Chapter 5

FIVE

brAXTON

T he urge to go harder and cut deeper is there, needling into my brain indecently. It's almost hard to fucking ignore, but I do so. Pounding away at the bag, I let it go through my fists. I channel all my emotions into the bag, as Dad taught us to do when feeling out of control.

Sometimes, I blame him for this mania that lives in me. I blame him for the overwhelming urge to maim when I feel out of control because this is the lifestyle we were brought up in. Even before the Cobras turned into what we are now, we existed. A club of men with dark tendencies and pasts come together to ride and let it all go on the asphalt.

But there was a dark side to the club, even before Dad twisted their mission. One where tire tracks impose across puddles of blood when someone crosses one of them. The younger generation of Cobras were not shielded from murder. If anything, we were bathed in the blood of others to initiate us into what would become of us.

Some blossomed in it, some floundered.

I did a bit of both.

"What were you thinking?" Miles's voice asks as the death metal on my sound system turns down. I'd been drowning it all out, beating the rage in my veins into the punching bag to leave it there when I was done.

"I wasn't," I tell him.

I hadn't been. I wanted to know she was okay, and they'd left her practically alone in the clubhouse. Unprotected.

It's not how I want her.

"You've got to rein yourself in, Brother," Miles says, tone softening.

I nod, looking down at my bloody knuckles.

Miles steps toward me and lifts them, inspecting my sullied hands. "This is what she does to you? Already? You don't even know her, man."

I try to ignore how his skin feels on mine. In another world, he would feel the same way I do. However, that ship has sailed.

"Do me a favor?" I ask him, looking up through the dark hair that drips sweat in my eyes.

He nods.

"Keep her the fuck away from me."

He laughs. "Easier said than done when you keep wandering into the clubhouse and looming over her."

"I'll be fine. I'm staying here for a while. I need to dig in." Our term for when I hide away in my lair for weeks, digging in like a tick buried in flesh, sucking the blood from its host.

"If that's what you need. I'll have provisions sent to you."

I nod. "I'm sorry about all this."

"It's alright, Brax. I know what came over you. I've only been in her presence twice, and fuck..."

"It's addicting. Be careful. If you play my fuck-up right, you could use her. But, it's a risk."

"I've got this."

"Why don't you let me send someone down, hm? I think Blaze and Sully brought some girls home. They're all still drinking."

I shake my head. Thinking of sticking my dick in anyone while I'm in this state scares even me. The restraint it would take not to choke them to watch the light dim is something I don't currently have in me.

He nods. "Alright then. See you on the other side. Text me if you need anything, okay?"

He rustles my hair as he's done since we were kids. He's only two years older than I am, but he thinks he's ten.

"I will."

The idea of release hadn't left my head since Miles mentioned the women in the clubhouse. Even though I don't want one, I know I need something. I need to come down some. Moving to the spanking bench perched on the right side of my room, I place my fleshlight down on the top of it, using the straps meant to hold a woman's body down to trap it in place.

I flick open my switchblade and set it down in front of it, eyes on the blade's glimmer in the room's red light. Red is how I choose to see everything down here; it is better for my eyes and nerves.

The first stroke of the tight toy over my cock has me seeing stars.

This is what I'd needed all along.

But blue eyes and pouty lips fill my vision behind my closed lids, and I can't stop picturing my blade against her perfect skin, my marks on her ass, my cock making her pretty ocean eyes cry.

I open my eyes, fixing them on the blade as I white-knuckle the side of the bench. My cock spears through the gelatin inside of the toy, fucking into it with nothing but fever and manic thrusts as I lose myself to the tugging sensations.

Even with my eyes open, I see her beneath me. She's a sickness I've caught and can't shake free from.

"That's it, take that dick like a good little whore," I mutter to no one at all, but it makes my veins coil under my skin.

Grabbing the switchblade, I turn it on myself, the tip pinching my chest before I let it slide down. My skin gives little resistance before it breaks open and blood oozes.

"Fuck!" I grumble, fucking the toy even harder as I fall forward, ecstasy crossing my eyes. I lift the blade and cut without looking. This time the sensation is too much, and I slam forward, cock swelling and emptying onto the black bench in pulses.

Cum soaks the bench, and I know that this time differs from the others. It's all for her—every drop for the doe-eyed woman I'd stolen in a moment of insanity.

