The Syndicater (Dark Verse #6)

1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Dainn, Gladestone

Darkness felt like home.

No, he corrected himself. Darkness felt like a house he had lived in for many years, the rooms and nooks and crannies of which he was utterly familiar with, so much so that he could navigate it with his eyes closed. Home, home was her— a small, petite woman with flame hair and rare laughs and moonlit soul that made him believe in things he had only known about conceptually, things he knew but did not understand, not until her.

"That's cheating!" she exclaimed, giving him a glare that had killed lesser men, her verdant gaze glimmering with the life he felt proud to have resuscitated in her. He wondered when he would see it shining the same again, something in his chest tightening with each passing second that he knew their time was limited. He wondered, as he watched the tiny furrow of concentration between her brows, her lips turned down in the corners as she focused on her cards, how things were going to change. Because change they would. The moment he told her what was to come, the moment her world expanded to include other people who were going to become important to her, and in extension to him, things would change.

Dainn didn't like changes where it concerned her, especially the ones beyond his control.

Yet, for her, he had to sacrifice something without sacrificing her. That was her definition of love, wasn't it?

He had to tell her. But knowing her, how her mind worked, how her anxieties ate her from the insides, he knew he had to wait until the last moment or she would spend the entire time overthinking to the point of getting dysfunctional, possibly sick. His little flamma had strength even she couldn't see, but she was fragile right now. Her heart—the tiny organ under her delectable breasts—was too large, felt too much, and beat too fast, and yet, if it ceased to do any of those things exactly as it did, he didn't know who he would become. She was his north star, the only thing constant, bright in his tenebrous world.

"Not cheating," he told her, quietly etching this moment into his memory to relive during the time he wouldn't have her. "You have to learn how to bluff better."

Her lips moved into a pout, pillowing in a way that reminded him of small, harmless creatures the world called cute.

Fuck, she was cute when she was like this. Not a word he ever thought he'd think about anyone. Babies and puppies and kittens were cute enough, but they didn't make him warm on the inside as she did, as though the cold could never touch his bones again as long as she flickered within him.

She threw the cards down on the table, sighing loudly with exaggerated exasperation that amused him. She was a grump when she didn't get her way. Adorable.

A light wind caressed her open locks, moving them lazily like flames in a hearth as they sat outside on the balcony of their hotel suite high up. It was late, and if it were up to him, he would have simply kept her in bed the whole time, devouring her, defiling her, destroying her in ways he would be etched into her bones, so nothing and no one could take him out of her being. But she, unaware of what was about to happen and to distract herself from the revelations thrust upon her in the last twenty-four hours, had wanted to do something normal, something benign, something ridiculously regular. And so, he was teaching her how to play cards, which, much to his amusement, she was failing at miserably. His flamma was many things, but a mathematical card-counting bluff master, she was absolutely not.

She stared out at the darkness of Gladestone. The view was nothing noteworthy. The city wasn't either. It was a dark concrete jungle of shiny veneer polished with desperation and destitution. Building after building, street after street, alley after alley—corporate and manufacturing hubs that hid hideous horrors underneath. But it was the fact that the view was now laid out for her, right at her feet, ready for her to stomp and smash it. It seemed almost poetic in a way, the things she was going to do by his side, watching over everything that had used and abused her, deliberately and unknowingly. And she was sitting at the top with him, looking down at the very city that had chewed and spit her out, one amongst the many faceless humans. But the faceless weren't his. She was.

The soft, pondering energy engulfed her frame as she pulled her feet up on the chair and wrapped her arms around her knees, resting her head on them, gazing out. He marveled for a moment at her ability to do that—fold herself and make herself so small she could hide on the furniture. He wondered if it had been something she had learned over the years and did so unconsciously now when she felt anxious. He placed his cards down on the table and gazed at her, taking in his fill. She looked ethereal, unreal, almost like a magical little waif who would disappear if he blinked.

She would.

It was almost twenty-four hours since he had sent his text to Morana. The clock was ticking. His time with her like this, when their world was just the two of them, existing purely with the other, was coming to an end soon. She was going to have others who would love her, want her, protect her, and he would be alone again, existing in the shadows while she did in the light.

Something tight sat in his chest.

"Dainn?"

Her voice brought his focus singularly back to her, the sound of his name making a familiar rush of sweetness explode on his tongue. Fuck, he would miss the physical sensation of hearing her talk, of feeling her close, of her just being. It was incredible how she could make him the calmest he had ever been yet the craziest, how she could inspire both his chaos and his cool to the same degree.

