Chapter 3Vox

Chapter 3

Vox

"So, you really don’t know anything about it, right?" says Ares, sitting in front of the leader of the Iron Celts of Chicago, tied up in the club basement. It’s fucking late and I just want to be done with this fucker.

"I swear, Ares, fuck, it was a trap! I didn’t know shit; it was Nero, I’m sure of it," yells Connor O’brian, begging for us to spare his life and not skin him alive like the traitor he is.

"I see." Ares stands up and walks to the toolbox we always keep in the back corner of the room. Connor can’t see him anymore and starts to beg, his eyes full of fear.

“Please, please, I swear I’m innocent. We can find an arrangement. I’ll do anything.”

Ares comes back to his chair, taking his time, like a lion waiting to devour his prey.

“I’m fuckin’ hungry, how ’bout we go get some steak, Vox?” he says casually, ignoring the bleeding man sitting in front of him. He knows Nero was under this, but O’brian must have tried to make a deal with him. Don’t think he’ll die today, but Ares is definitely gonna teach him a lesson about loyalty.

“Sure, Prez, it’ll give him time to find a good arrangement for us, ain’t that right, O’brian?” We’ve been at it for hours. Breaking him slowly to get what we want made me hungry. Wouldn't mind getting a good steak.

He nods and begs some more, looking more pathetic as each second passes.

Who the fuck thinks it’s okay to make deals with our enemies?

The bastard will be lucky if he walks out alive.

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I reach for it with anticipation. That's the surveillance app from the camera I have installed in my angel's bedroom, an hour after she left with her father this morning. I open it and see her lying on her bed, still wearing her odd clothes.

Somethin’s off.

“Gotta handle somethin’, Prez, be back in a few,” I say as casually as I can, trying to shut down the rising fear in my chest. Ares nods and stares into O’brian's eyes.

“Oh, take your time, we have all the time in the world,” he says, grabbing the electric drill.

Looking closer at the screen, I notice she's not moving but somehow I know she's not sleeping yet. Her hair is glued to her face in a strange way, very different from the tight braid I saw on her yesterday. There's not enough light for me to see clearly, but her hands have a peculiar color, as if they had been painted with blood.

My breathing skips a beat as I walk out of the basement, hearing O’brian crying mixed with the sound of the drill.

Damn it, Ares can’t help himself.

Hope I’ll get there in time before he does too much damage.

Walking into the main hall, which is basically a massive warehouse, I pass by Carter and Steele playing cards, a chick on their lap with old rock’n’roll songs at full blast. I would normally join them, but not this time. Striding toward the bar, I slip behind it. My eyes scan the shelves until they land on the emergency box tucked away in the corner. I reach for it, grabbin’ the bandages and disinfectant. You never know if they might come in handy.

My phone vibrates again, the movement detector showing her fidgeting to find a comfortable position. I wish I could just see her now to make sure she’s okay.

That’s strange. I don’t know her.

Why would I need to know that?

This is dangerous territory, and I’m fully aware that paying her a late-night visit isn't really respecting my rule of keeping her at arm's length. But I can’t fuckin’ help it.

I take my keys and mount my Harley in a heartbeat. Every twist and turn brings me closer to her, the only thought on my mind. The idea of somebody daring to touch her makes my blood pulse harder.

Don’t give a fuck why, I just don’t like the idea.

Parking in front of my house, I keep my gear on me and walk to my neighbor's house with my helmet still on.

Visiting their home this morning was an interesting experience. The Parkers have an odd conception of home, staging it as if nobody was really living in it but just passing by, needing only the bare minimum. Couldn't find anything remotely comfy or inviting, the whole place filled with wood furniture and empty walls. All but one, where I finally figured out who they were: “The Ascension awaits those who do not fear death.”

My Angel is a member of the Faithful Lambs. A local cult with pretty fucked up beliefs. It makes sense, her appearance, her parents' austere looks, this big Spartan house.

Wonder if she knows that her cult is entangled in my underworld.

As I reach the main door, I kneel and use the screwdriver I took with me when I got out of the basement to unlock the door. The click of the mechanism releasing is a sound I've grown accustomed to. This isn't the first time I've had to break in somewhere, and it certainly won't be the last. With the door now unlocked, I push it open slowly, each movement calculated to minimize noise.

I walk in, knowing my surroundings thanks to my earlier visit that day. All the lights are off, and I’ve seen her parents have their bedroom on the ground floor. I walk to their door, checking if they are sleeping. Don’t want to have to hit them before making sure they did something to her. They haven’t closed their doors, so I take a peek, seeing them asleep. They lie sound asleep, unaware of the intrusion into their home.

People look different when they sleep, more vulnerable, easier to kill.

The house is shrouded in darkness, but I progress with ease, relying on memory and instinct. Each step on the stairs is calculated, my ears tuned to the faintest sound. At the end of the hallway, her closed door looms like the last barrier between me and my angel. The familiar scent of vanilla drifts through the air.

Fuckin’ sweet.

Despite not being in her presence yet, she already consumes my mind like a goddamn drug. My intention is simple: to ensure she's safe and then return to the club. At least, that's what I tell myself.

