Chapter 78
My body sags with exhaustion.
Caleb and his ties with the FBI received a mysterious phone call that pointed out three facilities that were holding women as part of a sex-trafficking ring, illegal arms, and kilos of raw cocaine.
The other location in Oneida was raided two days later, and Jacinda was rescued by Rhodes.
The third in Essex was abandoned by the time the FBI showed, and gone were the women, the weapons, and the drugs.
Kamilah was also nowhere to be found, leading Riggs, her cousin Jacqueline, and Quinten on a month-long hunt for her.
She ended up being located in Canada, and from what Riggs told me, she was tortured and assaulted by her captors.
She’s back home, hopefully healing, but it will never be the same. I know what that’s like, having experienced it with Ivory. Her assault affected her powerfully, making her shut down. Her marriage to Onyx wasn’t easy, and her pregnancy with Angel also added to her depression and feelings of shame.
Thinking of Ivory makes me think of Camryn.
Leaning back in the seat of my jeep, I think about her. It’s been 28 days since I last saw her on that gurney. Riggs and Onyx have returned to the tattoo shop and have no problem giving me attitude when I refuse to come in, canceling any and all appointments. Riggs flat-out called me an asshole.
“If you love her the way I think you do, then get off your ass and come and get her, dummy.”
But what was I supposed to say to her? I stopped being afraid of things years ago, murder and mayhem a daily part of my life, but when it comes to a 5 ‘7 woman with black hair, green eyes, and a sassy mouth, I’m scared shitless.
How was I supposed to face her? I still don’t know the extent of what he did to her.
He admitted to me in front of her that I was the reason she had been chosen.
He tortured her. God knows what her psychological scars are.
I was part of it. Thirty fucking stab wounds still give me fucking nightmares.
Turning into the hidden trail that leads to my cabin, I steer the bike until I pull up to the cabin.
I sit there letting the vibration of my bike rattle through me, trying to take comfort in the familiarity.
I turn off the ignition and pocket the keys, staring at the front door, not wanting to go inside.
Before her, it was my sanctuary. The place where my sister and niece rest. The place for my rituals. My revenge.
But it doesn’t feel the same since that weekend. I want Cam waiting in my bed, tired and filled with my cum. I want her walking the halls, touching my things. I want her in my bath, at my table, eating the food I made. Fuck.
I scrub my hand over my face and blow out a breath. I climb off my bike, undoing my helmet. It’s the scent of burning wood that has me reaching for my gun.
Smoke is coming out of the chimney. Smoke that doesn’t belong there since I left the cabin two weeks ago for the border between Canada and New York. I scan the cabin quickly, anticipating an attack. Moving quickly, I head toward the woods on the side of the house for more cover. It could be anyone.
El Jefe may be a rotting corpse that lies 50 feet from me, but that doesn’t mean his men or associates are not looking for revenge.
The alarms should have been triggered. They should have alerted me that someone approached the cabin.
Fuck. They’ve been disabled. I don’t even have time to check the cameras.
I need to get inside. The back door opens easily, no alarm blaring.
My nape prickles as I ease inside, gun drawn, looking around.
The pop and sizzle of the fire crackles in the fireplace.
I slow my breathing, training coming back, and walk down the hall.
The door to my office is open. I slip into my office and stop short. Shock leaves me mute.
“It took a while, but I figured out which ones lead to the security cameras.”
I watch as the colorful wires drop to the table.
“So I cut them all.”
“What are you doing here?”
“You’ve been ignoring me and that pisses me off, Stone. So I came to you.”
I holster my gun and lean against the door jamb, my heart beating triple time.
“Onyx drove me here on his bike.”
That news doesn’t sit well, and I clench my fists, hating how she got here. “That pisses me off.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t belong on his fucking bike,” I snarl, imagining her having to hold onto him, her breasts resting on his back, her thighs around him. Her pussy shouldn’t be anywhere near him.
She lifts her chin. “You left me no choice.”
“Why didn’t you drive?”
“Because the only way I’m leaving is if you take me.”
She throws down the gauntlet, outmaneuvering me. I swallow, my body reacting to her nearness.
“You know Sophia did the same thing when she was in love with my brother. Drove out to find him. So we figured a woman going to find her man should stay in the family.”
Her man. The sound of it has my cock twitching.
