Feathers and Thorne Series Books 1 - 3: The Complete Collection

Chapter Fifteen

Carter

She finally fell asleep, but it wasn’t without trouble.

Death never seemed to bother me much; the sight of it was simply a fact of life. Where there is life, there is death, and sometimes I set up that event to take place sooner rather than later. The man in Frances Johnson’s office tonight was a simple coverup.

He saw too much, knew too much, and started hanging around the enemy way too much to be comfortable. It was clear there was a rat in our operations, and I was the wire trap on the wood block; I don’t mind cleaning the messes of people who make the wrong decisions. He earned that bullet.

I can’t explain that to her. She is curled up on her small, lumpy mattress meant for a child, though she fits in it well with her knees tucked into her stomach. She’s so non-threatening, but I’m so apprehensive of her.

Everything down to the natural curl of her light chocolate hair is what I’ve been looking for. She’s short and cute and too much like the ghost of my past to ignore the same features I once saw in the only woman who ever held my heart before.

So when I saw her, I had to have her. I recognized every detail and then obsessed over it.

But I only recognized her fear tonight. Not just any fear but the downright petrification of terror that filled her eyes when she saw me in that office tonight. I can’t get it out of my head.

Her lips pursed, her chin settled in, and she fought tears from coming down her cheeks but let them sit on deck in her light eyes.

I shake the thought aside, old rage unwrapping in the depths of my soulless body.

She whimpers, and my heart skips a beat, forcing me to halt an inhale while sucked halfway under the surface. I lean on the arm of her small couch, hoping I break the worn frame of this couch just so I can have a valid excuse to break into this closet apartment and replace it.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I answer it without a prompt to see who is calling, peeking over the room partition to see the little dove still nested in her dingy bed nearby.

“Hey, boss,” Tristan breathes, his voice tired but slightly slurred. “Where are you at? I thought you were coming by the club tonight.”

“Not tonight,” I whisper, unable to look away from the prize in bed. “Ran into some unforeseen problems with Frances earlier. Got sidetracked afterward. You go ahead; have a good time without me.”

Tristan grumbles on the other end of the line. “This better not be about the receptionist again.”

“Do you have a problem with my priorities, Tristan?”

“So, she is a priority then?” he breathes, snipping at my temper.

It’s a bad thing to be doing, especially after the mess of tonight. Unlike my dove, I have no problem unleashing fire on my best friend and cousin, my business partner, and I’m not letting him get away with such an accusatory tone.

“Will you just fuck her and move on already? This thing is eating you alive, and I’m not going to let you throw away time that could have been spent on something—”

I don’t know if I hang up before I throw the phone or if the call drops on impact into the wall. Either way, his words burn holes through my conscience. On impulse, I stomp a trail over to her bed, needing to rip her knees apart and bury myself into her wet heat to calm down, but I stop short.

One whimper in her sleeping state, and I fall apart.

“Dammit,” I groan.

I sink to the floor, my hands begging to brush back her hair, to trace her lips, but I’m apprehensive. Never have I ever felt this unsure about how to approach a woman for sex in my life. I would be done with it by now if I would stop obsessing and just pull the trigger already.

I overheard William Lacey saying she’s timid and inexperienced, but that’s never stopped a woman from bending over my bedside before. If anything, it prompts them to put themselves in that position, desperately wanting to have that seal split at my whim.

Of course, like the others, they call mercy before giving me what I crave.

“Carter?”

I perk up in more than one place when she whispers my name. She’s inches from my face, but the darkness of her little apartment makes me feel like she’s too far away to touch, to hold, to be laid down at my helm.

“Yes? What’s wrong, dove?”

She turns in her sleep, obviously uncomfortable on this pathetic bed, but when she does, her tank top shifts and exposes the luscious peak of her breast. The air in my lungs brought in two seconds ago is sucked right back out, the innocent, unbothered curve of her nipple impossible to not crave between my lips.

She doesn’t answer, knocked out by the hefty stress of sleep.

I clench my hands in anger. It’s infuriating to me, to my inner demons, and I can’t feel my throat anymore. I need her so bad that it fucking aches. I clench the sheet over her midriff and pull it down.

Her shirt is too twisted from her turning to cover parts of her hips, the stoop of her shirt exposing both her breasts but only one beautiful, diamond-hard nipple.

My breathing turns ragged.

Why are you so perfect for me, and why won’t you just give into it already?

Maybe Tristan is right. Maybe I have to sink myself into her core, release my anger into her tightness, and move on already. This is a need I’ve tried to satisfy for years, and not one of those past endeavors was nearly as perfect as this one. I need this one; I need her.

But one wrong move and I lose that chance forever.

I adjust her top over her breasts, skate out of her apartment, and plant a hole into the stairwell wall that crumbles around my now-bleeding fist.

I hit the spot again and again, the drywall giving into an unsupported wall lined with concrete and old foam. It doesn’t stop me. I want to feel brick. I want to feel something; I want to feel the sweet fucking release of my cum into her sweet pussy.

My desire is directly linked to my anger, and right now, my desire could burn down cities in its wake. I don’t want to know what my anger would do if I don’t settle this need and settle it quickly.

I’m not giving up that easily, though. I catch my breath and walk back into her apartment, stopped by the sight of a trim silhouette lingering in front of the kitchen window. She’s looking outside, watching the darkness surrounding the night of New York City while waiting for something, someone.

It’s a long minute before I realize she’s looking for me down there. She got out of bed, went directly to the window, and waited to catch a glimpse of me leaving. A grin creeps up my face at the realization I’ve made tonight.

She’s closer to giving in to me than I initially thought.

The only question left is if I should attempt to take her now or just leave her satisfied by the sight of me walking away.