Chapter Nineteen
Slaughter
The motel room door clicked shut behind us, and the silence that followed felt heavier than the roar of the engine we had just left behind.
I stood there for a moment, my hand still on the doorknob, my chest heaving with each breath.
Pain radiated through my ribs with every inhale, sharp and insistent.
Blood dripped from my nose onto the worn carpet, dark spots blooming against the faded beige.
The adrenaline was starting to fade, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion that made my hands shake. I could still feel the impact of my fists against flesh, could still hear the wet crack of breaking bone. The violence was still alive in my veins, making my pulse race and my skin feel too tight.
Hope moved past me without a word, her hand brushing my arm as she headed toward the small bathroom.
The brief contact sent electricity through me despite the pain, despite everything.
I heard the faucet turn on, the sound of water running, and then she reappeared with a clean white towel and a washcloth dampened with warm water.
The sight of her, so calm, focused, and moving with quiet purpose made something in my chest tighten. She wasn’t running. Wasn’t afraid. After everything she just witnessed, after the violence I’d unleashed, she was still here.
Still choosing me.
“Sit,” she said quietly, nodding toward the bed.
Why? I wanted to ask. Why aren’t you running?
Why aren’t you looking at me like I’m a monster?
Because that was what I was. A killer. An executioner.
A man who had just beaten two men bloody with his bare hands while she watched.
And yet here she was, looking at me with those green eyes full of concern and something else.
Something that looked dangerously like tenderness.
I didn’t argue. Just walked over and sank down onto the edge of the mattress, the springs creaking under my weight. My hands were still shaking. Adrenaline still coursed through my veins, mixing with the pain and exhaustion and something else. Something that felt dangerously close to hope.
Hope kneeled in front of me, setting the towel and washcloth on the bed beside her.
Her eyes swept over me, assessing the damage with a calm, clinical focus that reminded me she had grown up around this world.
She had seen violence before. Knew what it looked like in the aftermath.
But knowing it and accepting it were two different things.
And as I watched her face, I waited for the moment she realized what I really was.
What I would always be. A killer. A man who dealt in death and darkness.
A man who would destroy everything he touched.
“Take off your cut,” she breathed.
I shrugged out of the leather, wincing as the movement pulled at my ribs.
She took it from me and draped it carefully over the chair by the window, handling it with a reverence that made my throat tight.
Not disgust. Not fear. Reverence. Like she understood what it meant to me, what it represented.
Then she returned and stood in front of me, waiting.
I pulled my T-shirt over my head, gritting my teeth against the pain.
The fabric was stained with blood—mine and theirs—and I tossed it onto the floor without a second thought.
Hope’s breath hitched slightly as she took in the full extent of the damage.
My ribs were already bruising, dark purple spreading across my side like spilled ink.
My knuckles were split and bleeding, the skin torn from repeated impacts.
And my nose. God, my nose was a mess. Swollen, crooked, blood still trickling down over my lips and chin.
But she didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.
She just picked up the damp washcloth and moved closer, settling onto the bed beside me.
Her thigh pressed against mine, warm and solid, and I felt some of the tension in my chest ease.
The simple contact grounded me, reminded me I was here, I was real.
I was still capable of feeling something other than rage and grief.
“This is going to hurt,” she warned, her voice gentle.
“I know.”
She started with my face, dabbing carefully at the blood around my nose.
The cloth came away red, and she folded it, clean side up, then returned to her work.
Each touch was deliberate, careful, and I found myself holding my breath, afraid to move, afraid to break whatever spell had settled over us.
I watched her as she cleaned me. Watched the way her brow furrowed in concentration, the way her lips pressed together when she encountered a particularly nasty cut.
Her hands were steady, sure, and impossibly gentle.
She moved to my knuckles next, wiping away the blood and dirt, revealing the torn skin beneath.
I hissed when she pressed the cloth against a particularly deep gash, and her eyes flicked up to mine.
“Sorry,” she murmured.
“Don’t be.”
