Chapter 7 That Monster Right There

— 7 —

THAT MONSTER RIGHT THERE

Gemma

I WOULD ABSOLUTELY fall on my ass if Motorcycle Man didn't have such a firm grip on me, but his hold is steadfast. He drags me back until I slam into his chest. His large hands wrap around my upper arms, fingertips digging into my flesh as he whirls me around to face him. He walks me backward and shoves me against the rock wall. The air is knocked from my lungs as my spine crashes into hard stone, as his hard, stone body crushes me against the mountain.

I tilt my chin to stare up at him.

Eyes concealed behind aviator sunglasses.

Mouth and nose hidden behind the black fabric.

I can make out the white design printed on the front of it now—the nose and mouth of a skeleton.

He hides his face behind an image of death.

I snarl, my lips curling with rage. "Show me your eyes, coward. Let me see your violence."

Something resembling a warning growl vibrates through his gut. I feel it rumble where his body presses to mine, and a strange heat washes over me—something internal, a feverish discomfort more consuming than the desert sun could produce.

He lifts one of his hands to clutch my throat and leans in close, his fabric-covered cheek touching mine. His other hand slips up my arm, over my shoulder, and he twirls his finger around a strand of my faded bubblegum-pink hair.

His lips brush my ear. "You've made yourself an easy target, little cherry blossom."

I make a fist and land a punch to his gut. There isn't enough momentum in my swing, and it lands with little impact. He groans at the strike, but hardly flinches. He releases my hair to grip my wrist between our bodies, widens his stance, and presses closer.

Literally stuck between a rock and a hard place…

He's so close that I can't move, can't fight. His grip on my wrist is painfully tight, knuckles digging into my stomach where he holds it still.

"The women in black aren't trying to help you." His voice rumbles, and I feel it vibrate through my skin, striking just beneath my ear and shuddering down the side of my neck. "If you go with them, you'll regret it."

"I'm not going anywhere with anyone," I hiss. "Get the fuck off me!"

"I like the way you fight me, bubblegum." I feel his face press into the crook of my neck, and it stuns me, freezes me like ice. "Keep trying."

His false familiarity shocks me.

I'm enraged but stunned by how confidently he speaks to me.

I'm petrified by the boldness of his touch.

It's rough, aggressive, possessive—everything I've ever known a man's touch to be. But somehow, it's also restrained. My mind can't make sense of the restraint in this dangerous moment. The contradiction of it is so heavy that the feeling sinks in my gut, flips and twists around, then sinks deeper. It's like an anchor that drags an unexpected thrill down with it to my very core.

My stomach contracts with the sensation, trying to fight it, wanting to feel it.

I hate the way my body responds to it.

I shouldn't feel… that.

It makes me feel weak and vulnerable. It reminds me of all the ways Seb fooled me before luring me away from the life I had planned. This man is the worst kind of dangerous for me, and I need to get away from him as fast as I can.

I use every muscle in my body to push, throw my weight against him, struggle and fight as hard as I can. Yet he remains an unyielding statue that pins me with ease—he's lean, but he's all fucking muscle.

"Siren!" a female voice calls out to me.

Not Katie or Quinn…

Where are they?

Are they safe?

Motorcycle Man turns his head to look toward the voice, and I do, too. Rushing in our direction from somewhere deeper within the passage are three women in black—I'm almost certain it's the same three women I saw atop the mesa, but they're on the ground with us now.

How did they get down so quickly?

It's the woman at the center who speaks, just like before. "Help her!" she shouts, turning her head back over her shoulder. "She's the Siren… We need her!"

What the fuck do they need me for?

My fear shifts, drawn toward the women in black, and then to the handful of men emerging from behind them.

Fuck .

Motorcycle Man's head swivels, bringing us nose to nose. "I guess they want you like I do. You'll have to choose between us, won't you?" His hand clutches my throat again, but his grip is light, just a touch. "You already know the right choice, pinky. Make it. "

He lets go and steps back. It feels like an invisible rope was attached to his hand, and when it lowers, he pulls all the danger and fear through my body, twisting and mixing them with the thrill in the pit of my stomach.

I always knew this day would come…

The day my trauma turns into kinks.

My mind is so fucked up that it confuses danger with desire.

I laugh out loud as the word "desire" crosses my mind, one hand reflexively going to my throat. I bend, placing the other on my knee as shallow breaths stutter through my laugh. My pink hair falls in front of my face as I laugh at the absurdity of this life. I fight unexpected tears from spilling down my cheeks.

