Chapter 7VoxRose

Chapter 7

Vox

What a fuckin’ morning.

Just as I was about to finally crash in my bed, catch a few hours of sleep before hitting the club, my phone starts ringing.

"Ares," I grunt, my voice rough, like gravel scraping against pavement. It's been a hell of a night, driving from Chicago to get back to Rose. I still feel her vanilla scent in my house like a reminder of a treasure that will forever remain out of reach.

Damn it. So much for keeping her at arm’s length.

I snatch up the phone, my tired voice edged with a hint of annoyance as I growl, “What's up?"

“There’s a shipment arrivin’ at the warehouse, need you there. I’m off to Chicago to deal with O’brian.”

“Thought you had found an arrangement.” Hence why he only pierced one of O’brian’s knees with the electric drill.

“We did, just gotta see if the arrangement looks good before closin’ the deal,” he says, chuckling. Looks like the arrangement they found is the daughter of O’brian that they are giving to Ares. That’s how a lot of conflicts are settled in our world. I can only hope she's tough enough, cause’ once Ares gets his hands on her, there's no telling what he'll do.

When people think I’m a psycho it always makes me laugh, because compared to Ares, I’m a fuckin’ saint.

“Alright, be there in twenty.”

Hanging up the phone, I quickly throw on some clothes, my mind already shiftin’ into work mode. Haven’t slept enough but club business can’t wait.

Despite the exhaustion weighing down every muscle in my body, I get up and head to the door. As the vice-president of the club, I know my role. There's no room for hesitation or second-guessing. I grab my keys and head out, the roar of my Harley Davidson echoing through the quiet morning streets.

Pulling up to the warehouse, I spot some of the club's members unloading crates from a truck. Ares strides towards me, his frame covered in tattoos towering over the others.

“Vox," he grunts, "Carter is dealin’ with one of Jameson’s guys, Novac, in the basement and I’ve ordered Specter and Havoc to empty the truck.” He shows me, waving his chin at our new prospects and the truck pulled over in front of the gates. Jameson has a large part of the south of the country and he’d sent a few guys to sniff around our clients, which we don’t fucking like, so we’re going to send a message, letting them know they shouldn’t fuck around with the Raven Sons.

"Gonna give Mendiaz a call, get him over to pick up the snow," he growls, usin’ our code for the cocaine we're moving. Mendiaz, prez of the Mexican cartel, is one of our best customers, never causing any damn trouble.

“Carter’s been at it for hours, told him you would take over for the morning after dealing with Mendiaz,” he says casually, because torturing is something we are so used to in our world that we talk about it like normal folks talk about the weather.

I nod, “Sure.”

"Solid, okay, then I’m out," Ares replies, tossing the keys to the warehouse doors before swinging onto his Harley. The roar of the engine fills the air as he revs it up, ready to hit the road. I turn my attention to the other guys and enter the warehouse, the clanging of metal echoing off the walls.

I step into my office. Contrary to Ares’s, filled with paper and stuff I have no fuckin’ clue where it comes from, mine is tidy as fuck. Every item in its proper place. I even put equal distance between the pens on my desk. Makes me feel at peace when there’s too much chaos in my head.

Removing my cut, I carefully put it on my chair. My leather jacket is my second skin, meticulously maintained and never neglected, a symbol of my loyalty and commitment to our club. Even during fights, I never let it touch the ground.

Only true bikers know how fuckin’ valuable it is.

I take my phone and call Mendiaz. We settle the details of the delivery quite fast which gives me more time to go into our basement. I knock two times on the door, letting Carter know that I’m here to take over for him. He usually likes to stay from beginning to end with his hostages, but he’s capable of forgetting to eat and sleep and when that happens, he fuckin’ loses it.

I mean, more than his usual sociopath self.

Opening the heavy metallic door, he grunts, “Was about time, Vox, I’m fucking hungry,” showing me a guy hung by the wrists from the ceiling.

“Alright, alright, go get yourself some food.” I chuckle, cracking my fingers and getting suddenly in the mood to break skulls.

