Raiden (Satan’s Angels MC #2)

Chapter 14

Raiden

I ’ve never driven anywhere so fast in my life. I pushed my old fifties Ford to the point of it exploding. Gray tore off on his bike when Gunner’s call came in. He wasn’t going to wait for reason or a guard. All I could do was hand Penny off to Seer, who I’d trust through anything, and tail after Gray. Axe and Crow got their shit together fast, organizing guards at the club. As I was literally running out the back door, I heard them barking orders.

They rumble up to the Bullet’s range behind me. Gray’s bike is already parked, his huge body thrusting through the chain link fence.

My sister, in her floral jean jacket, throws herself at Gray. He picks her up and she wraps her legs around his waist. He kisses her hard and desperate and her hands rake his hair, grasp at his shoulders.

I look away, but not because I can’t handle my best friend loving my little sister. They’re assuring each other that they’re alive, that they’re okay, that nothing on this earth can tear them from each other.

I feel the same burning desperation clawing at my own gut. Where the fuck is she?

There’s a black sedan in the far side of the gravel parking lot, parked under a few huge trees. I can tell where shit went down. There’s fresh gravel lumped up in spots where the blood pooled and the thirsty ground drank it in. Steel and Vigil have been busy covering up the crime scene.

We’re lucky that the shots were fired at the range. Exactly where shots are always fired. No one called the cops. We get to deal with this our way for now.

Although, what way that is I have no idea.

I just know that whatever game is being played went from arson to attempted murder and kidnapping. This isn’t just Zale and his twisted revenge. I’m sure now that it’s more. He would never try and have his daughter killed. He fucked with Gray, but he didn’t take his life. Widow has never done one thing to wrong him. I told her he might be using her, but even I can’t see him putting a bullet in her brain.

I slam my truck door shut and eat up the freshly raked gravel.

This is everything I feared. I couldn’t live if something happened to Lark, but I didn’t know what losing Widow would do to me. I still don’t know. I don’t understand the pain chewing my insides like a fox with its leg in a trap.

I reach the chain link. Gray and Lark are still holding each other. He hasn’t even set her down yet. I doubt he’ll let her out of his sight or let her feet so much as touch the ground ever again.

I’m about to bark out Widow’s name, probably deranged and rough and not at all myself, when I see her.

She’s leaning against the office. She’s got her back to the metal building, her arms crossed over her chest. She’s trying to feign the same casual toughness, but I immediately see through it. She’s more like a statue with shadows carved in deep. She’s white, her black eyeliner and dark lipstick standing out in stark contrast.

I run to her, uncaring what it looks like or who sees it.

She’s trembling. She doesn’t look at me. She stares through me, like she’s not here. Like none of this is real.

My ghosts aren’t the same as men returning home from battle. What I saw was entirely different than going out and fighting a war. She looks like a soldier. She killed men. Three, Gunner said. She watched him slash the last guy’s throat.

I know why he did it. Men like Gunner enjoy killing. They crave blood.

It’s a good thing he’s not out here now. Bullet probably has him stashed somewhere inside, getting cleaned the fuck up before someone spots him looking like the murder scene he just orchestrated. With one careless, eager flick of his knife, out went our chance of ever figuring out who and why. I’m pissed we don’t have the fucker for questioning, but more than that I’m so angry that Widow had to go through all that alone and I wasn’t there to protect her.

I want to pick Widow up, slam her against my chest, hold her possessively. I want to have her cling to me, to be the one to reassure her, to take her out of this nightmare, but my own head is still a mess. I’m not Gray and she’s not Lark. She’s not the kind of woman who would run to me and wrap herself around me. She’s not going to ask for the comfort she so desperately needs. She’d never allow another person to see her crack. To anyone else, she’s upright and that means she’s getting herself together. It means she’ll be fine.

I see straight through her because I’ve shown the world the same shell and I know that it’s anything but right.

Even though I want to hold her, to have my hands on her skin, to be touching her and tasting her and filling myself up on the realness of her, her bravery, her spirit, the fact that she’s still alive, I walk over slowly, using my body like a shield.

I dip my face so that my breath paints her cheek. “Ella,” I whisper near her ear, sweeping a stand of blonde hair away from her face.

She doesn’t turn to me, doesn’t look at me. She’s more a ghost than the trauma of our past and the way it splashes gore and night all over our futures. It’s like the breath has been robbed of her and instead, she’s filled up with nothing more than the breeze blowing softly around us.

“Let me take you back to the clubhouse. We’ll get your bike back. Everything will be taken care of here.” She doesn’t react. Still doesn’t even look at me. Her eyes are glassy and unblinking, focused out there in the parking lot. Is she replaying what happened, over and over? I lean down further, enough to brush my cheek against hers. She’s warm. Thank fuck. “Let me take care of you.”

She doesn’t break or acknowledge me, but she also doesn’t fight when I slide one arm around her back and bend to pick her up. Her arms stay limp and loose, hanging around mine, but she tucks her face into my shoulder and her breaths pump puff warm against my skin.

