Rogue (Dead Man's Ink, #2)(51)

This cannot be happening. It just can’t. “Fuck!”

Cade draws his gun and sets his jaw. He knows what this means, too. Raphael Dela Vega is an unhinged bastard with no sense of self-preservation. He won’t have fled the compound. Not yet. He’s been fixated on one thing and one thing only for a long time now, and he won’t leave here until he’s gotten what he’s been dreaming about.

He has been dreaming about Sophia.





FIFTEEN





SOPHIA





When night falls over the desert, it suddenly feels like the world ceases to exist. Out there, beyond the lights and sounds of the compound, all drunken shouting and the furious roar of motorcycle engines, there’s nothing more than a sea of black ink and an endless void that stretches for as far as my mind can imagine in every direction. No, there are no roads or general stores. No dive bars, and no all-night diners. The compound feels so very isolated and alone. It kind of freaks me out.

My body is still humming from Rebel’s ministrations when I get up and draw the blinds on all the windows. God knows where he’s gone. I didn’t really get a chance to ask him before he fled the cabin, looking very pleased with himself. He knew exactly how cruel he was being when he decided not to stay and have sex with me. Can’t have been pleasant for him, either, but still… the guy is evil.

I’m grinning like a moron as I think this, though. Grinning so hard my face hurts. He’s turned me into some sort of pathetic teenager, which is ironic because I was never like this back then. In high school, I was driven by the need to excel in my schoolwork, and definitely not to pursue the attention of boys. And now here I am, turning my back on my studies in order to be with the most unsuitable person on the face of the planet.

But, in saying that, maybe he’s not the most unsuitable person. If just that one thing about him were different, he would be prime take-home-to-meet-the-parents material. He’s intelligent. He’s a gentleman (for the most part). He was in the army. He went to MIT, for f*ck’s sake. But then the kicker…he’s also the head of a motorcycle gang. What would Mom and Dad say if they knew what I was doing right now? A pang of guilt sideswipes me out of nowhere as I really take on board what they probably believe has happened to me by now.

They have to believe I’ve been murdered.

There isn’t a way in this world they would ever believe I just decided not to come home when given the opportunity. So I mustn’t have had that opportunity. They must think I was stabbed or shot, or worse, that I was raped and beaten to death.

God, I am the worst person on the face of the planet to leave them wondering like this. My heart feels like a lead balloon sitting heavy in my chest as I find new, un-shredded clothes to put on.

I should call them. I should just stop being such a f*cking coward, and I should tell them I’m okay, even if I end up hurting them by not going back to Seattle. Straight away. Not going back to Seattle straight away. I will have to go back at some point. Don’t I? I can’t hide here forever.

The t-shirt I’ve stolen from Rebel’s closet is clean and soft and smells deliciously of him as I pull it over my head. My moral compass starts spinning, then. Why can’t I stay here for a while? At least until everything with Ramirez dies down. I have excellent grades. I could always go back to college next year if I want to. There may even be a college in New Mexico that—

I can’t help but smile as I hear the cabin door creak open. He thought he was such a smart ass when he high-tailed it out of here, leaving me on the floor, needing so much more of him. And now look. He’s back within ten minutes, no doubt ready to teach me a lesson. I get half way through pulling the t-shirt over my head, but then there are hands on my hands, stilling me. I’m half naked, only my head and shoulders covered by the soft, dark material. Something about that is so kinky. I’m essentially blindfolded for all intents and purposes. He could do anything to me and I would never see it coming.

“So,” I say breathlessly. “You changed your mind. Will this be part of my punishment?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

His stubble grazes me across my shoulder blades, my skin immediately turning to goose bumps as he places his lips against the curve of my neck. Slowly, his hands travel from mine down my arms until they’re hovering just above my breasts. I want him to touch me. I want him to touch me so badly. I arch my back pressing my breasts upward, catching my breath in my throat, waiting for him to gently slide his palms downward, following the swell of my body.

However, when he does move his hands down, it’s not gently. He takes hold of my breasts, grabbing with rigid, calloused fingers, and then he squeezes so hard I’m momentarily blinded by the pain.

“Ahhhh! What…what the f*ck? No! Stop!” For a second, through my confusion, I think that this is the real punishment Rebel was talking about and I am frightened. Very, very frightened. And then it hits me. There’s no way Rebel would ever handle my body like that. Like he hates it and he wants to hurt it. I may not have been with him for years and years, I may not know what his favorite color is, or what all of his childhood stories are, but I know he would never do that to me. Never in a million years.

Which means…

Terror is a living, breathing thing, snaking its way through my insides.

Oh, god, no…