Chapter 10 What All Men Want

— 10 —

WHAT ALL MEN WANT

Oz

THE REMAINDER OF the journey is uneventful. She's been still and quiet since we got back on the road.

Her arms are wrapped all the way around my waist, wrists bound with the zip tie, and held at my navel. My Vultures helped to get us situated on the bike so she's sitting behind me, and I feel every inch of her along my spine.

I'm not one who cares much for gentle touch, but I'll admit that I feel something about the way she holds me. She's forced to embrace me, but she's accepted it, and her body is soft against mine, her cheek resting between my shoulder blades.

She surrenders to the inevitable.

I might've mistaken that for a weakness if I hadn't already witnessed her violent, fighting spirit firsthand.

She's fucking fascinating.

I haven't been this intrigued by a woman since Emaline—

She's gone.

Don't think about her.

I force haunted memories to the back of my mind and focus on the visceral, the feel of a wild woman against my back. She's tumultuous, unpredictable, overflowing with raw, unfiltered emotions. There's no guessing what she's feeling when she's feeling it—she presents emotion without reservation, and I like it.

I like it a little too much.

It might be the reason I fixated on her so quickly. Obsessive thoughts itch for the next opportunity to poke and prod her until I've discovered every point of passion, toed every delicate boundary line, and witnessed every private feeling etch itself across her adorable fucking face.

And then I wanna do it all again.

We approach the suburbs of the city from the south, gradually creeping out of the open desert landscape, crawling toward the ruins of civilization. A concrete barrier separates one side of the freeway from the other, though it's cracked and broken in spots along the way.

Old billboards still stand, proudly advertising businesses and attractions that once made the city one of the most popular tourist destinations in the world. We pass one for a limousine rental service, another advertising real estate—new construction homes that never got the chance to be sold. Then, a promotion of a topless revue on the old Las Vegas Strip.

That's the city—we call it Prosperity.

It exists within the border walls that separate Lawless Land from society, but it's inaccessible to most lawless. It has walls of its own, and a certain birthright is required to live there. Most lawless reap no benefits from their existence, but I do. I may not have their birthright, but I have connections with the right people.

Rows of cookie-cutter homes begin to appear as we approach the outlying suburbs. From far away, they look normal, like any other house on any other street. It's not until you get closer that you see the chipped and fading paint, the broken windows, and the disappearing roof tiles. You could almost fool yourself into believing this place exists beyond the border walls, but it doesn't.

Life beyond the walls is over for us.

It took me three years to accept that as the absolute truth, another three years of devolution and deconstruction to learn this new way of life, and three more to build what I have now. Nine years in Lawless Land is a lifetime beyond the walls—our reality is brutal and unforgiving.

Pinky here ought to be grateful she's coming home with me.

I exit the highway and dash beneath the overpass. I blow past the dangling, long-dead traffic light, and speed past meaningless stop signs. My turns are sharper, and my speed is faster than it would normally be on these streets, but that's only because of the girl straddling my bike.

She's the literal target on my back.

I need to get her to the Gates before we're attacked by a starving criminal intent on consuming her—the delicious little strawberry shortcake she's bound to be.

We occupy the largest community in the suburbs—a cluster of several gated neighborhoods surrounding a central structure—that sits about twelve or thirteen miles south of the city's center. Our community, and the other neighborhoods surrounding our gates, would have been limited to occupancy by only the most affluent of society in the time before the Territory existed.

Our community is as safe as it could possibly be in Lawless Land. I've vetted my men carefully, recruited purposefully, and with their help, secured and fortified our gated borders, leaving only a single point of entry. As I turn onto our road, I ease off the throttle, slowing to a crawl as I approach the gated entry.

The guardhouse-style structure spans the entire width of the two-lane road. Concrete pillars, positioned in the center and on both sides, support an angular roof that juts from the top, providing some shade for the Vultures assigned to guard duty for their shift. The gate's dark metal bars stretch from pillar to pillar, blocking entry and exit. It's a fortress-like access point, both beautifully architected and severe, a silent warning to anyone approaching.

Malik steps out from the shadows beneath the gatehouse roof, holding a large, scoped sniper rifle—mostly for show, as we hardly have any ammunition for it.

I come to a stop as he steps down from the curb, greeting me with a quick lift of his chin. Malik raises his voice to be heard over the idle rumble of the engine. "How'd it go?"

I glance over my shoulder to see our truck turning into the drive behind me, gradually approaching. "Can't complain. We all made it back."

Callahan appears from the gatehouse and begins the process of unlocking the chains that hold the black metal gates closed.

"How many new girls are we tracking?" Malik asks.

