Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Christian
What the fuck is happening to me?
When I look down at this girl, it feels like I’ve been kicked off my feet by a monster wave and dragged out to sea. And the more I fight the current that is Eve Savano, the deeper I sink into my obsession for her—her smell, the shape of her lips, the sound of her voice, the way she bites back when she’s angry…
Downstairs, the pool table, that was me finally giving in, letting the rip current of need I’ve been battling since she first walked into my life pull me under completely. Some forces of nature can’t be fought; you either drown fighting or let them sweep you away. And this undertow? It crashed me headlong into Eve—this beautiful, headstrong catastrophe that makes my blood race.
Even now, just seeing her in my bed, head resting on her shoulder, thick lashes brushing the curve of her cheeks, I feel that current tugging at me all over again.
I should head back downstairs to oversee the hunt, but something anchors me here instead. The thought of sliding under the warm sheets and drifting off to the rhythm of Eve’s soft breathing is a thousand times more enticing than rejoining the chaos downstairs.
Reaching down, I cup her breast and brush the pad of my thumb over her nipple, watching how eagerly her body responds to my touch. Lazily, I brush my fingers across her warm skin, over her ribcage, to the soft swell of her stomach. It’s her softness that gets me.
As my finger trails down to the the tight curls that shield her slit, I stare at her face. She looks so vulnerable lying here like this, completely at my mercy, and I can’t help the twinge of sympathy that pinches just beneath my breastbone. It’s a foreign feeling and I don’t like it.
Vulnerability is pain, I remind myself.
Fuck.
What is it about her that intrigues me so much? Countless girls walk through Rush House every day, and I could fuck any one of them. But the monotony is suffocating. Each girl’s face blurs into the next—carbon copies of each other with only minor variations. And they wear their uniformity proudly, eager to fit into some kind of template of perfection, none brave enough to stand out, terrified that an actual opinion might offend me.
Not Eve. She could give a fuck less if she offends me. In fact, I’m one-hundred-percent certain she’d sink a knife into my chest if she was ever given the chance—and damn, but that’s hot as fuck.
I push my finger into her wet channel, and even under the weight of the drug, her head moves, and she moans softly. I could fuck her like this, while she’s vulnerable, unable to fight me. But I quickly dismiss that thought, because, honestly, it’s the fight I crave. It’s the vitriol in her eyes that feeds the darkest parts of me.
Reluctantly, I remove my fingers from her body and re-position her, so she’s on her back, her legs dangling over the edge of the mattress. Then I unzip the fly of my jeans, pull my cock out, and start stroking it slowly. I drag my eyes down her face, to her large, heavy breasts…
I’m standing over her, positioned between her open legs, and just a few pumps in, I can already feel that familiar tingle sweep up my spine. My eyes travel down her lush body to her soft, dark pink pussy lips . Fuck. The urge to push inside that warm channel and pump her full of my cum again is strong, but I hold myself back. Just-fucking-barely.
My orgasm slams into me with the strength of a tidal wave. A moan is ripped from my chest and I fall forward, bracing myself with one arm as I pump violently, squeezing hard as my load coats her pussy.
Goddamn.
Breathing like I’ve just run a fucking marathon, I straighten, and pinch the head of my dick to get that last bit of cum, allowing it to drip onto the nest of dark curls between her thighs. Then I reach down and use my finger to push my semen further inside her.
Tucking myself back into my jeans, I reach under the mattress and pull out the folding knife I keep there. Flicking it open, I press the tip against the skin just above her pelvic bone. The prick causes her to moan and shift as I carve my message into her soft flesh.
You can’t do any permanent damage.
Her words from when she first arrived swirl inside my head. I’d laughed, and told her there were no promises–and I meant it. Still, the damage to her skin will be minimal. The cuts are shallow, and in a few weeks, they’ll be completely healed over. But she’s marked now—and when she wakes up, she’ll know it.
I leave her lying on my bed as I wash up, then grab my phone. On the screen, there’s a text from Jackson.
We need you in H323. We have information about Eve.
“Fuck,” I say on a heavy breath.
Shoving my phone into my back pocket, I glance down at Eve. I could handcuff her to the bed, but she’ll be unconscious for a while, so I don’t bother. Where the fuck would she go, anyway? She’s already learned how quickly she’ll be tackled by the security guys. They don’t miss a damn thing.
Music pumps through the house, and as I make my way down the main staircase, a couple of barely-clothed girls run by, squealing, laughing. They’re being chased by several guys in masks.
H323 is all the way across the dark-as-fuck campus, which is annoying as fuck, but the fact that Jackson wants us to meet there means he doesn’t want other people overhearing our conversation. Rush House is overrun with people tonight.
When I get to the Humanities building, I realize I forgot my keys back at the house. I’m about ready to pull my phone out to call Jackson when I realize the main door is cracked open. I head into the dark building and up to the top floor, where the door to H323 is standing wide open, light flooding into the hallway.
“What’s up?” I ask, walking in. “Why are we meeting here?”
This is Roman’s grandfather’s office. The guy was some kind of professor, and he’s long gone, but the administration lets us keep the office. It helps that Roman’s family funded the building back when it was built.
