Chapter 1

1

BONES

I should just kill her.

I was going to kill her.

That had been my job.

Kill the humans who had come to Devil's Haven with the Light Justiciars, and prevent them from destroying the club and capturing Blaze's mate, Kennedy. But when I heard her begging for death, something had stopped me. It's been a week since that night and I still haven't gotten more than a handful of words from her. I wish Reaper would hurry the fuck up and decide what we're going to do with her. I've got enough issues to deal with. I don't need to deal with a woman on top of everything else. Especially not one as attractive as her.

The Knights' clubhouse is a sprawling adobe style structure some wealthy settler had built during the gold rush. Now it houses most of the Knights of Hades, the rest of the members bunking in the more recent metal building in the back. Black banners hang on some of the walls, the image of Cerberus's head in a circle of chains stamped in stark white and preserved from the elements with magic.

This place isn't meant for someone like her.

Someone who believed all demons and supernatural creatures should be killed, all in the name of religious purity. A part of me laughs at her new reality. No wonder why she refuses to say much. She's surrounded by the very creatures she believes are pure evil. She doesn't reek of fear as much as she did those first few days, but the sour stench has never disappeared.

I don't feel much pity for her.

Still. I'm getting real fucking sick of sitting my ass here in the clubhouse watching her just . . . sit there at the end of the couch. Like a little rabbit who found herself stuck in the wolf's den. She stays in one place, curled up as small as she can get, quiet as can be. Like us big bad demons might forget she exists.

Sloan follows directions without protest; spends the bare minimum of effort taking care of herself. Fuck, if I didn't shove food at her three times a day, I'm convinced she'd go without.

At least she doesn't make me dress her. She's wearing clothes Lacy and Kennedy picked out for her. A pair of skinny jeans that hug her thighs, a bright red shirt with a scoop neck, and a pair of boots with a low heel.

Her blonde hair is pulled up into a messy bun, with tendrils framing her oval face. More than one of the club members have leered at her, backing off when I silence them with a glare or growl. Even with the hollow look in her blue eyes and shadows under her eyes, I can agree she's attractive.

I'm just not the type who is attracted to someone who attacked my pack over a week ago.

Her expression is pissing me off. It's blank, her gaze unfocused as she stares at a random spot on the wall.

It's just past noon, so the sun streams in through the open front doors.

How can someone who is just sitting there be so damned enraging?

Brute strolls in, only in jeans and boots, scratching his abs while yawning. He notices me sitting at the bar and walks over, raising his brows in question while inclining his head towards Sloan.

"Still pulling the mute shit?" Brute asks as he leans against the bar, crossing his arms over his broad chest. Brute is an appropriate name for my demon brother. In his human form, he's massive. Nearly seven feet tall and barrel chested, coarse chest hair across his pectorals before it travels down the center of his stomach.

He was with me in the helicopter above the battle between the Light Justiciars and the Knights of Hades. He saw what Sloan's amplifier ability can do and how dangerous it is. He'd been the one piloting while I dropped out, hundreds of feet above the ground, to take her out and save my brothers.

I can still see the fear in her blue eyes, hear her thoughts pleading for me to end her in my mind.

I shrug. "She's still refusing to talk unless someone asks her a direct question."

"And the bitch hates all demons," Brute adds.

Only because I'm watching her do I see the slight flinch at his statement.

I nod. "That, too."

"So, Reaper say what he wants to do yet?"

I turn on my barstool to face him. "He's still figuring out what we're going to do with her. For now, we're going to keep her here."

Brute frowns. "She's got a fucking amplifier ability. Not like we can just let her go back to those Justiciar fuckers."

I don't answer. I know that we can't just as much as he does. That still doesn't solve my problem right now: what to do with her. Frustrated, I shove my hand through my dark hair. It's getting longer than I usually let it but so long as it's not in my eyes, it's hard to give a fuck.

Brute and I both look over to the end of the couch. Sloan doesn't even acknowledge us, but I know she's aware of us.

"She's not going to go back to those Light Justiciars," I tell Brute.