How can such a giant fuckin’ killer like him can lose it if he doesn’t eat every few hours?

He puts down the machete he had in his hand and gets his cut from the coathanger we’ve put next to the door.

“He spilled out almost all of it. We just need the last name of the food chain,” he says, adjusting his leather on him. I nod and give him a tap on his back. “Good job, Cart,” I say. Even though Carter can’t exactly feel, I still want him to know we appreciate what he does.

When I see torture as a means, Carter makes it an art.

That’s his thing.

Closing the door behind him, I roll up my sleeves and step toward the guy bleeding in front of me.

“Novac? That’s right?” I say casually. The body barely moves, just a small moan escaping the guy's lips. Carter has skinned his left leg and cut him in about ten places then sewed it back together so he could keep on with the interrogation.

Like I said, a fuckin’ artist.

I’d say he’s still got one or two hours before dying so I’ll make this quick.

“Not a patient man, ya know… So what's the name of the guy you last sold to?” I say while searching for the hammer on the desk at my right.

“F, F… fuck you,” he manages to say.

I sigh and shake my head. “See this hammer?” I show him the tool casually. “I’m about to smash your skull with it in about one minute if you don’t talk.” Fear flashes in his eyes. He’s a big guy, bold, bulky, but I can see the exhaustion in his gaze and the knowing fact that these are his last minutes on this earth. I continue, “You’re bleedin too much to make it, so you can either choose to die quickly with a bullet in your head, or badly with a hammer.”

“Your choice.” I mimic the gesture of rising the hammer to him, but his voice breaks the silence of the dark room.

“W-wait.” His voice is as dry as sand, his body trying to move but struggles while his arms have dislocated due to hours of being hung.

“There’s a guy,” he says, out of breath.

“A guy? Who?” I ask patiently, waiting with the hammer in my hand.

“Don’t know his name… but he’s like a religious chief of somethin’.”

Fuck, I already know who’s name he’s gonna drop and I don’t fuckin’ like it.

“Be more specific.”

“He, he said he needed money.”

“Why?” I fire back at him.

“Cause he’s getting married and he wants to have a big wedding and shit.”

Fuck no, please say it’s somebody else.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, he said he needed to impress his people, like a fuckin’ messiah.” I am almost one hundred percent sure who we’re talking about by now, but I need to know more.

“Did he say anything else?” I ask, tilting my head.

“Nothin’ important.”

“Talk.” I get closer and push a finger in the wound of his shoulder.

“Stopp, plea-please.” I remove my finger after digging into his flesh to my knuckles.

“Don’t remember shit, he just talked about a chick, the one he’s marrying.” A strange feeling pulses through my veins, making me notice that I’ve held my breath for a few seconds.

“What about her?” I ask as casually as I can, hiding my worries behind an unbothered mask.

“He just said she’s got a nice piece of ass and also,” the guy says, spitting blood at the same time.

“Also WHAT?” I yell, losing my patience over him for talking so fuckin’ slowly.

“That he picked one who’s fuckin’ disabled so he could get his way with her easily. He took a mute chick, that’s all he said. He just laughed after,” Novac says, out of breath while the world around me seems to blur, the weight of his words hitting me like a sledgehammer.

Alexander Skarn. The leader of the Faithful Lambs.

I fuckin’ knew it.

And they were talking about Rose, like they had any right to.

My angel.

Wasn’t sure at first that he was talking about her, but deep down I knew it. Too many emotions rise in me, between fear and anger, and I don’t know how to fuckin’ process them. I haven't felt like this since I lost my family.

Fuck.

The idea of her being forced to be with someone else, or even just the idea of her being with anyone, makes me see red. But knowing that she has to tie herself to this old fucking piece of shit is the worst.

I take my Glock in my back strap and raise it to Novac’s head. He doesn’t say anything, perhaps relieved of knowing he’s gonna get a clean death, well as clean as you can go after being bled out like an animal.

I shoot him between his eyes, his head falling backward. Didn’t even give me any satisfaction. My mind is already focused on what he said.

My angel is getting married and I don’t like it one bit.