Jackson is sitting in one of the leather chairs, a guitar in his hands. Ash is leaning against the massive mahogany desk, a blunt hanging from his lips. And I’m surprised to see Lucas standing at the kitchenette, fucking with the espresso machine. He’s been avoiding all things Burning Crown lately.
He glances at me when I walk in. “We’re out of coffee beans,” he fumes, snapping the cover shut. He’s wearing gray sweats and a hoodie, his eyes only half-open. Someone must not have taken his nap today.
Opening the minifridge, I grab the small bag of coffee beans and shove them at Lucas. “You look like hell,” I say. “Shouldn’t you be at home, all tucked up in bed like an old married man?”
“Yes, actually.” Opening the hopper with clipped movements, he pours the beans in, then closes the lid forcefully. “It’s four in the morning, so I should be at home. In bed. With Wyn. But I’m here with you idiots instead.”
What’s this? Some kind of martyr shit? No one forced him to come here tonight. In fact, it’d be better if he weren’t here. He has a tendency to complicate shit—and that’s the last thing I need right now. Things with Eve are complicated enough without his help.
“You don’t need to be here,” I tell him. “Go home. We’ll fill you in tomorrow.”
“I’d love to go home.” He cuts me an angry look. “But my phone’s been blowing up all fucking night, because my brother keeps doing dumb-ass shit.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“First, Sin and his crew set the front lawn on fire,” he snaps. “Then, you call a Fox Hunt, win said hunt, and take the prize. We can guess how you managed that. Then , according to the two dozen texts I’ve gotten, you lured Aidan into a fist fight and beat his face in.”
I roll my eyes and scoff at that. “Aidan is fine.”
“After the fight, he passed out,” Jackson chimes in. “And a couple of the guys took him to the hospital. He has a brain bleed.”
“Right. A brain bleed,” Lucas repeats, looking directly at me. “And guess who’s gonna have an opinion about that? Yeah, Coach Brennan. You just put his offensive lineman in the fucking hospital.”
Jesus. When did everyone get so fucking touchy about a brain bleed?
“He tried to fuck Eve,” I say. “So if a brain bleed is all he walked away with, then he got off easy.”
My brother goes silent because he knows what would happen if anyone dared touch Wyn—they’d be leaving Rush House in a body bag. So, he can’t really criticize, can he? That’s not going to stop him from doing it, though.
“It’s not just Aidan.” Lucas tips the espresso back with a quick jerk. “I also hear there’s some shit going down with your consort?”
“Fucking-A,” I hiss, tilting my head back.
“Normally, I wouln’t give a fuck, but this bitch—what’s her name, Sara?—has been texting Wyn,” he says. “And now Wyn is upset, which means I have to get involved.”
For fuck’s sake.
“Dude, don’t worry about it,” I say, blowing it off. “I’ll handle Sara.”
Lucas rakes a hand through his hair and down his face. “Listen, dude. This shit with Eve has to stop. It’s too much.”
Now, that gets my back up.
“Too much?” I take a step toward my brother, eyes narrowing. “Are you seriously questioning my judgment? You of all fucking people?”
Do I have to remind him of all the crazy shit he did when he was spiraling over Wyn? How he fucking killed someone and nearly volunteered for state-sponsored suicide?
He must realize how fucking dumb it is to lecture me, because the anger drains from his face. “Listen, I’m just worried about you, dude.” He leans against the desk, arms crossed over his chest. “I saw the look on your face when Eve first arrived, and if I’m being honest, I had a feeling this would happen…”
What the fuck?
I take another threatening step toward my brother. “You had a feeling what would happen?”
Jackson must have stood up at some point, because he steps between Lucas and me. “Whoa, chill. We don’t need another bloodbath tonight,” he says, hand on my chest. “There’s been a lot of tension in the house since Eve arrived. That’s all he’s saying.”
I shake my head, rocking back on my heels. The guys have no idea what I have planned for Eve, so I’ll give them that. And from the outside, it must look like I’m losing my mind—and sometimes, it feels like I am. But I know what I’m doing. And what I’m doing is for them .
“Fuck, whatever,” I say. “You guys don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then make us fucking understand,” Lucas says, pushing off the desk. “Because it looks like you’re spiraling into addiction, dude.”
Goddamn. Some things just never change. Lucas beat me into the world by two minutes, and ever since, he’s been playing the “big brother knows best” routine. Same shit, different day.
“Thanks, man,” I say, sarcasm dripping from my tone. “I appreciate you pulling out of Wyn’s cunt long enough to come over here and offer me that brotherly perspective.”
Lucas flinches, like he’s going to lunge at me, but Jackson is larger than both of us, and with a hand on each of our chests, he manages to keep us apart. “Both of you calm the fuck down,” Jackson bites out. “We have enough shit to deal with without you two ripping each other’s throats out.”
Fair point. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t craving the violence. Something about feeling knuckles crack against bone scratches an itch, nothing else seems to reach. And I love my brother—hell, he’s probably the only person on this fucked-up planet I’d take a shiv to the kidney for—but his holier than thou attitude makes me want to knock out a few of his teeth, just to remind him I can.
