buries his face in my neck, and we stay like that, breathing, his face hidden as the world comes back around.

When it does, my mind flies in a million different directions and he must feel me tense, because he lets me go, sliding out, his cum slipping down my thigh, making my fingers tighten on his shoulders. My feet hit the floor, and he whispers, “It’s okay,” and then his mouth covers mine again. But it’s softer this time, that feral edge gone with our release.

He stands to his full height and lets me go so he can swipe at my cheek. More tears break free, but I don’t even know what they are for. Maybe for me. For him. Maybe for his brother my father killed. For Cora and everything she’s never had.

Tears for everything I’ve lost and all the things I can’t recover.

“I know.” Striker scoops me up, carrying me to the bed. He pulls my dress off, then removes his shirt and pants, and lays me down, moving between my thighs. The tears won’t stop, but he leans forward and kisses my cheeks until I can breathe again. As he hitches my thigh up and moves over me, I tilt my hips to accept him, my nails scraping down his back as he slips into me gently.

Everything, all my anger and pain releases on an exhale.

Striker’s lips press to mine as he says, “I’m sorry,” and drives froward, hitting that aching place deep within me.

I want to ask him for which part, but I already know, deep in my gut, from the way he’s kissing me, the way he’s rocking into me, I know he’s sorry not just for everything they’ve done, but everything they’re about to do.