Chapter 11 Violent Intimacy

— 11 —

VIOLENT INTIMACY

Oz

I TURN TO lock the front door—all three bolts, plus a security chain—as Gemma dashes through my house on some unknown morality mission. I quickly read the handwritten note I assume she found on the small entryway table standing beside me.

Oz,

She was such a good girl today! Brought her back, fed and exhausted, at 7:00pm.

We really have to find her a different collar. She hates the one she's got, and it's driving me crazy watching her pull at it all the time. Took it off for a while to give her a break. It's back on her now, and she's chained up in her room. You know that feisty little bitch is leashed and locked because she kept trying to follow me out when I left? She might actually love me more than she loves you. . .

(Obviously, I'm kidding. Unclench your jaw, Daddy Oz. You know she only has eyes for you.)

Hope everything went well. See you soon with the new girls . . .

XOXO,

Salem

So, from that, the bubblegum beauty has gathered that I'm keeping a female chained up and locked inside a bedroom. She's not exactly wrong, but she also isn't right.

I toss the note from Salem onto the entry table, drop Gemma's backpack onto the floor, and slowly move toward the sunken living room. I stop before stepping down, though. I stand quietly, waiting and listening.

I listen for her footsteps, for the chain, for the sound of Angel's low, rumbling growl as she waits for my command to attack or heal.

But it's surprisingly quiet.

I scan the living room as I wait for a sound to tell me where she is, my gaze sweeping across the furniture filling the space.

My living room is the most recent renovation in my home, though in hindsight, the black leather sectional and matching armchairs were probably a poor choice—they already feature scratches from Angel's claws.

A decent couch is a luxury in Lawless Land. Here, we can only have what we can salvage and repair. Of course, there was furniture left behind in these homes, but it was decades' old when we found it, and not everything was salvageable—time and neglect have a powerful impact.

Thankfully, there's enough skill and experience among the Vultures to allow us all some of the creature comforts we took for granted in our lives before. You never really think about the impact of having a clean, comfortable couch to sit on until the only thing you can find to plop your ass on in the middle of the desert is a fucking rock.

The sunset filters through the double-paned glass French doors and the two picture windows on either side. Shades of light are painted across the furniture in dim strips of yellow and orange. Through the windows, I can see the desert mountains off in the distance—a stunning backdrop to the rows of homes in our gated community. The view is beautiful and deceptive, one that could have fooled me into thinking that the world as we knew it was still within our grasp…

It's not.

Living here in the Gates is the closest we'll ever get to normal.

My head whips sideways at the sound of a door clicking open. Without thinking, I find myself pulling the butterfly knife from my jeans, though I don't expect I'll need it. I don't need a knife to threaten or subdue her. She's a fighter for sure—scrappy, strong, and motivated—but I could overpower her with my bare hands without breaking a sweat.

Has she found the right bedroom yet?

Has she found Angel?

I wonder what will happen when she does…

The unpredictability of what this woman will do as I stalk her through my own house is a little overwhelming.

Thrilling.

Intoxicating.

Naturally, my hand twists to flip open the knife, exposing the blade and locking it into place. I step down into the sunken living room, move across the traditional-style faded black and gray area rug, then step up again to enter the main living space.

To my left is a short hall leading to the laundry room and garage, and just a few steps ahead is the staircase leading up to the second floor. But I find her right in front of me, facing the open door leading to the second of two bedrooms on this level.

Angel's room.

Guess she found her.

Gemma must not see me because she doesn't turn her head or make a sound. I strain my ears and hear Angel's low warning growl. I expect Gemma to step back, maybe run away or simply slam the door shut.

But instead, she steps inside… uninvited.

What the fuck is she thinking?

Angel could bite her, break the skin and draw blood.

My empty hand curls into a fist as the thought catches my dark obsession. She could bleed in my home, alone with me, no one else here to make it stop…

And what if there's no one to stop me from letting it spill?