"Four. One needs medical right away. A couple of lawless had her, and she was unconscious when we took her."

Malik gives me a nod. "I'll send Zuri over to the holding house for her. And the men you took her from?"

"Dead. In the truck bed."

"Callahan's shift ends soon. I'll send him over to pick up the truck and put 'em in the freezer." I track his eyes as they move to the beautiful woman at my back, and I feel a sudden tension in my neck. "What's her deal?"

He's wondering why she's strapped to me on the back of my bike instead of sitting in the truck where he'd expect her to be.

"Attitude problem."

"Fuck off," she mutters, though she doesn't move an inch.

One corner of Malik's lips curls in amusement as he nods. "I see."

As Callahan unloops the chains and begins to pull open the wide, black gate manually, a bad idea comes to mind… A thought that sinks its claws into my better judgment and rips it to shreds.

"This one won't be at the holding house; she'll be with me."

Malik's eyebrows knit together. "At your house?"

I nod. "She'll need medical, too. Send them to my place when they're done with the other girl."

"Okay, you've got it." He still has that look of apprehension, but he knows better than to question me further.

My word is law here.

I give Malik and Callahan a nod as I pull through, and the truck follows. Slowly, I navigate the twists and turns of our suburban community roads, crawling along past what used to be the homes of the wealthy.

The homes selected by each vulture are well kept, a stark contrast to the rows of vacant houses which melt into ruin. Some are uninhabitable, neglected for decades and unoccupied since Lawless Land came into existence. Others could be livable with a little work, but mostly, those homes will remain vacant. We don't welcome just anyone into our piece of this world.

These girls have no idea how lucky they are to be here.

We roll past rows of houses, making several turns before heading toward the road that leads to the cul-de-sac. The holding house is the first on the left, and that's where I should stop. I should follow protocol and leave Gemma there with the others.

That would be best for everyone.

That would certainly be best for me .

Yet I wind up at the far end of the cul-de-sac, pulling into my own goddamn driveway.

I place my feet on the cobblestone—half of which I replaced myself—and hesitate, thinking about turning back and returning her to the holding house where she belongs. The hesitation becomes a pause, and the pause stretches into a full stop. I convince myself that this is fine, that I won't have any issues holding her in my home until it's time to send her to Eden.

I'm equipped to manage this.

It'll be fine.

I cut the engine and let out a heavy sigh, resigning myself to this potentially dangerous decision.

Then she sighs.

It's an overly dramatic imitation of mine.

"Rough day, huh?" She's mocking me.

I grin, though she can't see it.

Bending sideways, I reach toward the ground to pull my butterfly knife from the sheath in my boot. Then, I grip her left wrist and hold it steady while I flip the knife open with a flourish of my right hand. Her arms jerk back instinctively, tightening around my waist at the sight of the blade.

"What are you—"

I slice through the cable tie binding her wrists. Her arms remain around my waist as it takes her a few beats to realize I've cut her free. When she starts to pull them back, I clamp my hand around her wrist and hold it firm to my stomach.

"I hope the scenic drive was eye-opening, professor. "

Her freed right palm presses flat against the middle of my back, just to the right of my spine, and she attempts to push me away while simultaneously pulling back on the arm I still have trapped. It's a pointless waste of her waning energy.

I lean back and she gasps, her body forced to tilt with mine. Her fingers curl at my back to grip my shirt, and her hand around my waist stretches wide, fingers splaying to catch herself from falling backward—instinctive reactions to the sudden feeling of falling.

My hand glides along her wrist, turns it as I slide my palm over the back of her hand, and then I quickly thread my fingers between hers.

She tugs her arm. "What the fu—"

I tighten my grip between her fingers, holding her in place.

"You can try to run away from me, but you won't get over the gates before you're caught. Even if you did, you'd never survive Lawless Land on your own." I twist my neck to look at her over my shoulder. "I advise you give up the fight now and come inside with me, desert rose."

I give her hand another quick squeeze, then release her and climb off the bike before she can respond. I turn to face her and find some twisted pleasure watching the assortment of raw emotions that tangle into an expression I don't know how to describe… It's a blend of shock, anger, and disbelief mixed with a hint of amusement and a dash of shrewd calculation.

I close the knife and slip it into the back pocket of my jeans. Then I hold out my palm, silently offering to help her off the bike, but she doesn't take it. She doesn't move. She doesn't even spare a quick glance at my hand.

Her eyes are locked on mine, and for a moment, they hold me in place. The setting sun casts a glow that highlights the warmth in her hazel eyes, sharpening the green around the edges. Her pink hair complements the color with unnatural perfection, the soft rose petal shade drawing out the gold halo circling the center of her irises.