He reached out, tugging a strand of her hair, feeling the softness on his fingers. "Hmm?"

"What do we do now?" she asked him finally. He knew it had taken her a while to process everything, and he had been giving her time. With Lyla, he had learned patience was the key. She was like the black roses he liked to grow for gifting to her. She needed the right soil, the right amount of sun and water and nourishment, the right amount of care and patience to blossom. Most importantly, just like the rose, she needed someone willing to take the thorns, someone willing to bleed for her bloom.

"What do you want to do?" he asked. Though he had sent the message out, knowing instinctively it was what she needed. But if she said the word, he would disappear with her in a heartbeat until she felt ready. Deep down, the selfish part of him hoped she wasn't ready. But the part that remembered her definition of love, of what she needed, and that part knew that she needed nourishment outside of what he could provide. And though sacrificing his selfish desires was never something he had thought to do, was never something he would do, she was the only exception.

For her, he would do anything.

But he would hate every second of it.

Lyla turned her neck and brought her eyes to him, her gaze knocking something within his ribs, the life, the vulnerability, the trust shining in her eyes shooting straight up his veins.

"I don't know," she whispered, the words almost tentative, afraid. She had nothing to be afraid of, not as long as he lived, and he planned to live a long life with her.

"Trust me still?" he asked, the hunger in his heart for her trust never satiated. He didn't understand what it was about it—the way she trusted—that had become both the elixir and the kryptonite of his entire being.

She nodded.

A wild rush of energy burst inside him with that one simple nod. His earlier despondency about their separation disappeared. It was temporary, anyway. As long as he had her trust, he could do everything.

He pushed the table to the side with one hand, grabbing her waist with the other and pulling her close. Her breathing escalated as he brought her over him, her weight more than what it had been when he'd found her, her curves filled out over the months under his care and her cooking but still slight. Her hands went to his bare shoulders as she straddled him, settling over his lap; his t-shirt—one of the many she had stolen from his side of the closet—ruched up around her hips, giving him an unrestricted view of her bare pussy over his groin, separated only by the fabric of his sweatpants.

Her small, soft hands moved over his shoulders, the side of his neck, her touch sure, almost proprietary, and he reveled in it—in both her possession and her quiet confidence in him.

"I don't know why you get so turned on every time," she huffed quietly, a soft smile on her face, shaking her head as if he were being ridiculous.

He tugged her closer, his hands spanning her small waist, locking their gazes. "I told you. Your trust is my high."

She just shook her head again as if the concept felt too foreign to grasp. Maybe it was. His brain was different, his thought process different, so maybe his attachment to it felt different to her too. She may not grasp it, but she accepted it, accepted him, just as he was. Now that was a foreign concept.

"Your brother and his friends are going find you," he told her, simply laying out the truth for her. Though he had no principles, no morality, no conscience as much, he didn't lie to her. It was simply a way to make her feel like the exception she was, so she would know that while he was a liar to the rest of the world, she was the only exception, the only special clause, the only one he was real with.

Home . That was why she felt like the home he had never had.

The tightening of her grip on his shoulders was the first sign of her rising panic. Her face—her beautiful face that hid nothing from anyone willing to look, an open book in all languages known to humankind—fell. "What do you mean? Find me how?"

He kept his hold on her hips firm, staying steady as he revealed the facts. "Morana, your brother's girl, is a hacker. She's smart and she has been scouring the online spaces for any traces of you for a while now. I just sent her a big crumb last night."

He watched as her eyes widened, her nails digging into his muscles in a way that reminded him of sex, especially when he pushed his cock into her, that first sensation of his piercings in her pussy making her clench around him.

"Dainn." Her whisper of his name was pure panic, her emotion leaving a sour taste in his mouth. As much as he liked her tinge of fear, especially in their sexual situations, he didn't really like the taste it left him with when it was emotional terror. There was only one effective way he knew how to change her fear into something more palatable, a way that had worked in calming her every time.

He moved his neck and sucked her nipple into his mouth over the t-shirt, dampening the fabric as the bud hardened, relishing her gasp as her hands tightened on him in that familiar way.

"We need to discuss this," she stated, pushing him back. Or rather trying to.

"We are discussing it," he spoke against her breast, biting the side. Her hips tried to move, but he held it still, feeling moisture over his sweatpants where she was spread open. He moved his fingers down, feeling her juices on his skin, her essence the only one he enjoyed on himself. His digits pried her flesh open, teasing her edges but never touching her throbbing clit, never sinking inside her. A sound akin to a mewl left her throat, and he felt his lips twitch against her breast. He loved that sound, the one she made in desire and frustration when he teased her. It was a demand and a complaint mixed with lust so potent he felt high when he heard it. But this was a distraction from her fear; the conversation was something they still needed to have.