I narrow my eyes. Did her shoulders lower? I raise my chin, inhaling deeply, trying to scent her. Huh. The sour scent of fear is noticeably less. I raise a brow at Brute and he shrugs, just as confused as I am.

Brute shakes his head and says, "You've got the patience of a saint, brother." He laughs, a loud guffaw of a sound, at his own joke. I barely restrain myself from rolling my eyes and wonder why I bother. Not like I could offend the man.

I rise and reach for the leather cut draped over the bar beside me and slip the vest on. Putting on the Knights of Hades motorcycle club vest settles the constant buzz in my veins to something more tolerable. Centuries of being on edge, waiting for the next soul sundering order, has left as many scars as the battles I'd been in.

Following Reaper and getting the fuckity fuck out of those hellish depths hadn't been a question. If Reaper hadn't been planning on leaving, I wouldn't have stayed much longer. There's only so many times you can be ordered to rip your bones from your body to destroy and torment others. By myself, though, I'd never have tried to escape the Prince and live. I'd lost so much of my soul, walking into the death chasms where the remains of my tattered soul would be devoured by leviathans had consumed my thoughts more and more.

Better to die by my own choice than let the Prince of Hell strip more of my soul away, little by little.

"Yeah, well. Whatever Reaper decides, I hope he does it fast," I say, knocking the heel of my boot against the scuffed hardwood floor. "I need to ride. Care to join?"

Brute grunts. "I'll go with ya as far as the junction. Reaper has me headed out west with Heathen. Silvermoon charity gala is coming up quick."

I release a huff. "Bellamy hates Heathen."

Brute smirks and spreads his arms wide as he walks backwards out of the room. "That's why I'm going along. She can't kill Heathen when she's too busy resisting me."

"I'm headed out in five!" I shout after him, shaking my head in amusement.

Cerberus Securities works the Silvermoon charity gala every year out in California. Biggest damn event that brings together the human and supernatural world for a good cause. It's sponsored and hosted by a reclusive dragon, Cadmus Silvermoon, who decided about fifty years ago to buy up a staggering amount of natural wilderness and build a damn fortress in the middle of nowhere. It's more than a fortress, though. It's a goddamned museum meant to flaunt his hoard.

Once a year, Silvermoon opens it up for a three day long gala with all the proceeds going to causes that directly help both humans and supernaturals in need. Only Reaper has ever met Cadmus and that was a single time the first year they contracted us for the security. Otherwise, the only person in charge of the estate and event that engages with the public is Bellamy Silvermoon, a many-times great granddaughter or something. She's completely human, but her temper is pure draconian. Worse, only Heathen seems to bring it out of the otherwise coolly professional and reserved woman.

The scuff of a shoe brings me out of my thoughts and I do my best to keep the scowl off my face. Sloan is timid enough with me. I've never regretted the hellish visage the skull tattoo on my face makes and while I still don't, it's definitely not helping this situation.

She's looking at me--well, at my chest, with a resigned blankness on her face. A part of me twists in sympathy. I'm all too familiar with what causes someone to look like that. I stamp it down; remind myself that she's the enemy. I'm not supposed to relate to her or feel bad for her. I'm definitely not supposed to find her attractive or wonder what she'll look like with a real smile on those cupid bow lips of hers.

"Should I go back to your room?" she asks, her blue-green eyes never rising above my sternum. Her voice surprised me at first, deeper than I'd expected on a woman and with a rasp like she doesn't speak much. That rasp fascinates me more than it should. And when she asks if she should go back to my room, the images of her sleeping in my bed every night threaten to haunt me.

I'd put her there that first night after the battle, when she was unconscious in my arms and she'd slept there since. I moved in a cot after. I sleep on it, ignoring her clear discomfort at taking the larger bed when I hold all the power here. I tell myself it's so I make sure she doesn't make a run for it in the middle of the night.

She wraps her arms around herself in a way I've learned is protective and it makes me want to scowl again. Besides the fight between the Justiciars and the Knights, I haven't given her a reason to be afraid of me. My brothers haven't either, even if they don't trust her. Sure we're gruff and crude motherfuckers but they've steered clear of her, waiting for Reaper's judgment.

