The flush of anger drains out of Ryker's face and Cleo slaps a hand over her mouth to muffle a horrified whimper.
"Kase..."
I ignore him, staggering toward the door. Someone flung my jacket onto the pool table and I scoop it up as I hobble past. I'm stiff and I still feel foggy from whatever Doc shot me up with. It doesn't matter. I have to reach her.
"Kase," Ryker repeats, louder this time. He falls into step behind me. "Kase, you can't go alone."
"You've done enough to help, Ryker," I hiss. "Leave me alone."
"Look, I fucked up, okay? Let me make it right. I can help you."
"How?"
"They crossed the line a half hour ago. It's going to take them at least fifteen to get to their clubhouse. I've been on that side of the line before and I can help you get there."
I shrug the jacket on, wincing when the stitches pull. Part of my arm is still numb. That can't be a good sign.
If I rush into King territory injured and without a clue where I'm going, I'll get shot long before I can help Brooklyn. I'm still fucking furious with Ryker, but he's right. He's probably my best bet if I want to bring her back alive. It might already be too late.
"Cleo's car," I bark. Riding a Harley into King territory is like waving a flag in front of a bull. Besides, I'm not sure that I can ride a bike at the moment, even if I had one at my disposal. "And I'm driving."
14
Brooklyn
Dallas' kiss makes me wretch.
He keeps the gun beneath my ribs as we ride over the line into King territory. The driver must be one of his men, because he doesn't blink when Dallas forces his lips against mine.
It's like a sick joke. A few months ago, I would probably have fallen into Dallas' bed of my own accord, searching for someone new to fill the Kase-shaped void in my life. As substitutes go, he's not the worst man I could choose. That award probably falls to Jackson, a dickhead who'd actually taken pictures while we hooked up in a hotel room. They'd ended up on the internet. And Jackson had ended up face down in the river when my father found out.
Now I'm wishing that my father would give Dallas the same treatment.
I don't think he's going to shoot me. At least not fatally. He wants me as a trophy, if Axel is to be believed. I bite down hard on his lip, tearing at it until I draw blood. Dallas swears and rears away from me, a snarl already on his lips. I ram an elbow into his injured shoulder next. I bet he felt pretty proud of himself when he scurried to my father, claiming Kase shot him.
"Bitch!"
"Stay the fuck off me, Dallas. I'm not kidding. Anything you put near my mouth you're going to lose."
Dallas wipes his mouth clear of blood and smirks at me. "You'll change your tune if you want your dear daddy to survive."
He has me and he fucking knows it. There's only two men I'll willingly bargain my life away for, and he's aiming to kill one of them. He knows I'll play along if that's what he asks.
"If you kill him, you better kill me too," I whisper as we pull to a stop outside the clubhouse. "Because I will end you Dallas."
Those caramel eyes appraise me and there’s lust in them. I don't want to fuck him. But if it keeps my father alive, I might have to.
Please forgive me, Kase.
Dallas holsters his gun when the door is pulled open by his yes-man. Daddy made damn sure I couldn't throw myself from the car. Doubtless why he'd brought it, rather than dragging me back home on his bike. I find myself missing my Street 500 desperately as I'm led up the drive toward the clubhouse. Daddy is waiting for me, silhouetted in the doorway like some mythic god of justice. His wrath is focused on me, and before Dallas gets a chance to say a word to him, he yanks me into the house.
Daddy's grip is punishing, threatening to imprint bruises on my pale skin, but I prefer it to Dallas' touch.
The huge main hall is filled with men, waiting for the prodigal daughter's return. How many of them answer to Dallas? I hunch closer to daddy, hoping in vain that I can shield him from the hail of bullets I know is coming.
Murmurs run through the assembled crowd as my father yanks me none-too-gently toward his room on the first floor. It's the biggest in the entire house. He throws me in and steps in after. It’s furnished like a hotel room, done up in silver and black, the King's colors. A woman is sprawled nude on the heavy black duvet and despite the dire situation, I can't help but feel faintly disgusted. My dad goes through at least a woman a night, sometimes more. It makes me wonder if he ever loved my mother, the way he claims, or if she was just another in a parade of endless women, and the only difference was that he knocked her up.
"Get the fuck out," he barks at the woman.