A shudder ripples up my spine as I fight the desire to watch her bleed—desire so unexpectedly heavy that it makes my cock twitch at the thought of cutting her myself. I reach over, placing my hand on the banister to steady myself as the darkness courses through my veins.

But I shouldn't have touched the railing. A glance at my hand sends me spinning back to that night, sparking a vision from nearly a decade ago. I see my palm wrapped around a tan wooden railing—not the black metal railing I'm holding on to now—and it's soaked with blood. It streaks the banister as I climb the steps, gripped by fear for what I might find in Emaline's bedroom…

This isn't her house.

Her bedroom isn't upstairs.

Emaline is dead.

I blink and shake my head, forcefully dragging myself from the bloody memory as I flash back from the past to the present. I glance down and find that I climbed the steps along with my memory. I'm a third of the way up the staircase, though I don't recall making the decision to go upstairs.

I pause to get my bearings.

The feeling of regret gradually fills me.

The vivid memory brought me a sense of shame so powerful that it strains every muscle in my body.

I should've been there for her.

I should've done it for her sooner.

I shouldn't have watched her bleed for so long when it was over.

My grip on the banister tightens as I fight the monster inside me. It craves that final, horrible image in which Emaline was lying on the floor, soaked in her own blood, and smiling up at me before she drew her last breath.

Nearly ten years later, and the memories still live so clearly in my mind. I feel like I'm still fighting the pull of them when I catch the sound of a voice singing sweetly. My head turns in the direction of the sound—it's coming from Angel's room.

Cherry blossom can sing?

Curiosity is strong enough to bring me fully into the present. I take a deep breath and tilt my head from side-to-side, stretching the strained muscles in my neck, trying to convince my tense shoulders to relax.

I back down the steps and slowly move down the hall, my footfalls cushioned by the plush flooring beneath my boots. Stopping beside the open door, I press my back against the wall, stifle my breathing, and strain to listen as she softly sings.

Angel is quiet, aside from the light jingle of the tag on her collar and the gentle huffs of her panted breaths. It's strange, though—she only pants like that when she's been outside in the heat too long or when she's… happy.

It doesn't even seem like she's scented my presence yet.

I should call for her.

I should go in there and make sure she's okay.

Pinky is a violent offender, after all. She could be a cold-hearted dog killer for all I know. The thought is nearly enough to have me charging in, but then I suddenly recognize the melody of the song, and it makes me pause.

The song is Isn't She Lovely by Stevie Wonder, but her rendition isn't quite the same as the original. The melody of the song is, by nature, joyful, yet her interpretation is slower and more somber. And there's something about her voice, something about the rich intonation and the velvety, angelic quality that's textured with raw edges…

It's captivating.

She sings it like it hurts her and heals her at the same time.

She sings like she doesn't care if anyone is listening.

But I'm listening, rooted to the spot, unable to move.

The song stops mid-refrain as she laughs—a light, sparkling sound that breaks the spell cast by her voice.

"Aw, sweet girl!" Her voice is deceptively pleasant. "Such a pretty girl, aren't you? No, you're not a mean puppy. That collar doesn't suit you at all, does it? You need a little pink, too." Then, in a baby-talk voice, she says, "Yes, you do. You do, don't you, sweet puppy?"

What the fuck is going on with Angel?

No warning bark, not so much as a growl. For some reason, she's not seeing this stranger in our home as a threat, which goes against all her training.

"Don't worry, pretty baby, I'll get this yucky spiked collar off you and get you a pretty pink one instead. I just need to kill that nasty man holding you hostage here first. We'd like that, wouldn't we? Yes, we would. I'll kill that motherfucker and take you away from here, sweet girl—"

"Over my dead fucking body!"

I shove the door open wide and rush in, a sudden rage tearing through me at the mere thought of her trying to take Angel. I stomp across the room, intent on grabbing this bitch by her pink fucking hair, momentarily tempted to slit her throat for so much as threatening to take my girl.