Rose

I’m lying in bed after what seemed like a never-ending day. Between the classes, prayers and the people murmuring about me, I’m exhausted. Thankfully I didn’t have my last class at the end of the day. Mr Collins called in sick.

That was the highlight of my day.

My nightgown itches and I wish I could just remove it and wear a t-shirt like the one Vox was wearing the first time I saw him in his garden.

My clock says it’s nine thirty. I want to get up and look at the window, to perhaps take a glance at him, but my body is drained and my eyelids are heavy. Too many feelings make me feel like a storm is coming and I don’t know what to do about it.

Should I accept my fate and obey?

Or should I allow myself to think of… more?

I’m scared and despite trying to reach out to my mother or my friends. I’ve never felt more alone in my life.

The only thought that brings me comfort is him.

So I close my eyes and imagine that he’s here, in my room, holding me in his large, muscular tattooed arms. His leather and manly scent hits my nostrils while I melt into his body and drift myself to sleep.

Suddenly, darkness descends upon my imaginary sanctuary, shattering the illusion of safety I’d found in Vox’s arms. Instead of peaceful dreams, I find myself trapped in a living nightmare.

I’m standing in a grand, sprawling mansion. It looks fancy with high ceilings and golden molding, but the walls are in flames. I try to breathe but all I can do is choke on the smoke filling the house. I try to run to another room, but each door keeps sending me back to the same room I was in. Panic courses through my veins as I realize that I am trapped, the heat of the fire pressing in on all sides, leaving me with nowhere to run. I try to call for my parents, but no sounds come out of my mouth. The flames are getting bigger and hungrier, voices inside them calling my name. I look everywhere around me but there’s no escape, and each second that passes makes my lungs burn with every breath.

Suddenly, I hear the sound of footsteps behind me, making the floor squeak like in a horror movie. “Come here, little lamb,” says a voice with a cold, dark laugh. I dare not look back, for fear of what I might see, but I can feel the presence of someone—or something—lurking just beyond the reach of the flames.

With my heart pounding in my chest, I try to run to the only window in the room, desperation driving me forward as I search for a way out of this hell. But no matter how hard I try to open it, it remains shut.

Panic takes over me, the flames dancing around my feet, the smoke filling in every corner of my lungs while my eyes spot something behind the window.

And there, in the distance, I see him—a man on a motorcycle, a dark knight standing in the obscurity.

Him.

“Vox! Vox, I’m here, please, help me!” I try to shout but no sounds come out of me. In the distance, I hear the sound of laughter—a cruel, mocking sound that sends a chill down my spine.

“He can’t save you, little lamb, you’re mine.” His high-pitched laughter makes my body shiver with fear.

No, please, god, no!

And then, with a sudden jolt, I find myself back in my bed, trembling and disoriented, a pair of strong arms wrapped around me, pulling me close.

Vox?

"Rose, it's okay, Angel. You're safe now, I’ve got you," he whispers, his breath warm against my ear.

A nightmare, it was just a nightmare.

I’m out of breath, my nightdress sticking to my back as if I had just run a marathon.

“Breathe,” he says, humming in my ear. I locked my eyes with him, confusion and relief written on my face. He’s sitting next to me, on my bed.

“Don’t ask,” he says with his deep warm voice, like he doesn’t want me to know how he got there, or how he even knew I needed him.

It should worry me, but it doesn’t. I’m glad he’s here, no matter how he got there.

I suddenly notice that his hands are still holding me, and I don’t hate it. It’s actually quite the opposite. I know it’s wrong and my future husband… the Shepherd, should be the only one to touch my body but at this moment I don’t care about those rules.

All I want is to be safe in his arms.

He starts to remove his hands reluctantly, but I gently grab one of his forearms, trying to tell him to keep them on me. Hesitation crosses his gaze and I see how much he doesn’t want to push me further than I can take it, which makes my chest swell ever more.

But something even more surprising shines in the depths of his eyes.

Fear.

I don’t understand why, but I want to erase it from his breathtaking blue eyes and make it all better.