I jerk my head, tossing my hair aside, and slowly lift my chin to look up at him. Just as my gaze lands on the black bandana, he raises his right hand to his face, revealing the nose and mouth of a partial skull tattooed on the hand that gripped my throat. My eyes narrow with curiosity as he quickly pulls down his bandana, then removes his sunglasses.

I draw in a sharp breath when I finally meet his eyes. They're lighter than I expected… light where I anticipated darkness. They seem blue, though the shade is faint and the light now spilling over him makes them look almost foggy gray. Like wispy clouds across a bright blue sky or a rare blue star beyond a nebula's haze… I get lost in them for a moment.

He glances right, then holds out his hand, as if he expects me to take it and…

Do what?

Ride off into the sunset together?

I blow the heady air from my lungs and straighten to my full height—all five feet six inches—and take a step toward him, looking directly into his breathtaking eyes. "I'm not going anywhere with anyone." I take another brave step closer, my chin rising to maintain eye contact, as he's at least six or seven inches taller than me. "I suggest you fuck off now before you really piss me off. You have no idea what I'm capable of."

His expression remains serious, though his cheek twitches just above a dimple—a dimple with a line that cuts as hard as the rest of him. "That's not what I wanted to hear, baby. Try again."

" Baby ? Are you fucking—"

The song…

Before I snap, I hear the song.

The melody's strong and clear, and I'm not just hearing it in my mind. The whistled tune grows louder, bouncing off the two towering walls.

I turn and step toward the sound as the women in black stop. I stop, watching them warily as they stand side-by-side about twenty or thirty feet away. It's not any of the women whistling the song that I reclaimed for my vengeance; it's someone else approaching.

A man I've never seen before comes around from behind the women, dressed in black, lips still. It's not that man whose appearance strikes me in the chest, reaches inside me and rips the tainted melody from the place where it's imprinted on the shadow of my soul.

It's the man who follows behind him.

At the sight of him, I stumble backward.

Motorcycle Man's hand clamps around my elbow, keeping me upright and holding me steady. But I'm unconcerned with him at the moment. Because the man whistling the song that he played to torture me time and time again stands before me.

Logan fucking Sebastian is dressed in black, standing in front of the women who called to me. His eyes find mine, and he stops whistling mid-chorus to grin at me, showing his straight teeth and deceptively charming smile.

What kind of fucking monster stops a song before resolving the goddamn melody?

"That fucking monster…" The words grit from between my teeth. " That monster right there…"

"Professor Hadley… " The monster tilts his head and twists his expression toward condescension. "No, I'm sorry, that's not right, is it? I heard you never did go back to finish your PhD. It's a shame. Should I just call you Gemma, then?"

He takes a single step closer, and I feel as though I could spit fire. I'm leaning in, itching to wrap my hands around his throat, but some vice-like grip on my elbow keeps me from pouncing.

"Gemma Hadley. The fucking Siren herself. That's what they're calling you now, right?"

Seb takes another step, and I bend my knees, something primitive within me preparing to lunge.

"I have to admit, when the news reached me that you were convicted of killing my three best friends, I felt a little something…" He thumps his fist over his heart. "Pride. Just look how far you've fallen, Gem."

"Don't call me Gem—"

"I remember you were one of the most promising young academics at Yale," he says with an air of feigned nostalgia. "Top of your doctoral program, right? You were still years from finishing your degree, but already entertaining offers from Ivy Leagues. You were so fucking uptight, so focused and driven, so goddamn boring. "

I'm fuming.

The grip on my arm is the only thing keeping me in place.

"You were so fucking fun to ruin. And you know what? I'm actually glad you survived what I did to you. Just look at us now." He waves his hand between us. "I made you what you are today—a violent, vicious villain. And now we can be family."

He spreads his arms wide, glancing over his shoulder at the women who stand behind him. "You can become a Daughter of Darkness." He grins sadistically. "I fucking love my daughters."

I jerk hard against the grip on my arm. Disgust and the need to claw out his goddamn eyeballs turn me into a feral creature.

Seb lets his arms drop against his sides. "I'm afraid I'll have to insist that you find a new Siren song, though. I have to say, it hurt my heart to find out what you sang to my best friends when you killed them. Seemed a little unfair that you didn't give me credit for the choice of your signature song. It is our song, after all, isn't it?"

He just hammered the final nail in his coffin.

Pure carnal rage explodes within me.

I'm gonna kill him.

I'm gonna tear him to pieces with my bare fucking hands.

Violent fury grants me a moment of supreme strength, and I use it to rip my arm from Motorcycle Man's powerful grip.

