22. Rae
22
RAE
She fucking slit her throat. Maddie cut Sweetie’s throat. She killed her. Her friend. One of the club. A club member is dead because of me. Because of us. She killed one of her own…
The thoughts don't relent as Digger rockets us back to the clubhouse. The way he rides is frantic, urgent, and, honestly, scares me a little. But I get it. So, I cling to him like a fucking koala and pray that we make it back in one piece, all the while keeping my gaze on the road streaking past us in a blur of grays and greens, praying even harder that we don’t see him.
Either of them.
Fox, or this mysterious Ronan.
The tension eases out of my arms as Digger slows us down and turns into the Reapers' compound, the familiar jolt as we cross the tracks of the gate a goddamn relief. The truck is parked haphazardly, but there's no sign of Maddie or Harvey.
Jamie pauses her path across the yard when she sees us pull in.
The girl's growing on me. She's young and less experienced than the men around her, but she's not afraid to get her hands dirty.
To learn.
Digger kills the engine and sticks his hand out for me to brace myself while getting off. I wobble a little on my feet, struggling with the strap of the helmet. I can't say why, but the restriction fills me with dread. I want it off my head, I want space to breathe, I need to breathe, I…
"Better?" I could cry when Digger carefully tugs it off my head to hang it on his bike's mirror.
“I… It’ll be dirty.” I didn’t even think when he put it on me. The blood in my hair, the mess.
“It can be cleaned.” He pulls me against him again, burying his face against the side of my head and muttering, “Just like you.”
I don't protest when he hitches me against him. Don't fight it when he urges me to hold on tight, even though the blood on my clothes, my face, and my hair covers him in the same.
I take the comfort offered and cling to Digger as he walks us across the yard, my arms around his neck and my face buried against his shoulder.
He walks us inside, mutters something to whoever approaches, and keeps going—he keeps walking until we're up the stairs, and then we're there.
We’re in his room.
His room.
Yet he doesn’t stop until he has me in the attached bath, kicking the door shut behind him and lowering himself to the edge of the small tub. My feet dangle inside. I should get off him and make this easier. But I don’t want to. I can’t.
I cling to that man like he’s the last vestige of proof that I haven’t completely fucked things up. That somebody could still love me. Still care about me enough to hear me out. To let me try again.
To fail.
"You don't need to talk about nothin' until you're ready, baby." His palm slowly strokes lines up and down my back, tucked beneath the leather barrier that still clings to my soul like a brand.
Did they know what they were doing when they gave me these colors? Did they realize?
Every time I feel like running, every time I want to hide, the weight of the patch on my back is my sensory reminder to take a deep breath. To believe.
To trust.
“I’m sorry I snuck out.”
"Hey." He turns his head, peppering my jaw with kisses. "I'm sorry we made you feel like you had to."
"I'd understand," I say, despite the need to force the words through my thickened throat. “I'd understand if you wanted me to leave or if you told me that you’ve made a mistake.”
He exhales, heavy and quick, yet Digger doesn’t say a thing. His jaw presses against my neck as he grinds it back and forth.
My heart rackets, rattling the bars of its cage and demanding an answer. Am I right? Does he think I was a mistake? Maybe he doesn't know how to tell me.
Maybe he pities me. Fuck. I could handle that least of all.
I don’t need pity. It doesn’t fix a damn thing.
“You know,” he finally murmurs. “I’d thought about tellin’ you the same.”
His confession jerks my head back. Hands laced behind his neck, I lean away to see his handsome face. His tortured, beautiful face. "Why would you say that?"
Digger’s lips quirk in a lop-sided smile. “Baby girl, I want to give you everything you deserve. Fuck, I want to honor and worship you, get that doubt out of your fuckin' head, and make you see yourself the way I do.” He pauses, wincing a little. “The way Tyke does. But I screw it up.” He shrugs. “Got perfect intentions in here”—he taps his temple with a thick finger— “but they don't translate to these." Digger lifts his hands on either side of us, glancing at the tattooed flesh. "It ain't anything new." His gaze finds mine. "Nothin' particular to you, Rae. Just how I am." He drops his gaze, his brow twitching into a frown. "Makes me mad. Makes me fuckin' hate myself when I see others do the shit I should have. See other people figure out the stuff that seems so hard for me. I don't want to let you down, baby girl." His voice drops to a whisper as he admits, "Don't want to make you any worse than you already are."
“Don’t say that.” My chin crumples. Fuck this shit. The tears come before I get a chance to steel myself, to shove them down and deny how deep he can reach within me. “Don’t say that when this is the only place I wanna be right now.”
He dares to look at me, a soft smile on his lush lips.
I'm lost in those forest-green eyes. Drowning in their depths while he tenderly lifts a hand and brushes my hair over one shoulder. "Much as I want to stay like this, too, I need you to hop off so I can get the shower ready."
Of course. Using his shoulders to brace myself, I lift one leg and then the other out of the tub and rise to my feet. The muscle beneath my palm rolls as he steadies me, and I fucking itch to keep my hand there, to explore every sweep and curve of his physique.
But I don’t. I step aside, let Digger get the water running, and do my fucking utmost to avoid my reflection in the wide mirror on my left.