She continued, her touch feather-light now, and I found myself mesmerized by the care she was taking. By the way she handled me like I was something precious, something worth saving.
No one has done this for me since Julie.
The thought hit me like a fist to the gut, and guilt crashed over me in waves.
Julie had cleaned my wounds after club business.
Had tended to me with the same quiet competence, the same gentle hands.
And here I was, letting another woman touch me the same way.
Letting Hope see the parts of me that Julie had known so intimately.
I should pull away. Should stop this before it goes any further.
But I couldn’t. Because this wasn’t Julie. This was Hope. And Hope was here, real and solid and mine in a way that terrified me and made me feel alive for the first time since Julie’s death.
She moved to my ribs, her fingers ghosting over the bruises with a tenderness that made my chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with the cracked bones beneath.
I could feel the heat of her palm through the thin barrier of her touch, could smell the jasmine scent that clung to her skin, and my body responded despite the pain.
My cock stirred, hardening against the confines of my jeans, and I shifted uncomfortably. Hope’s eyes flicked down, then back up to my face, and I saw the flush creep across her cheeks. She knew. She could see what she was doing to me.
“You need to see a doctor,” she whispered quietly, her eyes still focused on my side, but her voice had gone slightly breathless.
“I’m fine.”
“Chapman—”
“I’m fine,” I repeated, my voice firmer this time.
She looked up at me then, her dark eyes searching mine. I saw the worry there, the fear she was trying to hide. Fear for me. Fear of what could have happened. Fear of what was still to come. And I saw something else, too. Something that made my pulse quicken and my breath catch.
Desire. She wanted me. Despite the blood and the bruises and the violence I had just unleashed, she wanted me.
But it was more than that. I could see it in the way she looked at me.
Like she was seeing past the executioner, past the killer, past the darkness.
Like she was seeing me. The man beneath all the death and grief and guilt.
And she wasn’t running.
Her hand was still resting on my ribs, warm and gentle, and I became acutely aware of how close she was. Close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes, could count the freckles scattered across her nose, could feel the warmth of her breath against my skin.
The air between us shifted and thickened with tension. I watched her throat work as she swallowed, watched the way her pupils dilated, watched the rapid rise and fall of her chest. She was feeling it too—this pull, this magnetic force drawing us together.
I reached out slowly, carefully, and took both of her hands in mine.
She stilled, the washcloth slipping from her fingers and landing on the bed between us.
I brought her hands to my lips, pressing a kiss to the palm of her left hand first. Her skin was soft, warm, and I felt her fingers tremble slightly against my mouth.
She’s afraid, I realized. Not of me. But of this. Of what we were becoming. Of the consequences that would follow.
I kissed her right palm next, slower this time, my eyes never leaving hers.
I watched the way her pupils dilated, the way her lips parted slightly, the way her breathing quickened.
I could feel her pulse racing beneath my lips, could see the flush spreading down her neck and disappearing beneath the collar of her shirt.
“Hope,” I said, my voice rough and low.
“Chapman,” she whispered back, and the sound of my name on her lips undid me. Not my club name. My real name. And she was saying it like it mattered. Like I mattered.
I stood slowly, pulling her up with me. She came willingly, her hands still clasped in mine, her body close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off her skin.
I released her hands and cupped her face instead, my palms cradling her jaw, my thumbs brushing over her cheekbones.
She looked up at me, her eyes wide and trusting, and I felt something in my chest crack open.
She trusts me. After everything. After the pond.
After the garage. After watching me beat two men bloody with my bare hands.
She still trusted me. The realization was humbling and terrifying in equal measure.
I didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve her.
But God help me, I wanted it. Wanted her.
Wanted this moment to stretch on forever.
I wanted to lose myself in her and forget everything else.
“Tell me to stop,” I said, giving her one last chance to walk away. Giving her the choice I should have given her at the pond.
She shook her head, her hands coming up to rest on my chest, right over my heart. “I don’t want you to stop.”