“No,” she gasps.“I’m not.”
I growl.
But I drag the knife away before I lose the last thread of sanity I have left.
She collapses back against the cot, trembling, pupils blown wide.
I’m shaking too.
Because if she had said yes… I would’ve fucked her with the blade still in my hand.
And I don’t know if I would’ve stopped.
Chapter 13
Royal
The Kings of Anarchy ain't good men.
But tonight?
They're worse than usual.
We crowd into the old chapel room, our Church, walls still scarred from fists and knife tips and a bullet someone swore was accidental.The table in the center used to be a guard’s desk.Legend sits at the head.The brothers are already loud when I walk in, pretending I didn’t almost claim our prisoner last night.
Rye elbows Whiskey.“Look who finally dragged his ass outta babysitting.”
Derby snorts.“Babysittin’?Boy’s got himself a pet bird in a cage.”
“Not a bird,” Bullet says.“More like a feral cat that pisses on your boots while you’re sleepin’.”
Laughter explodes around the table.
Even Vandal cracks a grin.“What’s wrong?Pussy got your tongue?”
“Royal, when you gonna admit Becki’s got your number?”Rye asks.
I drop into my chair with a glare sharp enough to slice Rye’s smirk off his face.“Keep runnin’ that mouth, I’ll carve my number into your ribs.”
More laughter.Nobody takes the threat lightly, but they never take it seriously either.Not unless I’m already holding the knife.
Oaks sits near the back, quiet as a corpse, not meeting my eyes.
Good.
The fucker remembers what I told him.One more wrong look at Becki and I’ll peel the skin off his fingers.
Rye slaps the table.“Fuck all this.Question is, what the hell we doin’ with her?”He grins, wicked and wide.“I vote we don’t keep trouble in the clubhouse.Too many ways to dispose of a problem.”
“Shotgun and a ditch,” Whiskey offers.
“Old mine shaft in Harlan,” Bullet says.“Never be found.”
“Throw her in the Crooked Creek,” Derby adds.“Let her mama’s ghost take the blame.”
More laughter.
I frown.