But then I see them, and it stops me dead in my tracks.

Gemma's sitting on the floor, leaning her back against the far wall of Angel's dedicated room. Her legs are flat on the floor, spread wide to make room for my jet-black, three-year-old pit bull to sit between them. Angel turns her head in my direction, and she spots me. Her ears go down, her tail wiggles, and she lets out a pathetically sweet half-bark, half-whimper in greeting.

This isn't how Angel greets me. And it's sure as fuck not how Angel handles strangers, especially when they enter our home without a proper introduction from me. My smart, obedient, loyal-to-a-fault dog isn't just defenseless and subdued, she's fucking happy… Butt shaking, tail wagging, face-licking happy.

This bubblegum bitch has my Angel defenseless.

The sight of me standing here should be enough of a command for Angel to greet me. Her hind legs lift from the floor for no more than a second, just long enough for her to shake her whole body with utter delight, before promptly sitting again. I nearly lose my shit when she turns her head away and starts licking Gemma's cheek.

Whatever childlike glee I'd heard in Gemma's voice before is gone now. Her expression reflects a ruthless, brutal hatred that's directed at me. She scans me from head to toe, her gaze pausing on the knife in my hand before raising to capture my stare. She shoots daggers with her hazel eyes as she scruffs behind Angel's ears.

"Are you planning to kill me with that?" Her voice is low now, vicious, like my presence turns her into an entirely different person. "Don't you think it would be in poor taste to stab me in front of your dog?" She plants a kiss on Angel's nose, and she shakes with joy, licking Gemma's face with even more enthusiasm than before.

Those are my fucking face licks…

"Get up." My seething voice rumbles with a barely contained growl. "Get up and get the fuck away from my dog."

"Call her."

I clench my fist, my head tilting with silent warning.

"Go on… call her," she repeats. "Call your dog."

My eyes narrow at her audacity, wondering what game she's playing. My stare is scrutinizing as I try to decipher her intentions.

"What's with the hesitation?" She tilts her head to match the angle of mine. "Are you afraid she won't come if you call her? If she'd really prefer you over me, I won't stop her, so… call your dog."

Does she really think Angel won't rip her face off if I tell her to?

With coldness in my eyes, I hold Gemma's stare while I call my girl, "Angel." Angel turns her head to look at me, her demeanor changing instantly at the sharp tone of my command. With my free hand, I point my index finger straight down at the floor. "Here."

Angel hops up without hesitation and trots across the room. Faithfully at my side where she belongs, Angel turns twice beneath my finger before lowering her hind legs to sit.

My eyes remain on Gemma as I reach down to scratch the top of Angel's head. "Good girl."

Gemma suddenly looks uneasy, and that makes me feel like I can finally take a deep breath. Angel's reaction to her was unsettling, and it felt as though it gave Gemma a false sense of power that she certainly won't possess in this house. But the way she pulls up her knees and hugs them to her chest suggests her acknowledgment of the truth—Angel is mine, I'm in control here, and Gemma will only get the power I choose to give her.

"Where are they?" Her voice is still venomous, but it's quieter now than it was before.

"Who?"

"The other women you kidnapped."

"I didn't kidnap anyone."

"You kidnapped me. "

"No, baby, I saved you."

"Saved me?" Her head jerks back as she pulls a look of disgust. "I didn't need to be saved."

"Trust me, I did you a favor, cherry pie. The Reborn would have destroyed you."

"You can't destroy wreckage." She scoffs, her gaze drifting from mine, and there's an unexpected shift in the tone of her voice. "I'm already in ruins."

It seems there's some depth behind all her rage, and it tugs at my curiosity. I'm tempted to ask her to elaborate, to demand she tell me her story and explain what—or who—destroyed her. I'll bet it has something to do with that Reborn pretty boy she went feral for at the Crevice.