Steppin’ into her room, I find myself momentarily breathless, captivated by the sight of her body nestled into the mattress like an angel resting on her cloud. Her furrowed brows are frozen on her sweet face, and as I look at her, I take in the horror in front of me.

What the actual fuck?

Her hands are bleeding heavily, one of her nails is gone, and her delicate fingers look like they have been smashed with a strong object. The darkness doesn’t allow me to see as much as I want, but I notice light bruises on her jaw, her hair still sticking to her face like she had been…

…Drowned?

Fury spreads through my body like molten lava.

Who dares touch such a sweet girl?

Despite being cold-blooded when it comes to torturing my enemies, I fucking hate seeing her hurt, and I don’t know why. After losing my family, I thought I could never feel this again. Becoming vice-president of the club trained me to put my conscience away and embrace the darkness within me. There’s no other way if you want to survive in my world. But even the lost souls like mine have rules, and protecting women and children is one of them.

Removing my helmet and putting it slowly on the floor, I approach her bed and kneel next to her. Her parents must be responsible for this; otherwise, she wouldn’t be in her bed like it was a normal evening. And the fuckers are sleeping like babies downstairs. I bite my fist, fighting the urge to confront them myself and scare the fuck out of them.

Breathe. Fuckin’ breathe.

I don’t know what’s happening to me. I never lose my shit, especially not for women.

It’s fuckin’ wrong, I shouldn’t even be here.

The walls around my chest are meant to protect me from getting hurt, and I’ve built them for a reason. I’ll take care of her wounds and go back to my life. She’ll never know it was me who took care of her.

Judging by the sound of her breathing, she’s completely out, so I shouldn't be bothered with her waking up.

The thing is, she made it clear she didn’t want me to touch her skin this morning. And as much as I’m dying to put my hands on her, I don’t fucking want her to think I took advantage of her being out.

How the fuck can I care for her if I can’t touch her?

Staring at her heart-shaped face and her full lips, I find an idea.

I’ll keep my black leather gloves on. This way, I’m not technically touching her.

That’s the best I can do.

Grabbing the disinfectant I brought with me, I check it to ensure it's painless before spraying it on her hands. The last thing I want is for her to wake up in shock from the burn of the alcohol. Applying it to her hands, I then take the bandages and mend her fingers carefully without moving her arms too much. I've learned to do it after each cage fight of Ares throughout the years.

She wiggles a bit, shaking her head until she rests it on the pillow, her beautiful face facing me. I'm done with her hands. There’s not much more I can do without waking her up.

Noticing her wet hair, I go out of the room and into her bathroom. It’s almost empty, just a shower and a spartan-looking sink, which I’m pretty sure isn’t usual for a young woman. But then again, nothing about her is usual. Besides the essential toothbrush and hairbrush, all I see is a bottle of vanilla soap. That’s where her scent comes from. I reach for it before stopping myself.

No, I'm not gonna steal it, she wouldn’t be able to use it after. I make a mental note to buy one for myself and put it in my bathroom. Perhaps it will help ease the desire I have to breathe in her neck since this morning.

You’re so fucked already.

I find towels under the sink and take one with me back into her room. Carefully lifting her head, I put the towel on her pillow, then hold her until she rests again on it. A surge rises in me to remove her clothes and put her in her pajamas, but even I know that would be crossing a line.

You think?

Actually, I'm aware I’m already bending standard social rules by being in her room right now. But I couldn’t give less of a fuck. Standing beside this angel, I take in her womanly curves and the way her chest rises at each inhale. I can’t help but pull the cover over her and tuck her in, knowing that, at least, she won’t be cold.

I look beside me at the camera I've hidden on her dresser, fucking glad I did it. Staying away isn’t gonna be easy but at least I will be able to watch her anytime I need to.

My phone vibrates, and I know Ares wants me to go back to handle O’brian. I sigh. For the first time in thirteen years, I’m struggling to leave a place to reach the club. My mind starts to churn with so many fucking questions, wondering if I should wake up her parents and slit their throats or if I should leave her a note that I was there.

Fuck it.

With a grunt, I grab the pen and notebook from her bedside table. My calloused fingers fumble with the small pages. I scribble a few terse words. My handwritin’ resembles more of a scrawl than anything fancy like hers.

I put the notebook down and shake my head. “What am I doin’ here?” I murmur to myself. It's fuckin' ironic, playing the role of a perfect gentleman when my life revolves around anything but. But for her, I'd put on the charade, if only to ease whatever doubts she might have.

I grab my helmet and reach for her face with my hand covered in leather, letting a gentle caress on her cheek.

"Sleep tight, sweetheart," I whisper, before leaving the place.

Turning away from the angel lying in front of me, I make my way out of the room, the roar of my motorcycle callin’ me back to the reality of the club.

I can’t let her enter my life, not now, not ever. What happened to her was her business, her life, and I can’t get more involved than I already am. I need to stick to what has been keeping me alive for the last decade: the club and my brothers. That’s where my loyalty lies. The ride toward the club helps clear my mind, and I enter the basement carrying the fury of what happened to Rose.

God help O’brian.