CHAPTER TWO
“NUMB” BY CHARLIE HANSON
AERON
My whole body thrums, my fingers itching to grab the handkerchief that’s burning a hole in my pocket. I want to bring it to my nose and inhale the scent of Dove mingled with that of my brother.
Well, not my flesh and blood brother, but what the fuck does that matter with all that we’ve been through?
I leash the urge tightly, gritting my teeth and not letting my hard-won control slip as I walk up the basement stairs with measured steps. My lips tilt upwards when her shout reaches my ears, echoing up the dank staircase.
Stepping out into the vast, converted warehouse space, I roll my shoulders before taking in a deep inhale. It’s our main living area and now that we’re back from our last job, on behalf of the Tailors, it’s up to us to babysit the little Dove. My father has tasked us to try to extract all of her secrets, or more accurately,the secrets of the Dead Soldiers, her own father’s gang. My lip curls at the thought of that cunt, my fists clenching at my sides.
We’re to get the intel by any means necessary. Though, if the look of her shaking and bleeding body is anything to go by, my father’s men have already tried their best with little results. She’s a strong Dove, I’ll give her that. Not that it matters. I'll break her wings. I always do. It's why father gave her to me when it became apparent neither he nor his men couldn't crack her.
“Knox not with you? Where’s the girl?” Tarl asks, swinging his mismatched eyes in my direction. It’s always disconcerting being under his scrutiny. It's what makes him a great interrogator, and another reason why my father gave us this job.
“They’re on their way. I told him to bring her upstairs,” I tell him, looking away from him and towards Jude.
His eyes match that of my own as they land on me. Jude is my flesh and blood, my younger brother. We look very similar; same build, eyes, and dark black hair, though he leaves his to flop all over the place like a fucking hobo and lets a permanent five o'clock shadow grow along his jaw. Also, where I try to at least partially conceal the deadness that lives inside me, he doesn’t bother, giving it free rein to rule. Even my father’s men are shit scared of him.
“Why didn’t you take her to the playroom?” Jude questions, his brow furrowing.
He likes the ‘playroom’ aka torture room we have downstairs in the basement. I’m guessing after three weeks, Lark—our Dove—is well acquainted with it. His question sits uneasily with me. I’m not sure what prompted me to tell Knox to bring her up here instead. I should have ordered her to be taken there, but I didn’t.
“She looked like she needed patching up before we break her again,” I tell them, the lie falling from my lips as I stroll over to make myself a coffee. I feel calmer once the deep smell of coffee beans brewing fills the space. “And anyway, she’s clearlyresistant to physical torture. So I’m thinking we mix in some mental manipulation too.”
There, that was clearly my motivation.
“I wanted to have some fun with her,” Jude pouts, cleaning his nails with a wicked sharp flip knife, one of his favorites.
“And you will, brother. Just give her a couple of days to heal a little, then you can take her to the playroom,” I placate him, inwardly shivering as he grins. Suddenly, I’m not sure I want to leave her in my brother’s clutches. He’ll get everything she knows out of her, but his toys usually end up broken and bleeding out. It pisses me off that I'm even worried.
Knox steps through the door that leads to the basement, and we all turn to look at him. I’d left the door open, which makes me frown as I’m always careful to close it behind me. Luckily for him, it was open, as he’s got a naked, passed-out Lark in his arms, her matted, red hair trailing down towards the floor. There are matching red streaks dripping down the tattooed arm around her upper back and Knox’s white T-shirt is stained with crimson where blood from her back paints it.
“What the fuck happened?” I growl out, startled by the flash of anger I feel towards him.Her being unconscious just messes with my plans, that’s all.
“She passed out, bro. Chillax,” he tells me, knowing I hate when he uses that term but using it anyway.Fucking prick.
Striding over to the pair, I notice how still Jude and Tarl have become, staring at her naked form with hungry eyes. I can’t blame them. We all like our women a bit roughed up. Some of us even crave the sweet blood that spills across white sheets. I know my dick has been hard ever since I watched Knox fuck her up against the wall of her cell, the concrete behind her back stained red from her wounds.
“Where shall I put her?” Knox asks, looking around the space at the low leather sofas and glass dining table.
“Put her in my room,” I instruct without thought, taken aback at the suggestion. I was trained from birth not to show emotion, but I can see Jude's lips twitch in my peripheral vision.
“Your room?” Knox questions, his eyes narrowing on me. I can feel my blood boil at the way he holds her just a little bit tighter, like he doesn't trust me.
“That’s what I fucking said, didn’t I?” I snap back, sticking to my instinctive decision now that I’ve made it.
“Tarl should check her back. I think some wounds might be infected. She feels pretty hot for being locked in that cold cell for weeks,” Knox argues, still not moving to the staircase that leads up to our rooms.
“You sure that’s not from where you just fucked her?” I ask, raising a brow at him. A flare of white-hot, furious jealousy flashes through me at the mental image of him buried balls deep inside her whilst she screamed his name like a goddamn prayer to God. His jaw clenches and my lip tilts upwards at having gotten a rise from him.
“Fuck’s sake, Aeron, just look at her! She’s shivering and burning up all at once,” he chastises hotly, my gaze immediately going to the sleeping beauty in his arms and seeing that his words ring true. Her pale skin is flushed all over, which could have been because of the sex, but the shivers and chattering teeth tell me that there’s an infection raging through her bloodstream.
“Tarl, come with us,” I order, dismissing Knox and this tension that runs between us.
It has been this way for the past several years, ever since June–my sister and Jude’s twin–died, both of us unable to get over our blame of the other and our own self-loathing. Doesn’t make him any less than my brother. After all, families don’t always like each other.