But I won't ask her about it tonight.

"Stay," I tell Angel before slowly crossing the room.

I invade Gemma's space, stopping at her feet. Though I tower over her, standing uncomfortably close, she doesn't cower. She doesn't hug her knees tighter and draw back like I was hoping she would, but she does react. Tensely, she shifts, appearing as though she's ready for the attack without really changing her position. There isn't a quick or easy way for her to slip away from me, but it's clear she's prepared to push me away by force.

"Back the fuck up," she snarls, staring straight ahead between my knees.

I quickly drop to my haunches, and she flinches. "Careful now." I switch the knife to my left hand before resting my elbows on my knees, let the weapon hang from my fingers between my legs with the tip aimed at the floor. "I know I told you to watch your words with me."

Her eyes snap to mine and show me that addictive rage. "You have a death wish, don't you? Go on, keep pushing me…" She flashes a shit-eating grin as her head drops back against the wall. "You have no idea what I'm capable of doing to you."

"I have no doubt, professor ." My gaze sweeps briefly to the dried blood on her throat. "I can only imagine all the wild things you're capable of doing to me."

"I'd be happy to bring your imagination to life." She holds her hand out over her knees, palm up. "Hand me the knife and I'll show you just how wild I can be."

Goddamn.

That pulls at something deep in the pit of my stomach—that dark desire for violent intimacy. The idea is so powerful… A woman who needs me as obsessively as I need her. A woman who would bleed for me and insist I bleed for her, too.

There's something so wrong about the idea of it.

Emaline would be ashamed of me just for thinking it.

But would she?

Emaline never judged me; she never judged anyone, least of all those who hurt her. And in the end, that was her downfall, assuming she'd get the best out of the worst people in her life.

But this pink princess judges indiscriminately. She assumes every person with a dick wants to fuck her and hurt her. Maybe she's right about that. I definitely want to fuck her and hurt her, but that doesn't mean that I will.

With a grin, I watch her silently, twirling the knife around my fingers. She and I both know I'm not handing it over, but I'm curious to know what her next move will be when she gets no response from me.

Will she try to take it?

Will she give up and pull her hand back?

It doesn't take her long to decide.

With a sigh, her hand falls, landing on her knee. "It's fine, I get it. I'm too much for you. Maybe some other time."

"Maybe." I can't help my smirk. "Tell me who you are."

Her eyebrows slant toward her nose. "Tell me who you are . "

"I asked you first, petunia . "

"You know my name. I know you heard Seb call me professor , so I know you heard him say my name."

"Yeah, I heard it, Gemma. But I didn't ask you to tell me your name. I asked you to tell me who you are. "

A silent beat passes while she stares me down and wrinkles crease her forehead with her scrutinizing expression. "I'm the Siren."

I lift an eyebrow and tilt my head, wait for her to continue.

"You haven't heard of me? Is it only the Reborn who know who I am, then?" She pauses, and her eyes appear to shift along with thoughts running through her mind. "How did they know I'm the Siren, but you don't? How do they know what I did?"

"What did you do?"

Her expression hardens. "You wanna know what I did? You wanna know who I am? I'm the girl who tortured and murdered three men who fucked with me and streamed it live on social media."

Right. She's a serial killer.

I made the connection when I saw how much the Reborn wanted her, yet that rather important detail must have slipped my mind somewhere between the Crevice and the Gates. For that reason alone, I should've left her behind. I should've found another woman to bring back in her place.

But there was just something about her that I couldn't walk away from, not from the second I laid eyes on her. The way she was standing there in the open desert, her long, pink hair briefly waving as a phantom breeze caught her. I don't think there was actually a breeze, but that's how I saw her—a mirage of all my deepest desires and darkest fears about myself come to life.

I know I'll have to vet her carefully before handing her over to Salem. I've vetted enough lawless to know who can be managed in our community and who poses a threat to our sustainability.

