Warlord (Anathema Book 1) (10 page)

“We did. Majority
rules.”

“You’re all
insane,” I said. “Good God, no wonder Mom was always high. It’s the only way
anyone can handle this.”

“Hey,” Keep snapped.
“Leave Mom out of this.”

“Right.” My eyes
fell to his arms and the bruised tracks near his elbow. “I know how sensitive a
topic it must be.”

Brew ignored me.
“Pack a bag. We’ll keep you in hiding until this all blows over.”

The cell
practically burned my hand. I groaned. “I can’t go into hiding. I just got a
callback. They want me to play at Club Sanctuary.”

Keep grinned, but
the expression faltered as Brew shook his head.

“That club is on
the other side of the river. No way.”

Now he declared
war. My insides chilled, shattered, and impaled me on every last bit of ice
flushing through my veins.

“You can’t stop
me from doing this,” I whispered. “You aren’t that cruel.”

Brew rubbed his
face. “You aren’t listening—”

“How could you
do this to me!”

“You have no
idea what trouble you might have caused.”

“This is the
only
thing I’ve ever wanted!  Since I was a little girl!”

“It’s just one
gig. There will be more.”

“Not if I flake
out on this!  This is my reputation we’re talking about.”

“There’s more to
life than music.”

“You sound just
like Dad.”

“Good.”

“It wasn’t a
compliment.”

Brew pointed a
thick finger in my face. “You better resolve whatever problem you have with Dad,
because I’m tired of it. He did everything for this family, and he’s still
protecting us, even behind bars.”

“Dad never
protected me.”

“Do you want to
die?  Is that it?” Brew’s words cut like a profanity. “You’re in trouble, Bud. You
fucked up. You went where you weren’t supposed to and blundered into the war. Suck
it up and listen to me. I’m trying to help you before your brains get
splattered all over the goddamned town as a message.”

For as dearly as
I loved my brother, there were times I didn’t like him much. Keep took my hand
and squeezed.

“We’re just
keeping you safe,” Keep said. “We’ll have fun. I’ll let you reprogram Pixie’s
jukebox.”

My shoulders
shrugged, a weak surrender. Brew swore as he stalked to my bedroom. I followed,
tripping over shoes as he turned with a darkening glare. “I won’t even ask why
your bag is already fucking packed.”

I swallowed. “At
least I’m ready to go?”

“Finish.”

“I will…as long
as you promise you’ll let me go to the gig. It’s only for two hours. I swear,
you can tie me up and leave me in the supply closet the rest of the time. Just
please let me do this.”

I stuffed the
last bit of my clothes in the suitcase and yelped as Brew stole the bags from
my hands. He headed for the door, and I nipped at his heels.

“It’s just for
one night!”

“It’s not up to
us,” he said.

“What do you
mean it isn’t up to you?”

Keep rummaged in
my fridge and downed a can of pop. I much preferred him drinking Coke to the
alternatives.

He crushed the
can in his hand. The crackling echoed like snapping bones. “Thorne decided
he’ll be the one to keep an eye on you.”

I dropped my
purse. “Thorne?”

Keep nodded
once.

“You can’t be
serious.”

“Sorry, Bud.”

“But what does
he want with me?”

Keep couldn’t
meet my eye. “He said he’d keep you safe.”

“Why can’t you
keep me safe?”

“That wasn’t his
motion.”

“Oh, Christ,
Keep.” I shifted away, nearly collapsing on the couch. “What’s he want in
return for protecting me?”

Neither of my
brothers spoke. The silence sizzled, broken only by my ruptured breathing.

“You wouldn’t
let him,” I whispered. “If he tried, you wouldn’t let him. Right?”

“He won’t hurt
you,” Brew said.

I shivered. “Don’t
do this.”

“He’s offering,
you can’t refuse, let’s just go.”

I shook my head,
digging my fingers into the couch. “Don’t you dare make me.”

Keep tried to
mediate. He failed. “He’s not going to do anything that would hurt the club.”

“What about
hurting me?” My words pinched into a whimper. “You wouldn’t whore out your own
sister.”

Brew picked up
my bags. “Let’s go.”

“How could you?”

“Now, Rose.”


I don’t
believe you
.”

He didn’t meet
my eyes. “Don’t make me carry you too. I’ll toss your ass in the trunk with the
luggage.”

I seized a
desperate breath. The last taste of my freedom, and I hyperventilated over it. I
trusted my brothers. I loved them. And even if I feared them, I dreaded what
might happen to them so deep inside the club. I never thought they’d hurt me.

I never thought
they’d let something like this happen.

That they could be
so cruel.

As cruel as him.

“If you make
me...” The words silenced themselves. “I will never forgive you.”

Keep picked up
my purse and strung it over my shoulder. He wrapped an arm around my waist.

“It’s for your
protection.” Keep pulled me to the door. “Come on. He’s waiting.”

I had prayed for
protection for so long, the words practically carved within my soul. I just
never thought I’d need to be protected again.

Not since Dad
went away. Not since I forgot that nightmare. The fears flooded back to me.

Terrified of my
own brothers. Of a mistake I didn’t know I made. Of a life I had no choice to
live.

And now?

