Kings of Chaos (Dirty Broken Savages #1)(63)

So I hobble my way upstairs to my room, wincing a little as I take the steps on my tender ankle.

It’s late afternoon now, going on early evening, and I feel like every hour of the day since I left the house this morning is weighing on me.

I strip out of my sweaty, dirty clothes and leave them in a pile on the bathroom floor before getting in the shower.

My body aches, and I feel beat the hell up.

I’ve got cuts and bruises from the fight, and my back is sore from where that one asshole shoved me into the brick wall. The hot water makes it all worse for a little bit, until it manages to settle the pain into a dull ache rather than several sharp stings.

My ankle is swollen and sore, but I can tell from putting weight on it that it’s not broken, just sprained.

I wash off the blood and grime, watching it all swirl away down the drain while my thoughts swirl through my head. I can feel the soreness and exhaustion from the day, but on top of that is a deep, relentless confusion that eats away at me. I was fully expecting to die today.

Those cartel thugs could have killed me in that alley without a second thought.

They would have.

But they didn’t get the chance to… because Priest saved me.

Priest, who has never been shy about letting me know how much he hates me since the second I showed up in their lives. Of all of the men, I would have most expected him to just stand back and let it happen, so he could finally be rid of me like he always seems to want.

But he didn’t.

For some reason, he was already there when I needed help. He must’ve followed me to the restaurant before I was even in trouble, or there’s no way he would’ve gotten to the alley in time to take the cartel members down.

Why?

What the fuck does that mean?

I go around and around in circles with it, trying to figure out some motive or hint as to why on earth he’d do that. I can’t make heads or tails of it.

There are all kinds of reasons he might have done it, but none of them are clear to me. None of them making any fucking sense.

Usually, I can make pretty accurate guesses about people’s motives and why they do the shit they do. Not being able to do the same with Priest makes me feel unsettled and unhappy about it.

He’s like a closed book, a block of ice. Anything he might be feeling, other than the occasional spike of anger, is kept locked up tight, and there’s no way to see through the mask he wears to find out what’s going on with him.

I finish cleaning up and get out of the shower, drying off and throwing on a pair of panties and a big t-shirt to sleep in.

Slumping down onto the bed feels good, especially considering there was a moment there where I didn’t think I’d ever get to lie in a bed again.

My body sinks into the mattress, and I close my eyes, trying to let the tiredness take over.

It’s impossible, though. My muscles, my limbs, and my sore ankle all seem grateful for the rest, but my brain won’t stop turning long enough to let me drift off.

I roll over onto my side and let out slow, calming breaths, trying to slow the churn of my thoughts and the agitation that creeps under my skin.

It doesn’t help.

My eyes pop open, and I stare at the slightly open bathroom door in the dusky light coming in from the window.

I just can’t lie still, and the restless energy isn’t going to go away, clearly.

“Goddammit,” I swear under my breath, getting up and stretching. It already doesn’t hurt as bad to walk on my ankle, so I open the door to my room and head downstairs.

It’s late enough in the evening now that I don’t see any of the guys. Gage is probably at the club, and Ash is probably off somewhere getting his dick sucked.

I think about checking to see if Knox is downstairs with anyone, but when I walk in that direction, I catch the sound of music floating down the hall. It’s piano music, haunting and beautiful, and I follow the sound to the room I found the other day with the baby grand in it.

The door is open just a crack, and I ease it open even more so I can peer inside. At least that’ll be one question answered tonight—which of the guys is the one who can play piano.

I can’t tell if I’m surprised or not to see Priest sitting on the low bench, fingers moving over the keys with practiced ease.

He seems the least likely of the men to be able to have such beautiful music inside him, but he’s also the one I know the least about. The one who’s been the best at shutting me out and keeping me at arm’s length, no matter how much I try to rile him up.

There’s a look on his face that’s not quite peace, but it’s not the empty blankness I’m used to, or the open hostility. It’s neutral, but naturally so because he’s so caught up in the music, I guess.

I step the rest of the way into the room, and even though his fingers don’t stop moving over the keys, I know he knows I’m there. Neither of us speak, though, and he keeps on playing.

I watch and listen in silence, letting the music and its soothing tone ease the twisting and turning of my brain.

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a musician,” I say after a bit, wondering if he’ll tell me to get out or lash out at me.

He doesn’t do either.

His shoulders tense, but he doesn’t look away from the piano, doesn’t still his fingers as they dance across the keys. Priest plays on like I’m not even there, ignoring me entirely.