If Gemma killed repeatedly just for the thrill of it, then she'll be too dangerous to keep. If she proves to be a liability, then I can't allow her to stay here. I'd have to send her away to wander Lawless Land alone—maybe that would stop my dangerous obsession dead in its quickly laid tracks.

Except the mere thought of sending her away makes my molars grind, causing an ache in my jaw and tension in my neck.

I could just keep her here, like a pet…

Get her a collar and chain, lock her up in here with Angel…

I could bring men for her to kill, help her satiate the demented appetite of her bloodthirsty soul…

What the fuck am I thinking?

I drag myself from dark thoughts and snap back into reality. With a flick of my wrist, I snap the knife shut. I quickly slide it into the sheath in my boot, and shove to my feet. Gemma's arms drop from her knees, and her palms press to the floor on either side of her hips. She looks up at me, ready to leap to her feet and attack if I make a move against her.

"Get up," I command. "Walk upstairs. Do it yourself, or I'll drag you up the steps if I have to."

Her head shakes slowly, her face twisting toward anger and defiance. "No."

"Gemma—"

"I said no. " She jumps to her feet. "You'll have to kill me and drag my dead weight yourself because I'm not going anywhere you ask me to while I'm still alive."

"Final answer?" I give her another chance to make this easier for the both of us.

She shows me both middle fingers, her expression full of malice, though her voice is unnaturally sweet. "Eat a bag of shit."

I chuckle. "Okay, I see how you want this to go. Don't try to tell me later that I didn't give you a chance to do this the easy way."

I stomp toward her, and she side-steps with her back to the wall, moving until she hits the corner, and lodges herself there defensively. She holds out a hand to stop me, but she must know by now that she can't.

Angel barks as I reach out for Gemma, grabbing hold of her outstretched arm and using it to yank her away from the wall. She stumbles in my direction and collides with my chest. I grip her upper arms, keep a firm hold on her as I twist her around, force her to face away from me, and march her toward the door.

She shouts and thrashes as I push her into the hallway. She anchors her feet, sinks her weight, nearly lowers to a sitting position as she shoves back in an attempt to stop me.

It doesn't stop me, though.

I dip and wrap my arms around her waist from behind, spin us both all the way around so I can walk backward, lugging her with me down the hall. I reach the bottom of the staircase and move backward, dragging her up by the armpits.

She screams and shouts, fighting me with each step.

Her fists pummel my forearms.

Her shoes slide off from her kicking and tumble to the bottom.

Angel barks, though I can't tell if it's directed at her or at me.

I make it halfway up the staircase before Gemma twists. She pulls herself around, turning with enough force to corkscrew right out of my arms, flipping entirely onto her stomach. I reach for her with a grunt, but she slips away, quickly sliding down the steps.

"Shit." I race after her.

My boots share the steps with her sliding body, and I reach her mid-section just as her sock-covered toes reach the bottom step. With a quick turn, I lift one foot over her body and straddle her waist on the step. I reach down and grab hold of her, forced to handle her roughly with the way she fights so fucking hard.

It's starting to make my cock fucking hard, too.

I turn her beneath me, violently twisting her onto her back. She kicks her legs and fights to pull them free. When she plants her ass on a step and tries to sit up, I drop to my knees, kneeling on the same step to straddle her waist. To effectively pin her beneath me, I make her take some of my weight, ensure it's impossible for her to slip away, even though she continues to fight.

Fuck, I like the fight too much.

"Get off me!" Her arms swing wildly, and she's bound to land a strike sooner or later if I don't get her under control.

I snatch her wrists and wrestle her arms out of the air, press them back above her head, and put more weight on her hips. "You're not being very ladylike—"

Spit flies out of her mouth and strikes my cheek.

My head twists to the side as I take a moment to process. Then I shift her wrists to my left hand, squeeze them tight enough to grind her bones, and swipe the spit from my cheek.