Camryn smirks and leans back in my chair.
The same chair she fucked me in months ago.
The same chair I’ve sat in while listening to her walk around her apartment.
I disconnected all the audio and visual feeds, knowing that if I saw it, heard it, I would find it more challenging to stay away from her.
Now, seeing her looking the same, yet different, is making my skin itch with the need to touch her.
Physically, she looks the same. More beautiful than ever. It’s the energy around her that feels different; darker, somber, and I fucking hate it because I know it stems from what happened to her. That change is because of me.
Even his death, all these weeks later, is still not enough.
It’s still not enough that his skin has been turned into hide.
It’s not enough that his skull has been de-fleshed by my beetles.
It’s not enough that his hands and entrails have burned to ash used in my tattoo ink to mark my body, to immortalize my kill and his death.
I want his soul. I want to destroy more than his corporeal form.
I want whatever spiritual remnants of lurking around.
My eyes track hers when she stands and walks over to my cut that’s hanging on the wall.
She touches the leather, tracing my nickname, her dried blood.
Her fingers move along the three skulls, a symbol of my allegiance to the Legion Lords.
I haven’t worn it since the night I carried her to the waiting ambulance.
“Is this my blood?” She looks over her shoulder at me.
“Yes.”
“You were wearing it when you rescued me.”
She knows the answer, so I don’t say anything.
“Why haven’t you cleaned it?”
“Because I want to remember.”
“Remember what?”
“My role.”
She freezes and slowly drops her hand.
“I don’t blame you, Stone.”
She doesn’t need to. I blame myself. I brace myself when she turns and walks to me, her body moving fluidly. Not like she was a month ago, pale from a loss of blood, stabbed over twenty times. When she gets closer, I breathe in her scent. That familiar honeysuckle fragrance that haunts my dreams.
“Why didn’t you come to me?”
I hold myself still, in disbelief that she’s here, standing in front of me, whole. “I can’t come to you.”
“Why?”
Because I love you, and I always will. I say it from the recesses of my soul where she’s buried deeply. I’ll never let her go, even if I can’t keep her. That love puts her in danger.
She touches my face, cupping my cheek, and a tear leaks out unbidden.
“So you do cry.”
I can hear the wry humor in her voice. I remember that night at the wedding when she was wearing my jacket, shivering from the cold, and sad.
The night she assumed I didn’t cry. I haven’t cried in years, but now the tears come.
Her fingers comb through my shaggy new beard, chasing the tears going down my face.
I haven’t given a fuck about shaving, and I know I look rough.
Now I wish she were touching my skin. I worried she would hate me for what happened to her, and to feel her touch, her absolution, eases something brittle and jagged inside me.
I groan, closing my eyes, turning my face into her soft palm.
It’s all I’ll allow myself. I can’t touch her now, not when I feel like this, like I have to let her go.
I open my eyes and look at her neck, filled with healed scars.
Small, inch-long reminders made from that bastard’s knife.
They cover the hollow of her throat, her collarbones, the rounded curves of her shoulder.
I know there’s a longer, more jagged scar in the middle of her chest on her breastbone.
The surgery was to repair her lacerated veins and arteries.
Helpless to my craving, I reach out and touch them, the still healing marks, tracing each one, feeling the pain in my soul.
Rage bubbles. He cut her to scar her, to kill her.
She’ll bear his mark forever, and it makes me want to dig up his corpse and rip the leftovers apart again. “He hurt you.”
“Yes.” She doesn’t elaborate, but just watches me.
“I let you get hurt. Because you don’t really know what I am, Camryn, who I am. The things I’ve done. The depraved and dark things in my soul. Things that aren’t meant for a woman like you.”
“A woman like me? What does that mean?”
Frustration and anger tinged my words, and I let them out, pulling away. “It means exactly what it sounds like! I’m fucking 44 years old, an ex-convict who enjoys things that could put me in a psychiatric hospital.”
“You mean your blood play?”
I chuckle at her naivety. “No. Blood play is a fetish and one that doesn’t harm your partner if done right. No, the things I like doing go beyond that.”
“Murder.”
She whispers it, her brow furrowed. I cup her face this time, losing myself in the need to touch her, maybe for the last time. “Yes.”
She swallows, and her eyes search mine. “How many? How many men have you killed?”