Keeping his forearm in my hand, I pull it toward my shoulder in a silent request.

“Is this okay?” he says in a worried tone. I make a small nod, my breathing getting back to normal as each second passes in his presence.

“Do you want me to hold you, Angel?” he asks, his voice carrying a hint of vulnerability.

Such a strong man, and yet, he’s showing me more respect than any person I’ve ever met.

I nod again, wordlessly pleading for him to stay by my side a little while longer. With a soft exhale, he pulls me towards him and wraps his arms around me, keeping me close to his chest. I bury my face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the new familiar scent of leather and musk.

With one arm he circles my back in a protective embrace while his other hand strokes my hair.

This is the most intimate moment of my life and I’m living it with him.

Not someone from my community, not my, ugh, fiancé, but him.

Inhaling his manly scent, goosebumps appear all over my skin and a warm sensation churns in my belly.

I just want this moment to last forever.

As Vox's lips brush against my forehead, a shiver runs down my spine, sending a rush of tingling warmth through my veins.

“Feelin’ better?” he asks with a breathy voice. It’s too dark to write in my notebook and show it to him, but I can still see his face with the reflection of the moon. Gathering all the courage I can find, I furrow my brows and swallow hard. Making a small, almost appreciable moan in response.

His body freezes for a second, surprised to actually hear me.

When my vocal chords got damaged two years ago, I lost all ability to speak, but if I push myself enough, which is extremely painful, I can manage to make extremely small sounds that you can only hear in complete silence.

For him, I overcome the pain, wanting to offer him a piece of me that I don’t give to others.

His response is immediate, his grip tightening around me as if to reassure me that he's there. His arm pulls me tighter to his chest until I can feel his heartbeat against mine, his lips pressed against my forehead.

Can a person become your safe place?

I can’t help but think that he feels like coming home at the end of a long day. The way he keeps putting his lips on my forehead makes me want to stay here forever.

Silence surrounds us in the depth of the night, making me cling to his chest even more.

I don’t want to be alone tonight. I wish I could be at his place.

But that’s crazy.

Why would he want that?

And how could I allow myself such a behavior? I’m supposed to be a good lamb who follows the rules.

Removing my face from the crook of his neck, I lift my eyes to his as if they could give me the answers I’m desperately looking for.

“Is it true, you’re gonna get married?” His voice breaks as he says the last word- married. I can sense the tension in his body, the subtle shift in his demeanor as if he was trying to hold back something.

What can I tell him? Yes, I’ve been chosen by my sixty-year-old spiritual leader and I must fulfill my duty despite gagging at the idea of it?

He looks in my eyes with so much intensity, a shiver shakes my body. Tears build in my eyes and threaten to spill when he cups my cheek with one of his rough hands.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he says as if my eyes had given him the answer he was looking for. He exhales, keeping his voice low enough so we won’t be heard.

“You ever want to leave, to escape, to hide, you call me.” He strokes my cheek with his thumb. I lean into his touch, my heart skipping a beat at his words.

“You need me, Angel, for any reason, I'll be there in a heartbeat,” he says like a promise, his tone as heavy as if he was taking a vow.

As tears trickle down my cheeks, I feel Vox's thumb brush them away, his touch gentle yet firm, anchoring me to the present moment. I wish I could tell him how lost I am, but somehow he doesn’t seem to need me to write it down; he just senses it.

"C’mon, you need to rest," he says, kissing my forehead again. He lifts himself from the bed, making me ache for the loss of his closeness and sits on the chair next to my bed.

"I'll stay here tonight, watchin’ over ya. If you have another nightmare, I'll be right here.

Why would he ever want to do that?

The sight of him sitting next to me with his black clothes and veiny hands resting on his thighs makes my heart pump harder.

Instead of keeping myself awake with questions, I choose to embrace him being here, with me. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this, but I sure will enjoy every single minute I can spend in his presence.

With a small nod, I lie down again and let him pull the covers over me.

Could this moment last forever?

I drift into sleep surprisingly fast, knowing he’s there, in arm’s reach.

For tonight at least, I am not alone.