"No," I bite out, harsher than necessary. I ignore the subtle flinch and jerk my head towards the open double doors that lead out to the courtyard where most of the parties happen. "You go where I go, remember?"

Sloan wipes her face of any expression, nodding obediently before getting up from the couch. It pisses me the fuck off how docile she is. Someone who is a Light Justiciar shouldn't be so timid. -Please. Kill me. - Not for the first time, I wonder why Sloan begged me to kill her like I should have that night. I growl, frustrated at myself and the whole fucking situation I've landed myself in. I stride out of the clubhouse, Sloan following like a sheep and her shepherd.

The morning sun is already glaring down at the desert, promising another brutal day. The air is still, not a hint of a breeze to lift the yellow dust from the ground and turn the air hazy. When we make it to the garage where we park our rides, I grab an open face helmet that should fit Sloan and toss it to her. She fumbles with it but gets ahold of it before it falls to the ground. At least I don't have to put it on the girl's head myself. I forgo a helmet, instead reaching for a shoulder holster with my preferred Taurus GX4 handgun. By the time I've got it on and settled under my vest, she's got the helmet on and Brute is strolling into the garage.

His gray and tan Harley Fat Bob is parked next to my blacked out Harley Street Bob and we each toss a leg over our bike in near perfect synchronization. Brute's helmet, the one I call half buckets, rests on his head with the chin straps dangling loose and I shoot him a grin.

"Ya know the helmet doesn't work if you don't buckle it?"

Brute flips me off with a smile. Then he inclines his head behind me and I try not to sigh. Looking to my side, Sloan is standing awkwardly a foot or so away from my bike. She's still holding her arms around herself, looking at the bike warily. Since she's been here, I haven't gone out for a ride.

"You ever been on one of these before?" I twist and reach back for the passenger foot pegs we all have on our bikes, just like how most of us have passenger pillions. No one likes riding bitch, but sometimes shit calls for it. Especially when the guy on the back is the one shooting at targets. There's no point in asking her, since her hesitation alone tells me she's never been on a bike, passenger or driver.

"No," she answers anyways, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Feet go here." I point to the pegs, then towards the engines and pipes. "Keep away from these parts unless you want to melt your shoes off. You hold on to me." I hold out my hand.

Sloan stares at my hand for a long minute, clearly weighing something behind those ocean eyes of hers. Then, with the irritating speed of a sloth, she unfolds her arms and slides her hand into mine and steps up to the bike. I grit my teeth against the slide of her butter soft fingers sliding against the rough calluses of my palms. I hold her steady as she clambers on behind me.

Brute's bike roars to life beside us, startling a yip from Sloan and I can't help the curl of my lip while shooting him an admonishing look. His teeth are bared in a gleeful smile. I drop Sloan's hands and double check her feet are securely on the pegs. She's frozen stiff behind me and I'm glad she's wearing jeans so I don't get to feel more of her skin when I tug her legs tighter against the bike. Her finger tips are all that's touching my sides, like that'll keep her from flying off the back.

I press the ignition, my bike growling to life beneath us and kick the stand up, both feet firmly on the cement. When Sloan doesn't hold on any tighter, I roll my eyes. Brute's already riding out of the garage. I grab her hands and yank her forward until I can press them against my stomach.

"I know you don't want to lower yourself to touch a demon, but I can't let you become roadkill. So I need you to actually hold the fuck on," I growl back at her, loud enough so she hears me over the bike.

Sloan doesn't say anything, but her hands curl as she gets a grip on my shirt.

As I grab the handlebars and press the throttle, I realize maybe Sloan had it right. Like this, even as stiff as she is, her thighs are hugging me tight and her chest is pressed against my back because of how much smaller than me she is.

Fuckity fuck.

I wanted to take a ride to calm that need all us Knights seem to have, to fill the craving for freedom. Instead, I've got a gorgeous woman on the back of my bike hugging me tight. A woman who is absolutely forbidden to me. An enemy. My prisoner.

It'd be great if my cock understood that.