Firestorm (Sons of Templar MC #2)(60)
“There’s no more discussion. What they did to you, Ames—” Cade paused. “They’re dead.”
I gauged the atmosphere in the room plus the grim looks that had settled back on the men’s faces, grins gone. My gaze settled on Bull’s haunted expression for a beat.
“Okay, first I need to set something straight,” I addressed the room. “I wasn’t raped.”
I let that statement hang in the air and could hardly breathe due to the fact oxygen had been replaced with testosterone. These guys were beyond protective. Not that I could blame them. Gwen had been kidnapped last year by a rival gang, then held at gunpoint while she was in labor. Plus she had to shoot the guy. Before we got on the scene Bull’s old lady had been raped and murdered by the same gang that kidnapped Gwen. Violence on women was a sore spot for these men and something that was not tolerated.
“I know you saw the footage, and I can imagine what it was staged to look like.” I paused, meeting Brock’s hard stare. “But I wasn’t raped. Rafe considers knifeplay to be foreplay and apparently so does Clark. I’m telling the truth when I’m saying that the only thing that touched me was a blade.” I thought back to my gross kiss with Rafe. That didn’t count, I decided. “Although I don’t like to guess what else would have happened if you guys hadn’t arrived.” The same loaded silence followed my declaration before Cade filled it.
“You don’t know how f*ckin’ relieved I am to hear that, Amy,” he said. By the look on his face I could guess. “But that still doesn’t stop the fact they held you for six days,” he continued through gritted teeth. “The fact they cut you up like that—” His voice was a hiss. “Bull’s right. They’re dead.” At that moment, this wasn’t my best friend’s husband speaking. This wasn’t the man who doted over his two-month-old baby girl. No, this was the president of a motorcycle club. A deadly one, at that.
CHAPTER TEN
After Cade’s declaration Hansen had insisted the men leave so he could check me out, despite my protests. When he had suggested Brock wait outside Brock gave him a look that could set concrete and no other word was spoken. He gave me a once over, and after declaring I was slightly dehydrated he was happy to leave me be. I was to be put on iron pills and to expect extreme tiredness for the next few weeks. Great.
He also told me I needed to be horizontal for at least twenty-four hours to help my legs heal, due to the fact my body was too weak to be moving around. I had mentally groaned at this; I had been held captive for a week. I wanted to go and make the most of my newfound freedom, frolic in some meadows, go and buy a Chanel handbag, but it looked like I was stuck for another day at least. Not that the company sucked. Brock had set up camp in the armchair beside my bed. I felt safe with him there no matter how dangerous it was for my heart.
I had wanted to speak to him after the doc’s checkup, my brush with death making some things come into perspective, but exhaustion had overwhelmed me and I drifted off before I could.
I jerked awake, panicking at the darkness and my unfamiliar surroundings. I had dreamed that Rafe found me and was cutting me all over again. I was scared that I dreamed the entire episode with the club and I was still a prisoner. I sat up, a cold sweat settling over me.
“Sparky?” Brock’s voice was alert as he switched on a lamp. I squinted at the harsh light, then let out a breath at the concerned and attractive face that I saw.
His hand cupped my cheek. “Are you okay? Is it your legs? I’ll call Hansen.” He made like he was going to move but I gripped his hand.
“Are you real?” I asked, my voice small.
His face softened and his grip on my neck tightened. “Yeah baby, I’m real.”
“You came to get me,” I said.
His eyes searched mine in the dim light. “I’ll always come and get you, Sparky. No matter where you are you can count on that.”
“I missed you,” I whispered, filling the silence that had descended, my eyes never leaving his.
Brock pressed his forehead to mine. “You have no f*ckin’ idea how much I missed you, Sparky.”
I pressed my lips to his, all of the reasons I had against this disappearing in the moonlight. His response was instantaneous. His grip tightened on my hair as he plundered my mouth; I moaned into him, pouring months of desire into the kiss. His hand moved to my breast and I arched my back, fire burning through me at his touch. My hand gripped his shirt, attempting to yank him down onto the bed on top of me. Abruptly his mouth left mine and I frowned in the dark, restraining myself from letting out a mewl of protest. “Fuck,” he hissed, voice hoarse.
“Yes, that’s exactly what we should do,” I murmured, trying to pull his mouth back to mine.
Brock sighed and gripped both of my hands. “You’re hurt,” he said simply. His mouth was still close to mine and his beard tickled my chin.
“I’m fine,” I argued, deciding to ignore the dull ache in my thighs and focus on the not so dull ache between them. Brock detangled himself from me gently and stood quickly, the sound of the chair scraping echoing in the silent room. I watched his silhouette as he paced by my bed. He came back to stop at my bedside and gently stroked my hair.
“You’re not fine. Jesus, you’re far from fine. The fact that I have to sit here and make sure you’re going to be okay is the only thing stopping me from going out to that sick f*ck’s house and skinning him alive,” he said, voice rough from fury.