She’s a vacant shell through the parking lot.

Despite the seatbelts in the old truck, her head lolls forward like the weight of it is just more than she can bear to hold it up.

She doesn’t pick it back up until we pull through the gates of the compound attached to the clubhouse.

She raises her eyes, and a flicker of life comes back to the green orbs at the sight of the massive angel machined out of metal and stuck to the side of the building. There is no other signage, and we don’t have the club’s name on the place, but that epic bowed angel that both Gray and I have tattooed on our skin feels like coming home.

Maybe Widow thinks so too.

I park the truck and open her door for her. “Let me.”

I offer her my hand, but she unbuckles herself and swings her legs out. She ignores me, winces at the bang of the old beast’s door shutting, takes two steps, and nearly falls on her face as her legs give out.

“Holy fuck!” I was watching, so I get my arms under her before she falls.

She clutches at my shirt. “Don’t.” She shoves against my chest before I can pick her up again.

“Hey. No one’s going to think any less of you for being carried in there. My club brothers-”

“Fucking don’t!” Her breath pounds out of her in a hiss like steam escaping.

I know that sound. I’ve been through enough panic attacks myself.

My hand shifts to her lower back. “Alright.” I don’t take it away and she doesn’t shake it off. She doesn’t want me carrying her or supporting her? Fair enough.

Watching her struggle to walk into the clubhouse with her head held high like nothing’s wrong when she’s going through a battlefield on the inside makes my stomach spin sickeningly.

This is what I do.

This is how I act.

It’s painful watching someone else go through it. Worse than it is being the one with all that shit built up in the head violent enough to crack the skull wide open.

There’s no one in the hall. No ne she has to put on a show for.

I guide her right past her room and take her straight to mine. She doesn’t notice or protest. She’s back to staring through things, vacant on the outside and worse on the inside. I have to do something .

I punch in the code and unlock the door, then shut it behind us. It locks automatically.

“There’s no one here now. You’re safe.” I lock my arms around her waist and take her directly to the bathroom. She leans heavily against me like she’s ready to collapse again.

I shut the door behind us to give that extra sense of security. That vacant stare sears down to the heart of me. I want Widow back. Sassy, annoying, challenging, breathtaking Widow. She keeps looking at me, not seeing me, until I let her go and tug my t-shirt over my head. I undo my jeans, toe my boots off, and step out of everything. I leave my boxers on to make sure she feels comfortable.

“What are you doing?” Her eyes get shiny and I watch them, drowning in them, sinking to the very bottom of the lake of her.

“You need a shower. I’m going to help you get clean.”

“You- you hate showers.”

“Can I help you undress?”

She bites her bottom lip, a lost gesture that she would never usually allow. It hits me straight in the heart. I cup her face, running my fingers along her trembling jaw, tucking back strands of hair behind both ears.

“If you want to get in there yourself, that’s fine. I’m just worried about you standing up in there and I don’t have a tub. You could get hurt if you faint again.”

A hint of stubbornness and color comes back to her cheeks. “I’m not going to faint again. I just wasn’t breathing enough. It wasn’t even a real faint.”

“Fair enough. Your body is fighting with your mind right now and I know you want to be clean.”

“I do.”

“Can I help you?”

A deep breath and she nods.

I unzip the leather jacket and carefully work it down her arms. I’m undressing her here. She’s here with me. She’s alive and safe. My sister is safe because of her. She outran that car. She was the one who fired the shots to keep those men from taking them. They shot back at her, Gunner said. I don’t want to think what they would have done if they’d taken them. I can only imagine what they would have asked for in exchange.

Gunner said he had trouble with his bike. He got left behind in the parking lot. Widow thought he was behind her and drove off. It couldn’t have been long before the car moved in on them. All Gunner knew was that he’d just got on his bike to limp it back to the clubhouse when Widow came screaming back, a black sedan trailing her and then all hell broke loose.

As I lift the soft long-sleeve black shirt off and over Widow’s head, I notice the way her eyes are shining. How she’s furiously blinking the tears back.

“It’s just us in here. You want to cry? You do go ahead and do that.”

Her jaw trembles, but her lips tighten. “I don’t need to cry.”

I’m not going to argue with her. I crank the shower on, leave her in her black lace bra with her breasts swelling over the cups, and work on her boots and jeans. There’s the vaguest dark imprint on the already dark denim. A splash of blood? I couldn’t find anything on her jacket.

I get her stripped down to her panties, black matching lace that I have to immediately stop thinking about. This is not the fucking time for a boner. That’s not going to make her feel safe. Not after what she’s been through.

I test the water to make sure it’s not too hot and get in. It hits me, triggering an immediate response in my body that tightens all my muscles and makes me want to puke, but I stay there and hold out a hand. I’m not going to force her to do anything she doesn’t want to do.

She hesitates, watching the water cascade over me, then she puts her palm in mine and lets me guide her in. She closes the door after her. It bangs like a gunshot and she startles, grasping my arms.

