He … you killed your vice president.
My own words echo loudly in my head as I think about that. I said it; he didn't deny it. He didn't deny it.
I grab a wineglass and slosh some Chardonnay into it, not caring that it splashes over the edge and onto the counter. When I lift it to my lips, I drink the whole thing in one go.
Chills climb down my spine, dragging goose bumps up on my arms. I bite the end of my robe's sleeve and close my eyes, trying to get ahold of my emotions. Royal and I … we have a connection, something I've never felt before. It's new and different and powerful enough that when I think really hard about it, I get a little dizzy. I knew things couldn't work between us before, but that was on a logical level.
Now, I'm feeling everything in my gut.
"Shit." I set my wineglass down and run my fingers through my wet hair. Trying to find Royal, trying to talk to him right now, would probably be a big mistake on my part. Besides, what am I going to do? Walk up to him and ask if he really did kill his vice president? And then ask if he's in love with me, even though he shouldn't be because it's too soon and it's too wrong and it'd never work?
Royal isn't going to tell me anything about anything anymore, and sticking my nose even further into club business is not a good idea. Whatever happened to his previous VP, I can't do anything about it. Not a damn thing. What I need to do is get a good's night sleep, wake up tomorrow and head into the office. It might be Saturday but as my dad always says, politics don't rest on the weekends.
My heart hurts and my conscience throbs with guilt, but if I've ever been good at anything, it's carrying on and pretending things are okay when they aren't.
I pick my wine up, grab my Kindle from my desk drawer and head into my bedroom. By the time I climb under the blankets, there are already tears streaking down my face again. Doesn't matter. I'll let them fall and in the morning, it'll be like they were never there. I'll get up, get dressed and go about my day like normal. Right now, I need to play my part, fill my lot in life the best way I know how, the way I've always done.
Because this, right here, is all I'll ever have.
Sometime later, after I've finally managed to get to sleep, I hear the front door open, my eyes flying wide, my stomach twisting with fear. I forgot to lock the front door after Royal left. I was so caught up in everything that'd just happened that it didn't even occur to me. You piss off the president of an outlaw motorcycle club off and you forget to lock the door?! Not that it would matter, would it? If the Alpha Wolves needed to come into my house, I imagine that a deadbolt and a chain wouldn't stop them.
I fling my feet out of bed and reach into my bedside table for the gun my dad helped me pick out on my eighteenth birthday, the day I moved out of his house and into my first place. It's not loaded, but there is a full magazine in the drawer on the other side of my bed. Without any kids around, I figured this setup was safe enough to prevent accidents but handy enough to use if I really needed it.
Right now, with the slow beat of footsteps moving down my hallway, I'm not so sure.
I roll back across the bed and wrench open the drawer, grabbing the magazine and sliding it into the base of the Glock. I feel ridiculous doing it, but at least I do know how to handle myself properly. Having a hardcore republican father that worships the second amendment can be a good or a bad thing depending on how you look at it. Honestly, the shooting range used to be my favorite place as a teen. It was pretty much the only time my dad looked at me like a human being, spoke to me like an adult and trusted me to make my own decisions.
I stand up, turning to face the door and switching the safety off. My eyes scan around for my phone, but I can't remember where I left it. It's probably dead anyway since I didn't bother to charge it.
I take a deep breath, tensing up as the footsteps near my bedroom door and then pause. It swings inward and then … there's Royal, standing there in the shadows of my bedroom, his tall, wide frame easily recognizable even in the dark.
It takes him a moment to spy me, standing there in the corner with my gun raised.
"You going to shoot me, Pint-Size?" he asks, but there's no humor in his voice at all, just an empty coldness that does nothing to make me want to put the gun down. I take a few steps closer to him, my heart pounding in my chest. He came back to see me? Why? I hate that I even have to wonder if he's here to hurt me.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, edging my way closer. When I hit the end of the bed, he closes the distance between us, coming up on me fast. The smell of leather and motor oil surrounds him, but so does something else. Is that … blood? I swallow hard as he presses his chest into the muzzle of the gun, leather vest crinkling.
