Warlord (Anathema Book 1) (41 page)

I expected Thorne
to celebrate. To revel as his enemy’s body bobbed and sunk between the waves.
Unchallenged and restored his rightful glory, Thorne had the vengeance he
wanted, all the power he had lost, and the entire town back under his control.

But he fell to
his knees at my side. Gathered me in his arms. He held me tight.

“Christ, I
thought I lost you.” The break in his voice sliced through me. “You okay?”

I nodded, but he
didn’t let me speak. Thorne lifted me for a kiss and ground his lips against
mine.

“I didn’t care
what happened to me as long as you were okay.” He surveyed my bruises, my cuts
and scrapes, the other man’s leather protecting my chest. “I’m so sorry, Rose. I
swear it, I will
never
let anyone hurt you ever again.”

I rested against
his arms. “I believe you.”

Thorne grinned,
the relief etching away years of agony and regret, hardened obsession and
bloody revenge. He held me tighter.

His embrace was
every honesty I needed.

But even Thorne
couldn’t protect me from himself.

If I have a
soul, it was ripped from me.

If I had a
heart, it bled under the motorcycle that nearly killed Rose.

I already knew I
didn’t have a conscience. I didn’t become president of a 1% motorcycle club by
staking a claim in the moral high ground.

I was a monster.

Dark and twisted
and possessed by a demon that wasn’t sated with the blood of just one man.

An angel tried to
save me. And she nearly did. Within her arms, within her body, I held a grace
and innocence uncorrupted by even the darkest fiends unleashed from hell.

But Rose was miracle
wasted on me.

She was my
anathema. Not a curse. Not something to be exorcized and feared. Not something
wicked or vile or evil that represented the basest aspects of our lives.

An Anathema once
referenced an offering that was worthy, good, and presented to divinity. An
object people would set aside, ban from use, and give as a sacrifice because it
offered the gods something better than the rest of mankind’s worthless and
petty sin.

Rose offered me more
than what I deserved and everything I needed to regain my humanity. And I tried
to sacrifice her. I used her to fuel my own vengeance. To find, conquer, and
eliminate my enemies, without thinking, without realizing a girl like Rose was
worth so much more than bloodshed.

And so I had my
vengeance. And I had my angel. But, like all things anathema, retribution had
consequences, angels lost their songs, and absolution was the greatest myth of
all.

Forgiveness
could be forsaken. Authority and supremacy and uncompromising loyalty were the
only ideals I demanded. I couldn’t ask Rose to forgive me. She never would.

Anathema went
through hell and back, but Pixie welcomed us at the pearly gates. Not enough
whiskey existed in the world to fully celebrate the death of our dearly
departed, so we supplemented with tequila, gin, and beer. The men drank, and
the smart ones didn’t ask any questions. They kept their mouths shut. The first
one that asked where Rose was earned a broken nose, fat lip, and a fist size
portion of common sense.

The truth was I
didn’t know how Rose was. Keep took her to the emergency room and returned with
her doped up on enough Vicodin to keep her sleeping through what needed to be
done.

I never drugged a
woman before. Never needed to. Never wanted to.

Until Rose.
Until I saw her thirty stitches, the bruises peeking from under her torn
clothing, and a fucking pink cast wrapped over her broken wrist.

I didn’t deserve
her.

When I was
finally killed by some lucky bastard searching for street cred, I wouldn’t go
to hell. Eternal existence was too much a spiritual reward. If I went to hell,
I could still think about her. Know she existed at one point in my life. And
even in some fucking convoluted way, my regret would be bittersweet. At least
she loved me enough to be heartbroken when I killed her brother.

So she slept off
the nightmare while the party raged downstairs celebrating my victory. Celebrating
how I nearly lost her to Exorcist. Celebrating how she almost committed suicide
to escape the man I promised to protect her from.

I didn’t deserve
a drink. I deserved to be cut open, slashed hundreds of times only to have the
alcohol poured into each and every gaping wound.

I skipped the
festivities and approached the office. Scotch waited by the door. Patient. He
wiped the blood off his hands with a handkerchief. Seemed unnecessary.

“How is he?”

“He’ll live,”
Scotch said. “Up to you.”

I didn’t answer.
Why did I even ask? Peace of mind? Morbid curiosity? If he died in the back of
Pixie, I wouldn’t have to worry about pulling the trigger. Blame his death on
Exorcist and take the coward’s way out.

But Rose would
ask. Maybe not at first, maybe not at all. But she had her way. Her curiosity.
Her goddamned innocence. And I’d have to tell her the truth. I couldn’t protect
her from everything Anathema. I couldn’t protect her from everything I was. She
knew that.

So why did she
even want to try?

Was she that
suicidal? Or was she that sadistic? She might have had the broken wrist,
bruised ribs, and road rash, but that was the extent of her pain. For me? One
goddamned look would bring me to my knees. And just the thought of her crying
would make me swallow the bullet instead of wasting it on her brother.

I pushed open
the door. Brew looked like shit, but he was breathing. Figured. Rose nearly
died because he was idiot enough to make deals outside of Anathema. He’d die
for all the shit he put Rose through.

Then again, the man
bleeding across from me wasn’t the brother who served me. Guilt was a bitch,
and I earned my fair share. Keep had a pocket full of drugs to distract him from
the truth, but Brew never had that crutch.