“I’ve got you.” I cup her face, forcing her to look at me. “It’s just you and me. Right here.” I shift to the side and give her some warm water. She’s like a frightened animal, but as soon as the spray hits her, her eyes shutter and the fight goes out of her.

I angle her around so she can take most of it.

I have shampoo and bodywash in here, all of it manly and scented like spice and stupid shit, but I fill my palm and soap her long, thick hair. She sways close to me, practically purring as I massage her scalp. Soap rungs down her face, but she keeps her eyes closed.

I’m rinsing it out, guiding the water through the heavy mass when the first sob explodes out of her.

It startles me so badly that I move in front of her, blocking her from danger before I realize what the sound even was. She chokes on another, but then she gives up and the tears come. Instead of covering her face and lashing out to keep me away and keep me from seeing, she throws herself at me. Her soaked body presses against the hard length of mine. Her arms twist around my neck.

I smooth my hand over her hair and fight through the thick wetness until I find the back of her neck. I cup it possessively and reassuringly, then sweep my thumb to press at her pulse point. It’s hammering madly with the emotion spilling out of her and the life throbbing inside of her.

She can’t contain the force of her tears and great big sobs rock her body. The sound is awful, keening and choked. I tuck her face against my shoulder and wrap my arms around her back.

I let her cry without offering platitudes, without telling her it’s okay. It’s not fucking okay. It’s not okay that she and my sister were chased, attacked, and terrorized. I can feel the fear wrapping around my heart like barbs, digging in brutally.

“I… don’t… deserve—”

She leaves the panted, garbled sentence unfinished.

“You don’t deserve what happened to you. You didn’t deserve any of this. Your father sent you here, and whatever his purpose was, we should have kept you safe. I’m your husband. I should have been there with you today.”

She tilts her head and studies me. Fat tears cling to her lashes and are still dripping off her chin. “It might have turned out differently if you or Gunner or anyone else had been with us. Whatever they wanted, they would have done anything to get to us. I’m glad we’re okay, but I- I knew it was them or us, but it- I just keep seeing them lying in the gravel like that. Same as that night when I had to- to… it just becomes the bodies and the blood. I feel… dirty. It feels wrong. I don’t deserve you here with me, taking care of me, comforting me.”

“Like fuck you don’t!” I snarl incredulously. “I’m so sorry that you had to kill those men, but you’re right. It was them or it was you. I’m fucking glad it was them. If I didn’t have you safe here with me right now, if Lark wasn’t safe with Gray…” There can’t be an if. I don’t want to even put it into words. “We’ll make it go away. No one will know it was you. No one’s going to be coming for you.”

“That’s not what makes me feel dirty. I’m bloodstained. I’m a murderer , Raiden.”

Fuck. Fuck fucking Zale Grand for interfering in her life. For not just leaving her alone. For using her, if that’s what he’s doing, but for getting her involved with this kind of life even if he isn’t.

“Both times you had to kill it was either kill or be killed. That’s self-defense, Ella.” I tip her chin up and make sure she’s looking at me. “I should have been there. I wish I could tell you that nothing will happen to you when you’re with me. I wish I could promise that I’ll always keep you safe.”

“I feel like the stains are never going to come out.”

She’s pleading, begging me silently to do something. I wasn’t there, but I’m here now .

I can’t do anything to wash the pain from her soul, but I can wash her body. I can make sure that physically, she’s clean.

I get the bottle of bodywash and squirt some into my palm. I lather them together and run them down her arms, staring at her shoulder, going all the way to her hands. I soap each finger. She’s breathless watching me. I run my hands over hers, getting them full of soap, then tilt them in towards her breasts. Her bra is still in place, but I don’t want to touch her where she might be uncomfortable, especially when she’s so fragile.

I trace her waist and skim down her legs, soaping her knees, her calves, her ankles, the tops of her feet.

I’m so careful, concentrating so hard, that when I look up at her and find her eyes devouring my every movement, her pupils blown wide and her lips parted while she breathes hard, that it shocks me and then turns my blood to molten heat. I’m instantly hard, my skin throwing off all the heat that can’t be contained inside of me.

I straighten slowly, making no sudden movements. “Widow…” This is exactly what I wanted to avoid.

“I know… it’s like a funeral. Fucking to feel alive, but I want you anyway. You’re worried I’m not in my right mind and that I’ll regret it later, but I won’t. What I want isn’t to be left alone. I- I want to feel you. I want to feel treasured. Like- like it matters that I’m still here. Like you’re glad it was them and not me. I want to feel you like you’d move the world to keep me safe. Like I matter to you.”

“Ella…”

She plants one hand on my naked chest, curling her nails to bite into the skin and her face twists. “If you can’t fuck me like you want me, then fuck me like you hate me. Either way, it’s the emotion I want.”

I don’t know what I feel about this woman. It’s beyond complicated. Not on her end, but on mine. I have too much shit to wade through before I can even hope to get down to the buried and savaged heart of me, but a feral beast rears its head at her raw need.

Our faces hover less than an inch apart. “I don’t hate you.”

Her tugs me close, her nails scraping along my scalp. “Then want it is.”