Stunning…

My gaze lowers to the dried blood beneath her chin. Flaky pieces cling to her skin where it ran down her neck and crimson stains the collar of her shirt. The bleeding seems to have stopped, and thank fuck for that… The last thing I need is an excuse to obsess over the features of her fresh blood and spiral down a dangerous path.

She still doesn't move to take my hand, so I let it drop, lift my eyes to look beyond her toward the holding house at the end of the road, spotting the white Tacoma now parked at the curb. Santi, Hayes, and Tucker climb out, shooting me confused glances before carrying on with their work.

"I know what you want from me." Her voice is venomous, and I meet her eyes in a hurry.

"Do you?"

"You want what all men want."

"Hmm…" I know exactly what she's thinking, but I play dumb for the hell of it, cock my head to the side, and let my eyebrows furrow. "What do all men want? I know we're all simple-minded, sex-crazed fiends, but it's got to be something special if we all want it… Something like happiness, peace, maybe love?"

"You're fucking obnoxious."

"No, you're thinking of something simpler, something basic, fundamental…" I reach forward and run my finger down a strand of her long hair. "Something like pleasure ."

"Something like violence ." She flings her arm, swatting my hand away like a fly. "Don't fucking touch me."

In a single motion, I close the space between us, rushing forward to sink my fingers into her hair. I reach over the bike with my other hand, place my palm on her hip, and quickly slide it down her thigh. I grip the flesh just beneath her knee, and before she can react, I lift her leg, dragging it over to meet the other, forcing her body to turn and face me.

Her eyes go wide at the forceful motion, and she gasps as I press in between her legs, my fingers slipping through her hair to cup the back of her head. Tugging the tangled strands, I force her to crane her neck, tilting her chin skyward as I grip her waist with one hand.

Her nostrils flare and her cheeks pinken with rage. She turns her gaze skyward, intentionally playing keep-away with her eyes.

"Oh, no, princess. We're not playing that game. I'm gonna need your eyes on me. Be good… Show me I have your full attention."

All she gives me is defiance.

Not so much as a glance.

"Eyes on me, baby."

I curl my fingers, fist a chunk of her hair, and tug back so hard it makes her yelp. Her gaze drops with a snap of seething rage. She glares, unable to stop herself from showing me the pure hatred that burns through the halo of gold in her hazel eyes.

Her rage stuns me.

It's this beautiful, tangible thing that lives just beneath the surface—so raw, so strong, so accessible. She may as well have handed me the stick I use to prod her.

"There you are." I give her a full-toothed, condescending grin. "That's perfect, baby. I knew you could be such a good girl."

That snaps her into the feral little creature who was out for blood at the Crevice. She thrashes, snarls, bares her teeth, and screams profanities at me.

It gives me a rush, makes me instantly fucking high in a way I've never felt before. The threat of addiction is what makes her dangerous… I'm not exactly skilled at suppressing my compulsive urges, and I'm quickly developing the compulsion to make her react.

I pull her hair harder, bring my other hand from her waist to her throat, and grip it tight enough to scare her, forcing her attention back on me.

"You're not exactly in a position of power here, pink."

For some reason, that reminder makes her go still. Her fury hasn't left—it's still visible in her eyes, etched in her expression, rippling from her in unseen waves.

"I suggest you watch your words with me. You're in no position to tell me not to fucking touch you. You have no idea what I've done for you by bringing you here. You wanna safe place to sleep tonight? You wanna eat? Take a fucking shower? Show a little goddamn respect for me, baby."

"I'm not your fucking—"

In a smooth rush, I step backward, dragging her off the bike and jerking her against my body. I wrap an arm around her waist to pull her close, though my fingers stay tangled in her hair. I bring my lips to her ear and whisper, "With all due respect, professor, shut the fuck up and get in the house."

I release her, turn away, and move toward the front door.

I rise two steps onto the landing, which is shaded beneath an arched, Mediterranean-style portico. I stop at the front door— made from sturdy, black painted wood, and the view through its window is obscured by frosted glass, hidden behind black metal bars I added for security.

I begin the process of unlocking it with keys attached to the same ring as the one for my motorcycle. First, I turn the key for the deadbolt near the top of the door, next, the one just above the handle, then finally, the lock near the base.

But I don't open the door right away.

I turn sideways and lean my back against the inner wall of the portico, kick my boot up on the wall behind me, and twirl my keys around one finger. "It would be easier for both of us if you just walked your pretty little ass on in here yourself."