"You trying to get a rise out of me, pink?"

I bring my spit-soaked fingers to her mouth and press them hard over her tightly pursed lips. I rub them around, give her a nice, glossy sheen with her own saliva as I attempt to pry them apart.

I'm losing control.

"Open up, Gemma. Let me give it back. We're in the middle of the desert, and fluids are scarce. We can't afford to waste a single drop."

Her head whips back and forth as muffled sounds of protest vibrate behind her sealed lips.

"Come on now, baby. One of us is swallowing that spit. Let me keep you hydrated."

I'm really losing it…

I want to hurt her.

I want her to like it.

I dig at the seal of her lips and manage to pry just enough to sink the tips of my fingers inside her mouth. But the second her tongue sweeps across them, she relents and opens wide. Then her teeth clamp down on my knuckles.

I yank my hand away. "Fuck!"

Guess I didn't learn my lesson the first time she bit me.

Unable to fling her arms, she whips me with one infuriated obscenity after another, swearing like a goddamn sailor.

I laugh a little because it's fucking cute.

"I'll string you up by your motherfucking ankles and choke the life out of you with your own shoelaces…" she says, then continues on, blazing with fury as she tells me all the horrible ways she wants to hurt me.

The fight in her is so incredible, the way she refuses to give up is so stunning. It's what I'd always hoped for from Emaline, and while she was strong and found her own way to survive, I never did get to see her become this.

Fierce.

Uninhibited.

Alive.

"…slit your throat and piss in it while I cut your dick off…"

I should be hesitant to put digits near Gemma's teeth again, but I can't help myself. I cup her cheek, brushing my thumb beneath her lip. Confusion melts into her expression at my sudden switch to a gentle hand, and it slows the speed at which she flings her words.

"…then shove it up your ass…" she trails off.

"I like your lips, Gemma."

With a shocked expression, she flinches. If there were any space between her head and the step it rests on, she would've jerked it back with enough force to give herself whiplash.

"When you were trying to distract me, and you kissed me on my bike… Felt good, didn't it? Your lips felt so good on mine."

"Excuse me?"

"Do you want me to kiss you now? Are you afraid to admit that you want it? Is that why you fight me so hard?" I dip a little lower.

"Get the fuck off me!"

I bend until our noses touch. Her eyes widen and her entire body stiffens, making the quick shift from fighting for her life to frozen in shock.

"Don't you fucking dare," she hisses.

"Do I have your full attention now, princess?"

Her eyebrows shoot to her hairline. "Did you think you had less than my full attention up until now?"

I pull back a few inches, give her a little space as I flash a grin. "I'll take that as a yes. Now, listen to me carefully. Your ass is going upstairs whether you fight me or not. Do you see where you are right now? How you tried so hard to fight me, only to end up beneath me, anyway? You're only gonna get hurt."

Absently, I stroke her hair. "And I don't know if you've forgotten or if you've just stopped caring, but you sliced your throat pretty good a couple of hours ago. Don't worry, we have people trained for medical care. Not exactly world-class physicians, but I'm sure you already knew we don't have hospitals or an endless supply of sterile instruments here in Lawless Land. You're definitely at risk of infection, and you probably shouldn't have let Angel lick all over you like that, but we'll do our best to keep you alive—at least, until you've served your time with us."

"Served my—"

"But let's say you break a rib thrashing around like that and puncture a lung, or hit your head on the wall and get a concussion… How much help do you think we can give you then, Gemma?"

"I'm not—"

"You need medical attention; I have people who can give you that. You need to eat; I have food. You need shelter; I put a roof over your head. You have questions; I have answers. But I can take that all away in a heartbeat if you can't learn to live by my rules."

Golden flames burn a halo of fury in her hazel eyes. "Fuck you and your rules."

I lean over her again, my body pressed to hers as I bring my lips to her ear. "Stop fighting me, Gemma. I can't help you if you insist on hurting yourself."