Dauntless (Sons of Templar MC #5)(109)

Becky


Blood had a smell. People who’d seen a lot of it would tell you. Their descriptions may differ, but it was unmistakable. As soon as I stepped into the warehouse, I was assaulted with the metallic, bitter twang.

I welcomed it.

It was the smell of justice. Probably not the kind sanctioned by the state, or even conventional society, but whatever.

Gabriel’s hand was firm in mine as we walked over to where the big men in cuts were standing.

They turned, all regarding me with expressionless faces. Apart from Gage, who grinned.

My attention didn’t stay on him for long, instead going to the bloodied, battered lump that was tied to a chair.

Dylan.

I thought I’d be a vengeful cold bitch when I saw him, but in those first few seconds, I struggled to breathe. He may have been touching death right then, but his mere presence had me hurtling back into that room.

Gabriel’s squeeze on my hand brought me back out.

“Becky?” he asked, his voice taut.

I met his eyes. “I’m fine.”

I was reluctant to do it, but I stepped out of his grasp. He tightened his hand in mine once more before he let me go. I held my hand out to Gage.

He didn’t even hesitate in handing me the stained blade. Brock raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

I silently walked over to the lump in the chair, my boots echoing on the concrete. I didn’t even pause as I brought the knife down right between his legs, leaving it there for a second then yanking it back out.

I barely acknowledged the animal scream before I turned my back on him.

All of the men were gaping at me. Well, apart from Gage, who was still grinning. Gabriel’s eyes were shimmering with a lot of things. Things not to inspect in the blood-filled warehouse.

I walked past them, handing the blade back to Gage. “As you were, boys.”

I clutched Gabriel’s red-stained hand. “Take me home,” I whispered.

He didn’t say a word, just squeezed my hand and nodded.

And then I left it behind.

What I could, at least.



We didn’t speak until we got home. That’s what this was—my home. Not the four walls, though they were comforting. No, it was him. The biker in the middle of the room, staring at me with concern and pride and most likely struggling to fight his own monsters now that I’d quieted mine.

Not that he said anything—that guy was a f*cking fortress—but I could sense it.

I stepped close to him, my body brushing his. “I almost died today,” I whispered.

He held himself rigid. “Don’t f*ckin’ remind me.” His hand was featherlight on my forehead, which barely even throbbed. Mostly because my heart was pounding and drowning everything else out.

“I’m addicted to you,” I whispered. “And it’s worse than any drug I’ve craved because that was a choice. Not the addiction and everything that came with it, but I knew what it meant and what the consequences could be. And I still chose.” I paused. “With you, it wasn’t even a choice. It was addiction before I even knew you were another substance I could abuse. And I’m scared. I’m f*cking terrified because it hurts worse than any chemical and the high is so much higher. I’m scared of the overdose, the crash back down to earth. But mostly I’m scared of the withdrawal if I ever lose you. Because I survived heroin, but I couldn’t survive a life without you.” My admission had me arguably more terrified than I had been in a long time. Maybe not more terrified than I had been then, but it was a different kind of fear.

Gabriel’s eyes were glittering with depth I could drown in. “Fuck, Becky,” he murmured, holding my body close. “You’re never going to lose me. Fuckin’ never,” he promised.

I moved my hand to trail his jaw. “I don’t want to think about it. Any of it. Death, monsters. I want to forget and just live.”

His eyes flared with hunger and unease as he immediately understood my words, the suggestion in my tone. “Fuck, babe. You sure?”

I tried to swallow the glass of his words. “If you don’t want to….” I started to bring my hand down, shame filling me.

He captured my wrist. “I f*ckin’ want to,” he growled, his voice rough with desire. He brought my hand to his mouth. “I wake up wanting you, Becky. I go to sleep wanting you and everything in between. I want you.” He paused. “But I want you. Not for your body or for what you can do with it. Just you. And when you’re ready, I’ll take your body.”

“I’m ready,” I whispered through the roar of my pounding heart. “Maybe not for everything we did before.” My mind panicked at the image of cuffs, at being helpless as someone owned my body, even him, the one I’d given my soul to willingly. I couldn’t do that. Not yet. “I just need to be in control.”

He searched my face. “Yeah, you do,” he agreed. He laid his mouth against my hand once more before dropping it. “Stay there,” he ordered.

I did as he asked, mainly because I couldn’t move. A rabbit stuck in the headlights. Frozen with the prospect of what I was about to do. With fear—there was a lot of that. And excitement, arousal, something I didn’t think I’d ever feel again.

It was like I was a teenager on the brink of her first time. Or how they were supposed to feel on their first time.