Chapter 4 Valentina #2
“Did I kill your boyfriend or something?” I groan, finally shifting, forcing an inch more space between us.
He laughs, the sound low and unhurried. “Nope, but you keep trying to kill me and you’re going to have to deal with the entire Raiders at your door.”
My skin goes cold, as if the night itself just tightened around me. “Then what business do we have, asshole?”
“Your dad gave you to us.” His voice sharpens, not louder but heavier.
“My dad has been dead for almost a year now, there is no fucking way that he gifted me to you,” I snarl.
“See, your dad was supposed to kill Cast, and then use the Raiders as the muscle men, instead of the Vipers, and he failed.”
I cough and stumble a step back, the words tumbling out fast, frantic. “So, talk to Cast, not me.”
“See, you don’t get it,” He says through his teeth. “He put you up as collateral, in order for him to use our resources. He used them and didn’t follow through, so you are ours now.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, rolling my shoulders back and curling my lips into a smile I doubt he can even see in this darkness. “Who exactly are you?”
He takes a single step forward, and that is all it takes. The shadows peel back just enough for me to see him, really see him, and every nerve in my body goes still.
He looks like a killer biker and a 90s heartthrob had a baby raised on danger and bad intentions.
Pitch-black hair catches the moonlight with a faint blue sheen as it falls in waves around his face.
His shoulders roll back as he straightens to his full height, towering over me until I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.
And those eyes—dark, deep, and cold—glint gold at the edges like there’s something molten buried under all that fury.
“Xavier King,” he says, every syllable slow and laced with a level of threat that makes me nauseous. “And you, my little killer, you are ours now.”
Shit. Fuck. Holy fucking hell. My mind blanks, every thought scattering like birds. Then instinct takes over.
I run.
The drug fog still clings to my muscles like wet cement, but the surge of sheer will to live cuts through it.
My feet slam into the ground, kicking up dirt and leaves as I race through the woods.
My lungs feel like they are shredding themselves apart, and no matter how hard I drag in air, it is never enough.
Every stride burns, but I do not stop. I cannot.
Branches whip at my arms and face as I tear through the trees, the night closing in around me like a vice.
The cold air slices down my throat, my chest is on fire, and every muscle in my body screams to stop, but I keep going.
I am running blind, just trusting my feet to find a way through the dark, because stopping means dying and dying isn’t an option.
A sharp yank tears through my scalp, jerking me backward so violently my feet leave the ground. My breath vanishes in an instant as my body snaps back, crashing into something solid—someone solid.
Pain blooms hot across my skull. I claw at the hand twisted in my hair, nails scraping, legs kicking at air.
“Let go!” I shout, thrashing like a wild thing, but the grip only tightens.
He drags me back against him, my spine slamming into his chest. Heat radiates off him, burning through the chill that had wrapped itself around me. I can smell him—leather, smoke, and the cool bite of mint.
“Come on Valentina, you’re a killer,” his voice curls around my ear, low and unshaken, smooth as sin. “You know how this plays out.”
I slam my head back as hard as I can, the crack of skull against bone exploding through the night.
“Yeah,” I snarl, breath ragged, “it ends with you joining your brother.”
Marcus King, the leader of the Raiders, died three months ago, from an overdose, or so they say.
His grip loosens just enough for me to twist, but not enough to break free. A sharp hiss escapes him, hot against my neck, and I know I caught him square in the nose or the mouth.
“Feisty,” he murmurs, and before I can wrench away, his arm snakes around my waist, locking me in place.
My boots scrabble in the dirt, trying to get leverage, trying to drive an elbow into his ribs, but he’s faster.
He traps my arm against me, his other hand catching my wrist when I reach for the knife I wish I still had.
“I like that fire,” he says, close enough that every word vibrates against my spine. “But fire without control just burns the one holding it.”
“I’d rather burn than let you touch me,” I spit, twisting violently in his grip.
“And yet,” he says, tightening his hold until I can feel the strength in every muscle of his arms, “here you are. In my hands.”
I throw my head back again, just for the promise of that satisfying crack, but this time he is ready.
He ducks, moving with unnerving speed, and my head slices through empty air instead of bone.
Before I can try again, his lips brush against the shell of my ear, close enough that I feel the warmth of his breath when he speaks.
“Come on, don’t take the fun out of this. Don’t make me kill you in the middle of the fucking woods.”
“Like you wouldn’t die first,” I snarl, twisting hard, but his arm clamps down across my ribs and locks me in place.
He lets out a low laugh, not winded in the slightest, the sound deep and infuriatingly amused, as if I am nothing more than entertainment to him.
And then he moves. One sharp, merciless pull on the collar of my dress jerks me back so hard my breath rips out of me.
The heels of my boots skid over the wet leaves; I try to dig in, to anchor myself, but the forest floor is a slick skin of rot that gives beneath my soles.
Xavier doesn’t wait for me to find my footing.
His hand clamps under my arms, hauling me into his chest so I’m half-levitated, his forearm pressing across my back as he starts to move.
He tugs me along like that, one long, relentless stride after another.
My feet scrape the leaf litter; I drag them, planting my booted heels, grinding them backward to protest, each step a tiny rebellion.
Roots and bushes snag my boots. I twist and kick, forcing my weight to the ground with everything I have, trying to slow him, trying to make him feel the resistance.
He answers by tightening his grip and pulling harder, elbows flexing, the muscles in his forearm bunching like steel cable.
