Dauntless (Sons of Templar MC #5)(57)

I thought back to the little girl on the swing set. Then the little girl I was eleven years ago. I didn’t save them, but at least I avenged them.

The numbness started to recede and the reality of what just happened set in.

I’d killed someone.

The blood in my veins sped through my body hotter than before, my heart thumping and pushing it through at record speed.

Gabriel whirled me around so his hand circled my neck. “You’re not damned,” he growled, his eyes wild.

“I am,” I argued, my voice hoarse. “Or at least I will be, after I do this.”

“What?”

I didn’t tell him what. I showed him. I yanked his head closer to mine and crashed our mouths together. I knew Frenching your kind-of boyfriend after killing a man wasn’t exactly a sane move, but I had to. The blood and adrenaline flowing through me needed an outlet.

I expected him to pull back, but my body burned when he yanked me closer, his fingers diving into my hair and tugging at the strands.

“Fuck,” he growled, pulling my head back so my eyes met his wild ones. “If this is f*ckin’ damnation then I hope to never find redemption.” And then his mouth was back on mine, slamming me back into an icy concrete wall. The impact scratched my arms but I barely noticed. Cold wasn’t something I even registered.

Because I was hot. Burning.

Gabriel’s touch was setting me aflame.

His hands moved roughly to yank my tank top off. I held my arms above my head obediently, knowing where this was going. Loving where this was going.

But he surprised me. The tank top fluttered to the floor and he clutched my neck.

“No, baby,” he rasped. “Not tying you up, leavin’ you helpless to me. You’re not that. You’re never f*ckin’ that. I need to feel those warrior hands on me. Those fighting nails on my f*ckin’ back as I f*ck you so hard you forget everything but us. But me.”

My breathing quickened. I’d been f*cked up in my sexual preferences for as long as I could remember so that’s why I’d responded to how Gabriel did it. Did me. More than responded. I’d just never thought he’d turn me on beyond anything by demanding this.

Normality.

Apart from the dead body in the corner.

But this was as close as we’d get.

And I loved it.

He claimed my mouth again before kissing down my neck, paying attention to my nipples. Then he moved down with deliberate slowness. Gentleness.

His hands that knew fury, brutality, and murder gently undid my jeans, like such an act was a blessing, an honor. Then his mouth fastened between my legs, working me to the edge of the earth.

To the edge of life.

Then he brought me back.

In more ways than one.



Something changed after that. Something integral, pivotal, between us. You couldn’t kill someone together and go back to hearts and flowers.

Not that we ever were that.

You’d expect doing such a thing would create distance, a yawning chasm of guilt and sin. It was the opposite.

We hadn’t spoken after, apart from Gabriel informing me someone would ‘take care’ of the body as I dressed myself. I stood on shaky legs. Not from the act that had blood staining the concrete floor, but from the act that Gabriel had performed on me against that same floor.

I trusted him to have it taken care of and take care of me, so I didn’t end up facing the rest of my life behind bars.

He’d never let that happen.

I was sure of that.

We rode back in the dark, the air biting against my skin, prickling it with its chill. I embraced the cold. And the warmth of Gabriel’s back, and the hand that covered mine for most of the ride.

We went back to his place. It wasn’t a question.

Then we made love.

I f*cking hated myself for that description, but that’s what it was. There were no handcuffs, no commands, no fury. Just us. Slow. Devastatingly so.

And afterwards we’d talked. Like really talked. About everything. And nothing.

I gave him everything I could, more than anyone had ever gotten. More than I thought I had to give.

It happened after chocolate chip pancakes with Gabriel not wearing a stitch of clothing and me wearing nothing but his tee.

“Your mom,” I said quietly, staring at the pancakes. The ones she taught him how to make. I glanced up to regard him over his kitchen counter. His eyes shuttered immediately. “Is she still…?”

“Alive?” he finished for me, his voice brisk.

I nodded.

His face was blank as he leaned forward and rested his elbows against the countertop. “Yeah. She’s alive. Still in the same house. Doing the same job. Holdin’ on to those same demons.” He shrugged. “I don’t like it. In fact, I hate that she still ignores the man I am because of the boy I was.” He didn’t betray an ounce of emotion, which was weird—heartbreaking, in fact. Because he couldn’t contain it when he witnessed my shit. When he met my demons. But his face was emotionless in the face of his. Even when he’d told me about his sisters, he hadn’t feared the memory, flinched at it. In the face of it all, he was dauntless.

“I don’t like it, but I understand it,” he continued. “My mom had two men in her life who let her down. My dad and me. Stole her daughters from her.”