Warlord (Anathema Book 1) (15 page)

I hadn’t the
strength, awareness, or breath to fight, but I knew to cry. Thick tears caught
in my eyelashes, and I stuttered over a hiccupping sob as he kicked open the club’s
door and pitched me into a windowless van.

My weak shout
squeaked as a pained gasp. Not that screaming would have helped. My captor
slammed the doors. His scar glowed in the dim light, shining like the threat of
a rabid animal lurking beyond the darkness. Even when he thrust the bag over my
head and tightened it with rope coiled around my throat, I felt his clouded
leer peering over my broken form.

“Sit down and
keep quiet.” He shoved me against the cold metal. They stripped the van of the seats,
leaving only bare floors and enough room for Scarred to twist my legs where he
wanted them. My dress kicked up in my fight. He slapped my exposed thigh. “I
said shut your whore mouth!”

Absolutely not.
I kicked again, missing where I hoped to hit but knocking the air from his gut.
Scarred coughed, and I braced for the return strike. The van squealed to a stop
instead.

“Enough.” The
hardened voice bore an authority that constricted my last bit of air and stopped
the creeping fingers of Scarred from edging closer to the elastic of my panties.
“Back the fuck off her. She’s already fucking bleeding everywhere.”

“You saw her. She
fought me.”

“Pull her damn
dress down before I cut off your balls.”

“Drive the fucking
van.”

“Let her go.”

Scarred shoved
me away. A sharp edge of metal tore across my shoulder, but I didn’t care. I
scrambled toward the commanding voice and braced myself against the driver’s
seat. My fingers curled over something heavy. A weapon I couldn’t reach or wield.
The wrench might have been perfect to bash against the head of the pervert who
wanted to touch me, but I doubted I’d have the opportunity to crack the vulgar
intentions from his head.

“Not gonna hurt
her, Luke. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

“Or hers.”

My captor
chuckled. The sound rasped sharp and ugly over the Journey song whining from
the radio. “We’ll see what Ex says.”

“He’s not here.”

“Getting a
little carried away with that VP patch, aren’t you?”

Luke gunned the
accelerator, and the van roared against the road. He didn’t answer Scarred. I
didn’t expect him to. The authority in his voice. The raw confidence.

He sounded
familiar. Like my brothers.

Like Thorne.

I huddled in the
corner with a swirling head, curdling stomach, and aching ribs, but the
sincerity and sanity in Luke’s words soothed me more than any ice pack or safe
haven he might have offered. It wasn’t often anything made sense within the MC
world of sin and depravity and savagery, but even the worst of the animals
operated under a code of rules, regulations, and rankings. Luke wove power. Not
as much as Thorne, but the club respected him like Keep and Brew.

That I
understood.

But I didn’t
like it. The nausea pitting my stomach churned against the betrayal. Maybe the
other members of Anathema, the ones with motor oil in their veins and leather
patched into their skin, could love my brothers, but not me. I’d never trust
them again. Not after they forced me into the club, traded me to their
president, and then let their enemy steal me from my gig.

Not just my gig.
My
life
. Brew and Keep corrupted everything they touched. My work, my
apartment, and now my first shot at escaping the world where I needed a pocket
full of drugs to tolerate society and an illegal handgun to protect me from
humanity. Keep and Brew did nothing but complicate my life and endanger the
family.

Hell, Keep
didn’t even
make
it to the gig. I didn’t know where Keep was or why it
was Thorne of all people who burst from his seat to shut down the man mocking
my music. After tonight, I couldn’t imagine either of my brothers doing
anything good for me.

They didn’t
protect me now.

And they hadn’t
protected me then.

They didn’t even
know
. Didn’t even bother to look and see and wonder and
ask
about
what was happening to me.

They didn’t stop
him, but, even if they knew, would they have saved me?

The van rumbled
against the highway. I welcomed the hard grind of the old suspension against
the rough patches of the road. My arms wrenched behind me, and the bag covered
my face. At least my scarred captor and my savior, Luke, didn’t see me cry.

Not for being
kidnapped. Not for what horrible, depraved terrors awaited me.

I lived my
teenage life in fear—dreading what Dad would do when the alcohol confused him,
angered him, encouraged him. And I lived my life in unrepentant hope. Maybe one
day he wouldn’t wake up when he blacked out. Maybe the district attorney would
press for a life sentence. Maybe I could escape the world and finally take that
one
shower that would make me feel clean and pink and rejuvenated for my
admission back into a realm of law, love, and security.

The only hope I
carried now was the desperation for the one thing I hated. The roar of
motorcycles. The sharp popping of silenced guns. The wild, leather, and
wilderness scent of Thorne as he grabbed me from the van and returned me to the
only place in the world I feared I’d ever feel safe again. The heart of Pixie. Where
no one—not the law, not Exorcist—ever dared to invade.

The van doubled
back twice. My stomach lurched with every U-turn, hard left, and rapid
acceleration as we ducked streets and dodged highway exits. After nearly half
an hour, Luke parked us in a rowdy neighborhood, snapping with music, backfiring
trucks, and the humming of busted streetlights. I tensed as Scarred encroached.
The scrape of a hunting knife rattled from its sheath just under my chin.

“Scream, and
I’ll cut out your tongue.” Scarred leaned in too close and inhaled too deeply. “Then
you won’t be singing so pretty.”

I nodded, but he
didn’t care. Scarred gripped the rope around my neck and jerked me forward. I
choked over the tightness and groaned as my foot slammed a rusted bit of metal poking
out in the van. My captor didn’t like that. He tossed me onto the damp cement
with a profanity. Luke’s shout prevented Scarred’s kick from crushing the ribs
that weren’t already bruised. I heaved but kept the sickness down.