It was right to
fear the man offering to protect me.

But how
frightening was what he protected me from?

 

 

 

Thorne Radek
murdered three men before he turned twenty.

He also broke
his arm playing kickball with my brothers when they were ten.

He ruled Anathema
like a warlord laying siege to a rebellious village, leaning into the sharpened
blade when Exorcist announced the creation of The Coup with his dagger at
Thorne’s neck.

And my mother had
loved him like another son.

The worst part
about Anathema’s dedication to family was how intertwined the MC was within my
own. I knew things I shouldn’t, I kept quiet when I should have screamed, and I
accidentally lived outside the law because that was my life.

The presents
under the Christmas tree were stolen from other children. I rode my bicycle to
the club dealer to help poison my mother. My dollhouse hid ammo. My vocal
instructor taught me because it was cheaper than buying four new tires after
ducking a rehearsal.

The men in my
family twisted in crime, ruled a part of the city most people didn’t know
existed, and feared only the day they took their last ride. They didn’t believe
in hell or conformity. Brotherhood was everything.

The men I
trusted most I also feared. And the man who created us, who was supposed to
love and protect us, reveled in his sin. But he lived behind bars confident I’d
never reveal just why I wept in joy at his arraignment.

But some things
were more terrifying than my father.

Anathema was the
ultimate terror.

And my brothers
delivered me to its leader.

They escorted me
to Pixie in formation. Keep leading, Brew tailing, and my car caught in the
middle of their rumbling engines, composing its own dirge with humming tires
and the roaring heraldry of Anathema. Just how they preferred. They tuned their
bikes loud enough to echo the streets with their presence. The rest of the
world noticed, recognized their rockers, and then pretended they hadn’t felt
the vibrations through their feet.

I didn’t have
that luxury.

And I knew what
awaited me at the end of our makeshift procession.

Two prospects unlocked
the gates behind Pixie. They open carried, each wielding one visible gun. They
probably packed more. But when Dad was VP, they didn’t have the barbed wire
fence bordering their parking lot. Or the active guards. They bought security
cameras—most businesses in the area used them—but the motion sensors and lights
were new.

Keep mentioned
thousands of dollars of upgrades to the bar and warehouse. Additional security
measures. My brothers forbid me from frequenting Pixie because they feared what
would happen when Exorcist outgrew his hole across the river. The block would
transform from shady industrial district to Syria in one gunshot. Pixie’d be
reduced to smoldering rubble, and Anathema would declare World War Three.

So why did they
force me to the front lines?

I kept my mouth
shut. My brothers didn’t deserve a single word from me—even if it was to curse them
with every expression they taught me as a child. They crowded me into the bar,
and Keep stashed my bags in his office. I matched their scowls. If nothing
else, the Darnell family was easy to read.

Brew pointed. “This
way.”

I remembered the
bar. The narrow steps upstairs led to old hotel rooms from the fifties—the ones
with flowered wallpaper, twin beds, and powder blue porcelain in the bathrooms.
Keep undertook some modern renovations and designed some practical, but
charming, rooms. He offered the lodging to the officers.

I guess that
included me.

Except I didn’t
get my own room.

Brew and Keep
knocked on the suite at the end of the hall. They pressed me before them, each
one hovering over one of my arms. They might have meant to protect me. It felt
like they’d be there to hold me down.

They delivered
me into the bedroom of a known murderer.

My feet stilled
at the door’s threshold. Brew didn’t care. He nudged me forward, grabbing my
arm and shaking me to stillness before I stumbled into the room. He held my
elbow a little too tight.

I ignored it.

I had to.

Everything below
my trembling lip went numb.

Thorne waited
for me.

He sat at a
carved table, his shadow darkening more than just the reach of night. His phone
conversation ended, and he tossed the cell on the table. Next to a .45 millimeter
handgun.

Thorne didn’t
need weapons to intimidate me. He didn’t need to sit in silence and watch as my
brothers presented me to the true anathema like a sacrificial lamb. He stared
at me with eyes as gray as gunmetal and as dark as the intent of each bullet.

I wasn’t a fool
or a coward. I knew when it was appropriate to be frightened. It wasn’t
weakness. Fearing Thorne was survival instinct. A man like him expected people
to cower.

Someone who
showed no fear wouldn’t be awarded his mercy.

I adopted the
guitar as my preferred instrument. Thorne chose a gun. I might have played my
fingers to callouses, spent years in dedicated study, and practiced music as if
it were my only salvation from the wickedness of the world, but one of us was
more proficient with their instrument. I only hoped he wouldn’t demonstrate his
skill.

Thorne studied my
body. An appraisal head to toe. He scrutinized every part of me, from the
wayward curls slipping from behind my ear to the dark wisp of my skirt drifting
over my skin.

I’d have been
insulted if I hadn’t done the same to him.

I knew many
hardened men. Most of Anathema, especially the younger generation with time
served, kept themselves in peak physical form. Thorne was no exception. A black
tee shirt bulged over the muscles under the material. The leather cut strapped
over his barrel chest, almost as if the vest restrained the power simmering
beneath the patches. Like my brothers, his cut shared the emblem of the scarred
demon, the sprawled lettering of Anathema, and the charter’s location.

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