I run after Seb, intent on clawing the grin off his face.

I dig my nails into his cheek as soon as I reach him, draw flesh beneath my fingernails, and triumph in the moment I hear him cry out in surprise.

But then I'm captured.

Strong arms close around my waist from behind, dragging me back. I scream at Motorcycle Man to let me go, my arms and legs wildly flailing in my desperation for violence against Seb. My movements knock him off-balance and we twist; he falls back on his ass with me writhing and clawing the air in his hold.

"Down girl," he mutters before he rolls, dropping me on my side.

Oh, he has a death wish.

Before I scratch him, too, he slams me onto my stomach. His weight shifts above me as I thrash, kick, and scream like the undead, possessed, and singularly focused on the attack.

Motorcycle Man fists a thick chunk of hair at the base of my skull. Rising to his feet, he hoists me straight up from the ground with a single, inhuman tug. My hands shoot back, grappling at his wrist, but his grip is firm. He walks backward and drags me with him.

"I'll fucking kill you, Seb!" My feral voice is demonic, and I barely recognize the sound of it. "I'll cut out your goddamn Devil's forked tongue and make you choke on it, motherfucker!"

Not as eloquent or sophisticated as I'd hoped to be, but it gets the point across.

Motorcycle Man chuckles. "That's it, strawberry shortcake, you let him have it." His voice is low and quiet as he flattens his palm over my belly, drawing my body back against him.

If I could twist against his hold, I would backhand him so damn hard… But then a cold, sharp line of metal touches my neck, and fear comes back to quell my fight.

Motorcycle Man holds a knife to my throat.

"I told you to make the right choice, professor. " The way he whispers professor is taunting.

I'm gonna kill him, too.

"I don't know your history with her," he bellows, speaking to them rather than whispering to me, "but she's mine now, and she's coming with me. Try to stop me, and I'll slit her throat. She'll be no good to you then."

I nearly laugh. Seb would love to watch me bleed out and die here in front of him. But his face doesn't show that he would… He touches his palm to his bloody cheek, looks at Motorcycle Man with a tense jaw and slightly widened eyes.

Oh, I get it…

Seb wants to kill me himself.

He'd be pissed if he were denied the opportunity to do it himself.

But then the woman at the center of the three who stand behind him steps forward, worry etched in her expression. She lightly places her palm on Seb's arm.

"You can't let him take her. We need her. She's perfect. You promised she would be ours."

What?

Seb doesn't look at her—his eyes are fixed on the knife at my throat. "I know. I'll take care of it." He shoos her away with a flick of his hand, and she steps back in line far too easily. "We're willing to make a trade for her." Seb motions behind him at the women in black. "Take one of ours."

The women exchange confused looks.

"Any of them will go willingly at my command. Take your pick."

"I don't make deals with the Devil." Motorcycle Man steps back, and I move with him.

"What do you want, then?" Seb steps forward.

We take another step back.

"Name it," Seb offers. "Tell me what you want, and it will be yours. All we want is the Siren."

Motorcycle Man moves backward so slowly, one creeping step at a time, almost like he's stalling.

What is he waiting for?

Why doesn't he just fucking kill me?

He must be a monster like Seb. They both threaten my life, but it's only to control me. They want to control me so they can use me, abuse me, get off on my suffering. I'd rather be dead than suffer either of these men.

I could just turn my head… Slash my own throat against his knife.

The intrusive thought consumes me.

Do it.

Take back control of your life.

End it now.

Look Seb in the eyes while you bleed out.

Enjoy the look of disappointment on his face while you die.

I tempt fate. I lift my chin before slowly turning my face, and the razor thin edge of the blade lightly slices across my skin. I feel the dragging sting of it, the hot burning pain and wet, sticky heat as blood trickles down my throat.

The people in black jump in response, calling out, "No!" and "Stop!" as they lunge, fighting the urge to run after me or reach out a hand as though they could stop this from a distance.

What did I just do?

I draw in a sharp breath of panic.

I pull back, press the back of my skull against Motorcycle Man's shoulder, retreating from the blade. I know I didn't cut myself deep—no more than the depth of a hair's width—but throats are tender, and I will die here today if I'm cut any deeper than the short line I just drew beneath my own chin.

The people in black are anxious over my spilled blood, but Seb remains calm, wearing an arrogant smirk that reminds me of how fooled he had me in the beginning with his lies and manipulations. He probably has all these people fooled, too.