I don't have a good view of her from where I'm standing, but I don't need a better view to know she hasn't moved. "Or you could just sit out here and roast. That's a choice I guess you could make."

It's not really.

She's coming inside either way—willfully or by force.

But the goal is compliance, and it's easier to get someone to comply with another's demands when they think they're the one who made the choice.

After a few moments of silence without any movement, I give her a more compelling reason to come inside. "Power comes on soon. I'll probably turn on the A/C and make something to eat. If you're not hot and hungry, you could stay out here and pout all night—"

Suddenly, she appears, framed by the arched portico entry, standing at the bottom of the porch steps. "You have power?"

I stop my keys mid-twirl and pocket them. "Four nights a week from eight to four."

Her head tilts. "How? Why ?"

"Come inside, and I'll tell you."

She crosses her arms and juts her hip to one side. "Do you think I'm stupid?"

"No." I push off the wall and turn to face her, match the angle of her slightly inclined head. "Why? Do you think you're stupid?"

She scoffs. "What kind of question is that?"

"I don't know." I briefly glance behind her when I see Tucker come up the street in our direction, breaking into a light jog. "You're the one who asked."

"Have you ever heard of a rhetorical question?"

"Oh, that's clever." I grin, taking a single step down from the landing.

"Excuse me?"

"Asking me rhetorically if I've ever heard of a rhetorical question."

Tucker reaches the driveway, slowing to a brisk walk.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" she says at the same time Tucker asks, "Want me to bring her in?"

I give him a nod as I tell her, "I could make you a list, but you'll have to come inside first."

"I'm not—" Her words morph into a surprised shriek as Tucker hoists her off the ground.

I turn and open the door, step inside my home, and wait as he carries her inside. He plops her down on her feet in the entryway, and she steps back to catch her balance after the quick drop. Tucker steps back, blocking the open doorway with his body. He pushes at the tan straps on his shoulders and removes the backpack Gemma received at Eviction. He holds it out to me, and I take it, slipping one strap over my shoulder—I'm not giving it back to her just yet.

"You really keeping her here?" Tucker rubs the back of his neck in an anxious sort of way that implies concern. I wonder if it's for me or for her.

"Yes, I am. And you don't need to worry about it. You need to get back to the holding house. You know the rule: one-to-one ratio for vetting. I'll manage her here. You can tell Brady he's off the hook for this round."

Tucker hesitates—looks at her, then looks at me.

I turn to face him, blocking his view of her, and my teeth grind from the tension in my jaw. "What the fuck are you worried about, Tucker?"

If he knows what's best, he won't answer that question. If he knows what's best, he'll turn around and walk away.

"It's just that…"

My head falls to the side as I send him a warning glare.

It's subtle, but I notice the way he leans back in recognition of my authority. "She's bleeding. "

"She was bleeding, but it's dried now. Medical's coming here after the holding house." My expression hardens. "Any other concerns about my ability to manage one little pink-haired princess in my own fucking home?"

I take a step forward, and he takes a step back. He lifts his palms in surrender with another backward step, and a look of contrition filters the features of his face. "Sorry, you're right. It was just that Santi told me…"

I know exactly what Santi told him.

He shakes his head, looking down at his feet. "Forget it."

I unfold my arms, grip the outer edge of the door in one hand. "I never forget anything, Tuck."

His eyes snap wide, and he looks genuinely bothered, nodding furiously as he moves backward down the first porch step, nearly tripping over his feet. "Okay. Yeah, okay. Sorry."

Fuck.

He's young, he's dumb, and he's a fucking handful most of the time. But I guess I have a bit of a soft spot for the way he tries. He begins to turn away, but I call out to him, "Hey. You guys did good today."

There's a slight pause before he lets the hint of a grin tug at his lips. "Yeah, thanks. Uh… Thanks."

Just as he turns to jog back to the holding house, Gemma gasps.

"Is there…" she stammers. "Are you holding someone hostage ?"

Hostage?

I'm taken aback. The sound of horror in her voice instantly begs my curiosity. I shut the door and turn to face her. Her eyes lift from the small, white piece of paper in her hand to meet mine.

"You have a girl collared and chained up?" She stomps toward me, shaking the paper in my face. "You have a woman locked up in a room here?"

What in the actual fuck is she talking about?

I pluck the paper from her hand, and she starts to back away from me, shaking her head with rage. "You sick son of a bitch—"

"No need to bring my mother into this—"

Her eyebrows shoot to her hairline. "I'm not letting you do this to her."

Do what?

To whom?

She turns and sprints off into the house, and though I instantly have the urge to chase her, I pause to read the scribbled message on the piece of paper.