Closing my blade, I drop it to the floor before swiping my hand through my cum and slapping it across my chest like a badge of fucking honor.

It mixes with my blood and does something to my insides.

I pull out of the toy and shudder at the feeling.

I've got to stay away from her.

I nod, wiping sweat from my brow. Even though I know it's going to be near impossible.

Demons by PLVTINUM pounds through the room as I work on my many screens, pulling information on every aspect of Ms. Aella Montague. The strangest thing is until a year ago, she was the perfect little girl, always at every event of her dad's, looking like the picture of perfection, except for what I could see in her eyes.

I can't be the only one who sees how miserable she is. Her eyes are screaming out for freedom in each photograph she poses in. Some of her with Carter are even more telling. She fucking hates him.

The knowledge makes me smirk. He's everything you'd think of when you think of a rich prick. His hair wafts back on his head, covered in ten pounds of hairspray.

If I had to guess, she hasn't experienced the sexual satisfaction she deserves.

I don't find her name on any of the documents associated with his company, which sells airplane parts. This is a big deal in this area because the company employs many people.

Every article I read has me chomping at the bit to ask her everything rumbling in my head, but I promised Miles—and myself—that I'd dig in.

I email Miles all I've found, but before I can think about it, I'm slipping into clothes and boots, donning my leather jacket, and moving through the property like a ghost. I duck behind Blaze's Silverado and hear voices filtering out of the open bay doors. The garage functions as such in the daytime, and currently, we're working on fixing two bikes for customers in town.

I left myself a way in, so I sneaked behind the building and slowly opened her window, listening for anyone inside before popping my head up.

She's lying on her side, facing the window. Soft breaths move in and out of her open, pouty lips. I'm lost there, watching her sleep soundly as if her hand isn't cuffed to the fucking headboard.

Slipping into the window, I wonder why Miles hasn't taken my key from me. He has to know I have it because he had to re-cuff her after he chased me off.

The deranged part of me says he wanted me to have this access, but logically, he likely just forgot. He has had a lot going on lately, especially trying to protect the workers' rights in the town factory—a recent case brought to Cobra's attention.

"Wake up, Bambi," I say softly, opening her cuffs as noiselessly as possible.

"W—What? What's going on?" she asks, confused.

Sitting up, she dangles her legs over the bed. She's still in a long dress that reaches the floor. Blaze took her jacket off when he secured her and placed it on the back of the chair. I grab it and throw it at her.

She opens her mouth to ask me more questions.

I shake my head, putting my finger to my lips. I nod toward the door as if to tell her we don't know who's outside it.

She nods. For some fucking reason, she tugs her jacket on. My eyes register the purple rings the cuffs have made on her wrist, and my fractured part moans inwardly.

I point toward the window before crawling out of it. For me, the house isn't too far off the ground. So I stand beside the window while waiting for her to climb out.

She comes out feet first and turns her back to me. The knee-length coat clings around her curvy ass, and I lick my lips.

Stay on task.

I shake the notions that threaten to stiffen my cock again out of my head.

I capture her under her arms, letting her down softly. I should've backed up because I was stuck in their gravity when she turned around, and her blue eyes looked up at me. Our breathing is ragged, and time seems to pause as we stand in the overgrown backyard, just existing near one another.

She lifts a brow, and I shake my head.

I nod toward the left and grab her hand, leading her to where I parked my bike.

They're going to know I've taken her. They'll know it when my bike throttles out of here, but I must get answers.

When we reach my bike, she halts.

Her cream-colored jacket and dress contrast my black Harley Davidson Road King. I lick my lips as I grab my helmet and hand it to her.

"It won't fit perfectly, but put it on," I order, and something in me flips when she listens without hesitation.

This is the fucked-up side of me I have to keep in check.

"Where are you taking me?" she asks.

I get on and motion for her to get on behind me.

"Get on the bike, Bambi. Live for once," I tell her, and she does, despite what I know she's got going on inside her.

"Mold yourself to me, Bambi. But don't stiffen. Move with me. Mind where you put those bare feet. Don't touch the muffler right here with them or your legs," I throw over my shoulder, and she nods, my black helmet swallowing her head.

Her small hands come under my jacket and envelop me, and I throttle the bike to life, trying to ignore what her touch is doing to me.

"Hold on, Bambi."