“Let go of me!” The words tear out of my throat, raw and ragged. I swing my free arm in a wide, vicious arc toward whatever I can reach — his face, his ribs — anything soft enough to hurt.
He catches my wrist midair, his hand a brutal clamp. With infuriating ease he pins my arm across my chest, crushing it there until my own body becomes part of my prison. His body heat slams against my back, solid and immovable, like running into a wall of muscle and leather.
The trees blur as he hauls me through them, branches whipping at my legs and hair.
Underfoot the earth firms, packed down by tire tracks, and still I dig my heels in, refusing to make it easy.
Every tendon in my calves screams. Sweat chills along my spine.
My hair tangles in his fingers. I will not go quietly.
By the time we break into the open, my lungs burn and my legs howl.
He doesn’t slow. With a single, precise motion he wrenches me by the back of my collar and then, before I can protest, scoops me clean off the ground.
The sudden lift rips a startled sound from me as my boots leave the earth.
The world tilts and spins, my stomach lurching, and then I’m slung over his shoulder like a sack.
His arm locks across the backs of my thighs, iron-strong, and all I can see is the ground swaying below with each stride.
“You can walk,” Xavier says finally, his voice low and quiet, as if we’re not standing in the shadow of hell itself. His grip shifts from my hair to the back of my neck, a cold, unbreakable band of steel that presses me forward. “Or I can keep carrying you. Either way, you’re going inside.”
“Fuck you,” I snap, the words tearing out of me raw and hoarse.
He laughs — not gentle, not even harsh. It’s deep and full of teeth, the sound of someone enjoying this far too much. “That’s the spirit.”
I slam my fists against his back; the thud of knuckles on muscle does nothing. My boots kick and thrash wildly, but it’s like fighting a wall. He doesn’t even flinch.
“Put me down!” I scream, pounding at his spine as if stubbornness could break through.
“Keep it up, and you’ll wake up the whole damn house,” Xavier says, infuriatingly calm, as if we were out for an evening stroll instead of him kidnapping me. He walks with steady, unhurried steps, each one carrying me farther from freedom.
I kick harder; my heel connects with his hip in a strike that should have made him grunt. He doesn’t. Instead, Xavier smacks me — a sharp, stinging crack across the back of my thigh — and I jolt more from shock than pain.
“Behave,” he murmurs, his voice low enough to vibrate through my bones. His palm lingers for a breath, warm and possessive, before he slides it back to hold me in place like I’m nothing. “Last warning, Killer.”
Fury and humiliation bubble so hot in my chest it almost burns through the exhaustion weighing me down. But there’s nowhere to go, not like this.
The forest falls away behind us, replaced by the looming shape of the Raider house.
In the moonlight it looks like an old hunting lodge — broad, two stories, with windows glowing faintly from inside.
Porch boards creak under his boots as he steps up; the heavy scent of wood, oil, and cigarettes hits me before he opens the door.
When I was escaping, I didn’t have time to actually look around.
Inside, it looks like a frat house that’s been through a bar fight: two sagging leather couches face a scarred coffee table littered with empty bottles and cigarette butts.
The air is thick with smoke, stale beer, and the metallic tang of oil.
Knives and bats lean against the walls like casual decoration; a shotgun rests across a chair arm, pointed toward the door.
“You naughty girl,” a low, raspy chuckle cuts through the room. I twist my head toward the sound and spot him lounging like he owns the place—the so-called angel with the moss-green hair. “You managed to sneak out of the house?”
“Fuck you, Zay,” I snarl as Xavier finally drops me onto my feet, though his hand stays locked around my upper arm like a manacle.
“She knows my name,” Isaiah says, eyes lighting up as if this is the best birthday gift he’s ever gotten. He grins at Xavier and then back at me, mischief curling his lips. “Say it again, baby. I like it when you say it.”
“You kidnapped me, fuckwad. You’re lucky I don’t kill you,” I spit out, jerking toward him just to watch him laugh.
“Oh, I like her,” Isaiah says, clearly entertained. “Let her go.”
“Not until she knows the rule,” Xavier answers, his tone final.
I snort as he pushes me down onto the couch, the cracked leather groaning under me. “I thought you wanted me dead,” I shoot back, glaring up at him.
“I do,” Xavier says, his voice slow and edged with mockery as he leans in, one arm braced on the armrest beside my head.
He’s so close I can feel the warmth of his breath on my cheek, the scent of mint and smoke clinging to him.
The light from the room catches in his eyes, turning the dark hazel molten gold, and for one awful second I register just how devastatingly good-looking he is.
Sharp jaw, rough stubble, the kind of solid heat that presses down like a weight.
I lock my gaze on his and refuse to blink, refuse to give him even the smallest reaction.
“Zay wants you alive,” Xavier snarls, his voice dropping lower. “So you’ve got a choice. You take a position in the Raiders...”
“I don’t want a position in the Raiders,” I bite out, each word gritted like teeth on stone.
“Then you’ve got option two,” he says. “I take that shotgun over there and blow your pretty little brains out.” His eyes gleam when he says it, like the idea genuinely excites him. “Choose, Killer.”
I hold his gaze, my jaw locked so tight it aches. “Fine,” I hiss. “Give me a position.”
His mouth curls into a slow, cold smile that looks more like a threat than anything close to kind.
“Bottom of the pack, Killer.”