He teased the edges of her clit some more, enjoying her noises but keeping his mind on track. "The message I sent will be tracked by tomorrow," he told her, moving to her neck, knowing that the spot right under her ear sent arousal flooding in her body when stimulated. He had learned her body like his personal sacred text, worshipping at her altar every day, reciting her verses every chance he could. He knew exactly where to kiss gently to make her melt and where to bite hard to make her wet; he knew where to push, to pull, to pillage on his knees, waiting for her to bless his existence.

"Why did you do that?" she managed to get out right before a moan, drenching his fingers as he licked the spot under her ear, the scent of her skin of flowers and fire filling him.

"Because," he nuzzled her, "you want it."

"And you give me what I want? As long as it's with you?"

She knew the depths of his possessiveness well. "Yes."

She moved her hands away from his shoulders and down to his sweatpants, pushing them down and pulling his cock out. He moved his hand back to her hips as she settled herself on him, flesh to flesh, grinding over him, leaving the metal on him glistening, taking the pleasure she wanted from him as her right. With arousal, something like affection, adoration—he didn't know what it was, to be honest—but something softer, less harsh than his usual darkness, filled him as he watched her take , watched her own both him and her own sexuality so openly, knowing the depth of trauma it held for her, marveling at her resilience, letting her have it for a moment, basking in the glory of witnessing her trust take over said trauma.

"What happens after they find me?" Her question was breathless, her hips moving sinuously with an innate fluidity that was an inherent part of her.

"They will take you back with them, I believe," he stated.

His words suddenly made her stop, the glaze of desire in her eyes dimming, replaced with moisture that felt like a knife to his ribs.

"You're letting me go?" Her lips trembled. "You'll just… leave me? You said you wouldn't. "

Suddenly, she was scrambling away from him, trying to get away from him with a frantic energy he knew he needed to quell immediately. He tightened his grip on her waist with one hand, gripping her jaw with the other so she quietened and steadied, keeping his eyes fixated on hers. A tear escaped her right eye, trailing down her cheek and disappearing into his bare palm as he held her face.

"Do you really think—" he asked her quietly, his voice coming out cold at her immediately jumping to the conclusion even after all this time "—I would? That you would ever be rid of me?"

Her eyes glistened, but she bit her lip. "No. But that's what you're telling me." It came out as a soft accusation.

He kissed her hard, pouring his determination into her, infecting her with the same obsession—or whatever the fuck it was; he didn't even recognize it anymore—that had him in its grip.

She let him, opening, unfurling, accepting it.

"We will become ashes before we are apart," he murmured against her mouth. Her breath hitched. He knew she liked his words, that she cherished them and held them close to her heart. "I will never let you go."

He pulled back, brushing the back of his fingers, darkened with burns and scars, over her unblemished, pale cheek. "Think of this as a temporary adventure."

Her throat worked as she swallowed. "Why?" she questioned, innocent and accusatory at the same time.

"Because you're on a journey of self-discovery, of healing and rising from your own ashes," he reminded her. "You're finding who you are, and your mind is finally ready to face your past. You are an emotional creature, flamma. You need all these pieces to feel whole and happy. And I happen to like it when you're happy."

Her fingers brushed over his hair idly. "But what if I'm never whole? What if, after all of it, I'm left… empty?"

Dainn lifted her hips and slid inside her slowly, watching her eyes roll back and feeling her nails dig into his muscles, her walls weeping around him. Even after all this time, it took her a bit to adjust to his presence inside her, his piercings and his length and his girth, filling her to the brim in a way he knew she had become addicted to.

"Do you feel empty?" he asked her, watching her face closely for her reactions.

Her mouth trembled, her eyes half-lidded. "Not with you."

"Never with me. No matter what happens, you'll never be empty with me."

It was she who kissed him this time, knowing his words meant more than just the physical, leaning forward and capturing his lips with hers.

"I love you," she told him, and the words, her voice, her presence, became another core memory that etched itself deep in his brain, firing his synapses, flooding his neurons with chemicals that made him feel invincible, forcing the organ in his ribs to beat extra hard with the closest thing to the emotion she called love he could feel, love like she had described it to him.

"I know," he told her as he always did, holding her close, and knowing she understood his flawed being, understood that it was who he was, and yet she loved him anyway.

Then he began to move in her, deepening their kiss, savoring both her taste and her memory, knowing their time together was dwindling down.