I didn’t know
how much time I had to kill him. If I wasn’t careful, he do it himself. Some sort
of fucked up retribution for failing Rose.

I hadn’t
protected her from The Coup. And Exorcist nearly killed her. Brew committing
suicide wouldn’t undo any of the fucked up shit that happened to her. If she
was too afraid to tell her brothers about the abuse because she thought it’d
upset them, losing a brother to his guilt would destroy her.

If nothing else,
I’d protect her from that.

“Time to go,” I
said. “How’s the shoulder?”

Brew would have
shrugged if he hadn’t dug the metal bullet out of his chest. “Hurts.”

“Can you ride?”

“Yeah.” Brew swore
as he stood. The blood-soaked bandages proved him a liar and a son of a bitch,
but at least he wanted to die with dignity. “But then you have to get my bike
to Rose. Don’t put her through that. Take the truck.”

I nodded. Not
like I had to say anything. Brew led me through Pixie. He didn’t ask to say goodbye.
I wouldn’t let him. But he hesitated before hauling himself into the pickup
truck.

“Just tell her
I’m sorry.” He rubbed his face and aged five years. The older he got, the more
he looked like his father. Flecks of gray in his hair, but still too young to
die. “If I had known…”

“Me too.”

He swore as he
got in the truck. The bandages soaked through with fresh crimson. His face
shocked with white. I doubted we would even make it out of the city. I squeezed
the keys in my fist.

“You gonna take
care of her?” Brew didn’t look at me. “Keep can’t even look after himself. She
needs to go to school. Make something of herself. You gonna do that for her?”

“If she lets me.”

“You love her?”

I snorted. The
little siren opened her mouth and blessed me with the music of heaven. She
trusted me. She wanted me. She needed me.

What wasn’t
there to love?

I was a monster,
but I knew when I ruined a good thing. I only hoped I hadn’t ruined her.

“Yeah. I love
her.”

Brew nodded.
Nothing else needed to be said. The silence judged us enough.

Even the sun refused
to rise and fuck with us. Anathema didn’t operate well in broad daylight. This
type of vengeance belonged in the dark, where the betrayal began.

But even
Exorcist’s death didn’t bring me the satisfaction I craved, the respect I
deserved, or the restitution I demanded.

I didn’t kill Exorcist
in victory. I didn’t end his miserable existence as punishment for the hell he
caused, the wars he started, the lives he took, or the club he fractured.

I killed him
before he hurt Rose.

I rode to the
bridge on pure instinct. No images of blood or glory in my mind. No brandished,
idealistic thoughts of finishing the rest of my revenge in hell. The adrenaline
didn’t boil my blood and harden my cock and have me beating my chest in victory
like a conquering warrior.

I pulled the
trigger because I was fucking terrified.

Sweaty palms,
racing heart, heaving stomach, mother-fucking-terrified.

I did what I had
to do, but my pulse still hadn’t returned to normal. Part of me feared I left Rose
on the bridge, broken and tiny. I clutched the steering wheel to prevent my
shaking. Until I laid beside her, until I heard her voice, until I saw her
breathing and verified her injuries were stitched, I would live with terror
eating at my guts. If I waited longer, the fear would erode everything but my heart.

That’d break as
soon as I killed Brew and she cast me from her life.

I had a choice
to make. Decisions beyond life or death.

Rose or
Anathema. Beauty or honor. Loyalty or betrayal.

Driving a man to
his grave gave me a lot of time to think. And I didn’t like what I thought
about. Vengeance conquered most thoughts. It was the purest form of expression.
Insults were answered, wrongs were righted, respect was earned. But what
happened after? What happened when revenge corrupted, and blood was required to
prevent looking like a coward?

We drove out of
the city and into the cornfields beyond the county line. I pulled off a dirt
road and passed on to private farmland. Old, undeveloped land belonging to
friends of the club who paid their taxes, earned a bit of rent, and avoided the
far west corner of their property.

I parked the
truck. Brew moved first.

He didn’t
hesitate, only needed to grip the door of the truck so he didn’t collapse in
the dirt.

I wasn’t
murdering a traitor. I was butchering a cripple.

I followed.
Slowly. The deserted field was no place to end the life of a man who’d been a
longtime friend, brother, and, despite his failings, respected member of
Anathema. Rocks would mark his grave, dirt would absorb the blood, and, in
time, only crumbling bones would even designate the location where sick justice
was served. Rose wouldn’t even get to say goodbye.

Or maybe she
would.

Brew was the one
who swore. Kicked a rock. Slammed a fist against the truck then shouted as his
wound tore open. The bike roared over the dirt road, and both riders were
jostled from the abrupt stop before the truck. Keep tossed his helmet away. I
couldn’t watch as Rose limped into the arms of her brother and cried.

“She took your
bike.” Keep apologized to Brew. “I hopped on before she killed herself.”

“Jesus Christ.”
Brew hugged her tight. “What did I tell you about stealing fucking bikes?”

Wasn’t it enough
that I had to be the villain? That it was my responsibility to put Brew down
for his betrayal? That his little sister happened to be the woman I loved?

Why did the diva
come to witness this? No baby bunny eyes or pink fuzzy pajama bottoms could
prevent what needed to be done. What had to be done.

Even Keep
understood. He pulled Rose away, but she fought him off, gasping as he
accidentally gripped her cast. He flinched away from her with an apology. That
was all the opening she needed.