I don’t want to see it. Don’t want the proof that the sticky, drying shit I feel in my hair was once inside a goddamn person. That it’s the same life source that runs within me.
A life Maddie took… to save me.
Everything’s to fucking save me.
I’m tired of being the victim. Exhausted. So goddamn sick of being the weak link in the chain.
I want it to stop. To end. The bad luck, the shitty choices, the bullshit outside my control.
I don’t realize how deeply I’ve spiraled until Digger clears the tears from my cheeks with his firm thumbs, sweeping them over the ridges of my cheekbones. His digits come away stained with blood, pinkened against his tanned flesh.
I almost vomit.
"Are you okay with me doing this?" His fingers grip the hem of my T-shirt, ready to tug it over my head.
"Please." I stay rooted to the spot, moving when he needs me to, lifting one foot after the other for him to remove my shoes. Then, my jeans. Until I'm before him in only my underwear, matted hair against my breast.
He steps back, the steam rising from the shower behind him.
I drink him in. All of him. Towering over me and yet I feel so damn safe. What once would have intimidated me—still intimidates others—is now my safe place.
The refuge I crave, even as I stand exposed and under his scrutiny.
His tongue peeks out to wet his lips, and then he does the same, stripping himself down until he stands before me in his boxer briefs. A perfect specimen of male beauty.
I lift an arm behind me and unclasp my bra, never once breaking eye contact as the cups fall away from my breasts. The lace hits the floor—my nipples pebble both at the sudden rush of warming air against the sensitive tips but also at the sharp intake of his breath.
Digger takes a step forward and cups one hand around the back of my neck.
His lips meet mine, his caress gentle as he explores my mouth, reassuring and hungry at the same time, fast and then slow, as though he can't decide which he wants more.
I’ll take him however I get him.
Forehead to forehead, he reaches for my panties, hooking both thumbs in the waistband and edging them over my hips while we both watch. Mesmerized by the inked hands that undress me. Expose me. Reveal me.
The scrap of lace tumbles down my legs, and I step free. Precious seconds pass, neither of us doing anything more. Only the gentle hiss of the shower and our labored breaths as we stare down at where our bodies nearly touch.
It's a precipice I can't wait to tumble over, yet I relish the moment for all its beauty.
Digger lifts his hand, fingertips brushing my waist with reverence. I tremble, unable to hold back the riot of sensation he offers as he walks the pads of his finger up my side. Until he reaches my ribs. Until he hesitates and then brushes my stiff nipple with his thumb.
It’s fucked up, what with the blood still on me. Transferring to him. But I wouldn’t rush this for the world.
Wouldn’t deny him this.
Or me.
I hitch my thumbs in his boxers and coax them over his hips, past the delicious V, and onto his thighs. His cock springs free, thick, and proud between us. It’s all I can do not to drop to my knees and taste the delicate drop glistening at the head when he steps free of his boxers.
Fingers beneath my chin, Digger coaxes me to look up, to meet his eye, his silent question held in the emerald flecks of his gaze. Is this okay? I nod and bring my hand to his throat, framing the thick column with my forefinger and thumb while I rest my palm against his collarbone.
With one jerk of his head, he urges us into the shower. His palm sliding against mine, he waits for me to step under the warm spray before he joins me, walling me against the tile with his broad form.
I feel secure. Cradled against him, my back to his front as he presses kisses down the side of my neck and across my shoulder. I watch the pink water swirl toward the drain, so fucking aware that Digger kisses me places I'm not yet clean. The fact he doesn't care—that he wants me enough to do it anyway—has me reach behind me to cup him in my palm.
Digger’s hiss against my nape doesn’t disappoint.
Emboldened, I wrap my fingers around him and slowly stroke, applying pressure as I reach the head.
His hands hit the wall either side of me with a slap, and he groans, head pressed against the back of mine. I milk the man for what he’s worth, a cry passing my lips when he drops one hand to my breast and kneads the flesh in time with my quickening strokes.
“Stop.” His guttural plea causes a flood of warmth between my legs. “Not yet.”
I'm spun on the wet tile floor, faced with the result of my ministrations. Desire darkens Digger's gaze, his eyes hungry across my face and chest as he pants, each breath expanding his muscular chest, lifting his muscled shoulders.
“Wanted to take this slower,” he grinds out, “but dammit woman.” Hand wrapped around my throat, he tilts my head back and mumbles, lips against mine. “You got magic in those devil hands of yours.”
His kiss is demanding, bruising, as he grips ahold of my thighs and lifts me against the wall. Fingers in his hair, I tug at the strands, chasing his mouth as he glances between us to line himself up and then… Fuck, yes. Digger stalls, bottomed out inside of me while we both take a moment to relish the fucking fullness.
The perfection.
One hitch of my hips, and he's snapped out of his reverie, pulling back before slamming back into me with force.
With purpose.
The water cascades over our heads, hitting his broad back as he buries his face against my neck, teeth grazing the column of my throat as he pistons his hips. It's sensual, rough, and yet fucking intimate all at once. The perfect recipe.
The perfect release.
I open my eyes as he brings me to the edge and stare at the ceiling to pray.
That he never tires of this.
That he never changes his mind.
That one day, I'll feel worthy of this love.