“Jesus Christ,
you’re going to kill her.” Luke picked me up from the sidewalk. I kicked, but
he hauled me into his arms.

I tensed as he
shouldered through a door. His steps echoed against a cement floor. Overhead,
rows of florescent lights hummed an ominous welcome. He set me down on a bundle
of scratchy blankets. The rope. The blankets. The storage van. It was like the
supplies for a moving company.

I didn’t know if
that thought made me feel any better. Having a sense of the psychos who
captured me was one thing. But the possibilities. The trucks and vans, bindings
and wrappings, access to the town and empty buildings. Exorcist could chop me
into little bitty pieces and Thorne, Brew, and Keep would find parts of me for
years.

I didn’t mean to
tremble, but I shook so hard my teeth chattered. Kinder fingers wove under the
rope. The rancid bag over my head, the isolation and confusion, and the pain
everywhere overwhelmed me. I fought with and against Luke, and he eased me down
as he untangled the bag.

Luke tucked his
blonde hair behind his ears. His cut fit over broad shoulders, displaying the
same design, shape, and symbols as my brothers’. The Vice-President patch
didn’t feel right. Neither did his handle.
Knight
. Though he unraveled
the rope from my neck only to bind my wrists, Luke was more Lancelot than Mordred.
His expression hardened, but I didn’t flinch when he raised a hand. He pointed
at me.

“Don’t do
anything stupid, and I might keep you alive through the night.”

His warnings
practically shadowed Thorne’s voice. I nodded. The scuffling of leather and
metal clink of boots forged a horrific symphony in my ears. I twisted from the
unstable beat of their pounded steps and chanced a glance at the men who not
only destroyed my family’s club but worked to kill those who remained after
their uprising.

Many bikers
desired a shroud of evil for their own reputations and acknowledgement of their
lawless bravery. Exorcist pummeled those demons from lesser men, freed them
from their mortal prison, and welcomed every rampaging monster of hatred, anguish,
and torment to blacken his own soul.

I only met him
once, and even my father warned me to stay away.

Dad wasn’t here
now. It might have been the only time I missed him.

“Rose.” Ex sang
my name, a minor key that corroded my bones in shivers. “You’re bleeding.”

The hulking man
didn’t care. After so many baptisms in blood, he was probably immune to the
pain of others. I tilted my head to meet his gaze, though only an
uncompromising rage stared back. Black. Dark. Calculating. Age hadn’t slowed
his ambition or his hate. Graying hair only meant he had survived. He still
stood tall and broad, but he didn’t need to raise his own fists. Enough leering
minions lingered in the halls of the empty shop and within the greasy,
exhaust-pooling garage. Ex relied on his command to do his bidding.

Except he spoke
to me himself.

Had his men
kidnap me and knock me to my knees before him.

He knew my name.
He knew my family. He knew everything.

And I knew
absolutely nothing about him.

“I want to go home,”
I said.

He smiled,
surprisingly compassionate and warm, in the way only a true sociopath grinned.

“You aren’t
living at home anymore. You’re staying at Pixie now.”

“Then I want to
go there. I don’t know what you think, but I have nothing to do with Anathema.”

“And that’s why
I wanted you.”

I didn’t dare
look away. “Wanted me for what?”

“A favor.”

“No.”

Ex tilted his
head. “You aren’t in a position to compromise.”

“I saw the type
of favor your club wants.” I scowled as I stared at my scarred kidnapper. “I refused
him. I’ll refuse you.”

Scarred didn’t
like that. He swore, but Ex shook his head. I stilled my breath as he crossed
before me. He knelt down and reached under his vest. I braced myself for a gun.

Instead, he
handed me a picture.

An old photo. Something
yellowing and folded, covered in grease and handled too many times. He pressed
it into my hand.

“Go ahead.” His
voice gentled. “Take it. It’s yours.”

My fingers
trembled against the once glossy paper. I didn’t trust tearing my eyes from Ex,
but I fought to drop my gaze to the photo. The folded parts stuck together, and
I had to force the halves apart. I frowned.

Someone had just
glued the edges together.

My stomach
heaved.

It
wasn’t
glue.

And it wasn’t a
picture anyone, ever, should have seen.

I dropped the
twisted memory to the ground, but the flash of my dark hair, baby-smooth skin,
and my uncertain smile faced upwards. I stomped on the picture and flipped it
over before anyone saw the disgusting image or the vile message dripping from
the photo.

My voice
wavered, just as scared as the five year old in the picture. “How do you have
that?”

“My secret.”

Exorcist picked
up the photo and held it next to my face. I flushed. The men snickered. Luke
set his jaw. Looked away.

“You’ve grown
up, Rose,” Ex said. “Just as beautiful. Not as delicate, and far more....mature.”

“What do you
want with me?”

“Would you like
to take a picture to match?  Before and after?”

I shook my head
if only to clear away my mercifully fading vision.

“Should I just
order the hit on your brothers then?”

A sob escaped my
throat. “No.”

He slapped my
cheek, hard, stealing my breath and knocking me to the ground. “You’re going to
do me a favor. In return...” He folded the picture into his pocket. “No one has
to know what Daddy did.”

I didn’t rub
where he struck me. My lip immediately puffed, but I worried more for the
searing pain in my cheek. I’d bruise, and I’d be lucky if that was my only
injury.

“Blade was
important to Anathema. He fostered some very influential relationships that were
useful to the club and our businesses. Do you know what those relationships
were?”

I swallowed, but
I tasted blood. A cut on the inside of my mouth.

“Drugs. Dad
handled the drug trade.”

“Right. You’re
not as far removed from Anathema as you pretend.”

“I want nothing
to do with the club.”

“That’s too bad,
shortcake. You’re mine.”