Clearly frustrated, Lucas pushes back, hands up. “You know what, I’m tired and I don’t have time for this bullshit.” He moves toward the door, turning around to lob one last threat. “Just…for fuck’s sake, Christian, get your shit together. Seriously.”
When he’s gone, both Jackson and Ash look relieved that our conversation didn’t get bloody.
“Damn, that was intense,” Ash says, speaking for the first time since I arrived.
I blow out a heavy breath, waving off Ash’s comment. “He’s just pissed because he had to actually get off his ass and do something other than lie in bed with Wyn all day.”
Jackson folds his arms over his chest and shrugs. “He’s just worried about you, man.”
“Cool,” I say dismissively, pinching the bridge of my nose. I’m suddenly exhausted. Dropping my hand, I look up at the guys. “Your text said you have information on Eve. Is that true or was it just bullshit to get me here?”
Jackson flicks his chin at Ash, who plucks a large manila envelope off the desk and tosses it at me. There’s a hastily scribbled note on the front— Happy reading. C.V.
Charlie Vaughn is one of several private investigators the Burning Crown employs, and he’s a fucking bloodhound. He operates on whiskey and bitterness, but his reputation is legendary: if there’s information out there on someone, Charlie will drag the rotting corpse of truth into the light, no matter how deep it’s buried.
“We should really talk to Vaughn about going digital,” Ash says, watching me pull the thick pile of papers out of the envelope.
“We’ve tried,” I say. “He refuses. Computers can be hacked. Digital files can be subpoenaed. But paper can be burned.” I hold up the report that was created on a typewriter so old it should be donated to the Smithsonian. “He’s so paranoid, he insists we delete all emails and texts immediately.”
Ash shakes his head. “That’s some 1920’s spy shit, but sure.”
Ash’s skepticism bleeds through his tone. He doesn’t get it. Jackson, Roman, Lucas, and I were all born into the Burning Crown—we’ve lived and breathed this life since the moment we came screaming into the world. Ash only took up the mantle of a Sacred Son a few months ago, so he doesn’t realize measures like the ones Vaughn is taking are necessary. When you have power, wealth, and influence, other people want it, and they’ll do whatever they can to get it.
Like Sin Savano.
Re-focusing my attention on the report, I read over it quickly, my heart sinking deeper with every sentence. Right after the attack on Rush House, we had Vaughn dig up everything he could about Shadow and Ash, so I already knew they weren’t as holy as they claim to be, but this…? This is some dark shit, and I wasn’t prepared for it. “Damn,” is all I can say.
“We thought you’d find that interesting,” Jackson says, watching me carefully. I wonder if he shares my brother’s concerns for me.
Quickly thumbing through the backup material, both relief and dread coil in my stomach. Relief, because this information will only help with my plan for Eve. Dread, because when the truth comes out, it’s going to shatter her. There’s no way it won’t.
“Are you going to tell her?” Ash asks.
Replacing everything in the envelope, I seal the flap and toss it back onto the desk. “Don’t worry about it.”
I’m not involving them in this—not any more than they need to be. That shit Sin pulled on our front lawn a few weeks ago was personal to me. He nearly killed my fucking twin. And yeah, the other guys are pissed, too, but this fight is mine—and I’m going to do what I need to do to finish it. Without them.
“You’re up to something,” Jackson says confidently.
“Why do you say that?” I pull a blunt out of my pocket. I light up, take a deep pull. The second the burn hits my lungs, the tension in my shoulders starts to unravel.
“Because I know you,” Jackson says. “And you’ve been way to chill about this shit with Sin. That can only mean you’re planning something.”
I glance between Jackson and Ash. “The only reason I’m so chill is because we hold all the cards. Eve is ours. We’ve got that asshole by the balls.”
“He has a point,” Ash says.
“Yeah,” Jackson concedes with a sigh.
I tap the tip of my blunt on the surface of the desk, then shove it into my pocket. “Listen, as much as I’d love to sit around and talk about my feelings with you guys, I’m tired as fuck.” And Eve is waiting in my bed.
As much as I criticize Lucas for having to tear himself away from Wyn, I’m beginning to feel the same way about Eve, and that freaks me the fuck out.
“Get some sleep,” Jackson says. “Ash and I will head back to the house in a few and send everyone home.”
“Thanks, man.”
Leaving the guys, I walk back to the house, weave through the kitchen, and head up the stairs without talking to anyone. I’m bone tired, and all I can think about is crawling into bed and pulling Eve’s perfect ass into the curve of my body.
My bedroom is dark, quiet, but the curtains are open, allowing the pale moonlight to filter into the room, casting shadows across the bed. Approaching, I stare down at Eve. She looks so damn peaceful, her breathing slow and steady. I reach down and brush a strand of hair off her cheek.
Does she know about the things in Vaughn’s report?
The way she talks about Shadow and Ash—about her brother—I’m guessing not. And I hate that it matters to me. It shouldn’t.
But it does.
It matters too fucking much.
I want to rip apart anyone who’s ever hurt her, burn down everything that’s ever made her flinch. This girl is in my head, crawling through my veins, and I don’t think I could stop caring, even if I tried…