He creeps forward slowly, both palms raised. "Take it easy with her. Her blood is precious… it needs to be preserved. Spill another drop, and you'll give us cause for retaliation."

Motorcycle Man turns his head, cranes his neck to look at my profile. I lift my eyes to meet his—those nebulous blue star eyes—and watch them skate down my cheek until they land at the knife he still holds beneath my chin.

"Look at that…" The corners of his lips twist into an oddly pleasant grin, and his eyes lift, connecting with mine. "So eager to bleed for me, aren't you?"

My mouth drops open in shock, but I'm at a loss for words.

It's the way his celestial eyes light up the shadows of my soul.

But then he blinks away, fixating on my throat. His hand rises from my stomach, my entire body flinching against his touch as the side of his hand grazes my breast on the way up.

"Don't worry," he tells them as his index and middle fingers trace a delicate line up my throat. He turns them just beneath the blade to trace the cut, gathering blood on his fingertips. He lifts them away and holds his two blood-soaked fingers out to show them. "I can put it back."

His fingers press hard to my lips without warning. He rubs them forcefully along the seam until I'm forced to let them part. He shoves both fingers inside my mouth, slips them across my tongue, feeding me the metallic taste of my own blood. He pushes deep and doesn't stop until I gag. I finally recover from the initial shock just as he draws them back.

I bite—not nearly as hard as I intended, but hard enough to leave marks on his fingers before he yanks them out. I know it had to hurt, but he barely reacts other than shaking out his hand. He stretches his arm across my chest, curves his palm around my arm to hold me tightly against him.

His lips brush the shell of my ear as he whispers, "I wouldn't dare waste a drop of you."

He drags me back three quick steps, and now I see that he and I are no longer on our own. Three men step up from behind Motorcycle Man. One holds a metal baseball bat across the back of his shoulders, another flexes a heavy chain, and the third spins a tire iron. I think they must be the men from the pickup truck I saw speaking to Motorcycle Man on the highway. They move together, forming a human wall between us and the people in black.

That's what he was waiting for… backup.

Motorcycle Man spins me around to face him.

The world turns beneath my feet.

He shoves me backward until my spine hits the vertical wall of the plateau, taking us back into the shadow where he caught me the first time. He pulls the blade from my neck and replaces it with his palm, fastening his hand around my throat with a firm grip. He gives a quick flick of his wrist with the other hand, the blade neatly folding into the handle, and he slips it into his back pocket.

My backpack—which I'd thrown off during our chase—skids across the ground after he kicks it backward with his black combat boot.

"Hayes," he calls out.

The man with the chain glances back, spots the backpack, and gives Motorcycle Man a quick nod.

He dips in front of me and wraps both arms around my waist. I yelp as he lifts me from the ground, easily tossing me over his shoulder. He walks back toward the opening of the passage, carries me, kicking and screaming, to the sounds of protests and fighting behind him. Moving quickly, we're back through the passage in no time.

Fighting him every step, I don't even realize we've reached his motorcycle until he lifts me off his shoulder and plops me backward on the seat. He grabs my right leg and forces it over to the other side, making me straddle the machine. I try to lift it over again to join the left, but he has me beat in size and strength. He wrestles my thighs apart with both tattooed hands, pressing down so hard it hurts.

He leans in close, touching the tip of his nose to mine. "I promise, you're safer with me, pink."

I snap my teeth at him, threatening without words to bite him again—any part of him that he dares to put in my face.

But then he smiles, and it knocks me back.

His provocative grin shows me his own straight white teeth that could chomp me right back. His thumbs dig deep into my thighs.

"You're cute, like a nipping puppy. But if you're gonna nip at a pit bull," he climbs onto the motorcycle, tightens his grip on my thighs, and pulls me close, "don't be surprised if he bites back."

He holds me to his chest, my legs draped over his thick, muscled thighs. I can feel his cock right there between my legs, and I fully expect blind rage to strike as my hands shoot up to his chest.

But it doesn't strike… and I don't push him away.

His sculpted arms reach around me to grip the handlebars, caging me in. The engine revs, and the machine eases into motion. He turns the rumbling beast between my legs—between our legs—circling back to face the highway.

At least the man and the machine face the highway, while I only face the man who now holds my life in his hands.

Fuck, I hope he knows how to ride this thing.

My fingers bunch the fabric of his black shirt as he straightens out. He rolls the throttle. I drop my face, pressing it into his chest to shield my eyes from the sand. He gears up, punches the invisible wall of heat with a burst of speed, and the forces of nature thrust my body into his.

I throw my arms around his waist and hold on for dear life.