"Well?" he asks, his voice subdued and his breathing heavy. "You've already knocked a few holes in my heart, so why not make it bloody official?"
"Are you … " I begin as my eyes adjust to the darkness and I see that he's wearing that vest and nothing else on top. A faint metallic whiff burns my nose as I try to look and see if he's hurt. Of course, if my sleep addled brain was thinking clearly, my first thought wouldn't be to wonder if he was the one that was hurting. "Is that blood that I smell?"
Royal knocks my dominant hand aside and grabs my wrist, squeezing hard until the gun falls from my fingers and hits the floor. Before I can even think to scream or fight, he's dragging me to him, crushing my body up against his.
Our mouths meet with a violent clash, his right arm encircling my waist so tightly I feel like I'll never be able to catch my breath again. For a split second there, I almost push him away, demand that we talk about everything that's happened, what I've done, what he's done, but then Royal's tongue dives deep and the urge is gone, replaced with something more primal.
My body relaxes into his grip as he angles us back towards the bed and then pushes me down, climbing on top of me, denting the mattress, his lips and teeth at my throat, his hands roaming under my robe and finding my breasts.
I cry out at his rough grip, at his frenzied kisses, at the harsh way he handles me. Something's not right, I know that, but I can't stop.
"Royal," I groan, loving the way his name slips from my lips, gasping and threading my fingers through his hair as his teeth find my nipple. He bites and nips and kisses his way down, shoving my robe out of his way until he finds my already throbbing clit, the stubble on his face scraping against the sensitive skin of my inner thighs.
"Fuck," he growls, like he knows he shouldn't be here, like this is a big mistake that he can't stop myself him from making. "Fucking fuck." Royal shoves his fingers into my wet cunt without mercy, knuckles slamming against me as I bite my lower lip and buck my hips, struggling against the sudden invasion, against the rush of unexpected pleasure. "You're killing me, Pint-Size."
"S-slow down," I gasp, but I don't mean it. I want more, him, all of it. My body betrays my words by arching into his touch as his tongue flicks out and tastes my clit. Royal's left hand slides down the inside of my thigh as he tastes me like I'm his favorite dessert, a delicacy made for him and only him.
Nobody else gets a taste.
That's the message I get as his tongue drives me towards the edge and then stops, like he can feel my fingers clutched around the edge of that precipice, about to fall. But not yet. He won't let me fall yet.
When Royal lifts his head up and looks at me, his eyes are shadowed in darkness, mouth downturned, muscles thrumming with need and desperation and … violence. That's the sharp edge I'm getting from him. That's what's wrong. But Royal doesn't release any of that on me, keeping it carefully pinned under his frenzy as he slides his tongue up my belly and then rests an arm above my head.
We stare at each other as he undoes his pants with the opposite hand and then mounts me with one, long, hard thrust.
I see stars as Royal fucks me into the mattress, pinning me there with his gaze and the words that are written all over his face, etched into every hard muscle, hidden in the swirling colors of his tattoos. You're mine, but I can't have you. You're mine, but you betrayed me. You're mine, but this will never happen again. You're mine. You're mine. Mine.
I throw my arms around his neck and bite down on his shoulder as the pressure becomes too much, the feeling of fullness almost an ache as I wait for that sweet, horrible release that'll tell us both that this is it, we're done, it's over.
Royal grunts a few more times, spilling himself inside of me even though he shouldn't because we haven't had any of the adult conversations we should've had yet. That's our relationship right there in a single word. Irresponsible. Or stupid. Or reckless. Dangerous, painful, brief, raw, new, intense, untried, broken, battered.
My lashes flutter as I come hard around him, bearing down with every muscle in my body, sighing against the bite mark on his shoulder. As soon as I relax, as I let go, he slides out of me and stands up, jerking his pants back into place.
"Wait," I say as I stand up and try to tuck my robe back around me. My legs feel weak and shaky and my head is spinning. "Royal, please."