Page 21 of Devour

“I thought we talked about what I think about brat bullshit.” He licks the corner of my mouth where my lips meet, and I open for him. I want him to fucking kiss me. “You want to try that again? Your body isn’t a very good liar, even if that pretty mouth is.”

His thumb drags across my lower lip. I bite down on it before I can stop myself, and his eyes go dark.

“There’s my little heathen.” He lets his other hand run between my thighs, and I whimper when his fingers brush along my wet thong while people dance all around us. “You can lie to yourself all you want, baby. But your cunt has already made this decision for you.”

I hate him. I hate that he’s right. I hate that his fingers are between my thighs and I’m fighting not to grind against his hand in the middle of a crowded club. I hate that the pills have stripped away my good sense and all I want is for him to push my thong to the side and make me come right here in front of everyone.

But I ignored his ass for a reason.

“Are you going to ask me where my brother is?” I grab his wrist between my thighs, stopping his fingers from moving. “Because you’re using me to get to him. That’s all I am to you. A way to fuck with Justin.”

He lets his hand drop. His jaw works before his expression hardens. He grips my throat again, lowering his face to mine. “You think I’ve spent three years watching you, killing for you, and losing my fucking mind with this obsession for you because of Justin Carter?”

“He told me—”

“I don’t give a fuck what he told you.” He says the words through gritted teeth. “Your brother can rot in hell, for all I care, but it doesn’t change that you’re fucking mine. And it doesn’t have a goddamn thing to do with him.”

I stare up at him with his hand on my throat. His face is inches from mine, and the music is pounding behind us. I’ve pissed him off and I don’t give a shit. He’s pissed me off too.

“I came here to dance,” I tell him, knowing that this conversation isn’t going to go anywhere else. I want to believe him, but there’s no way to know what the fuck he or my brother are going to do.

He stares at me. I’m certain he’s working on how he’s going to drag me out of here. His thumb presses against my pulse, and he lowers his lips to my ear. “Then dance.”

He lets go of my throat and steps back. But he doesn’t leave. He grabs my hips and turns me around so my back is against his chest. His arms wrap around my waist, and his mouth drops to my ear again. “But you’re dancing with me. And if another man looks like he wants to touch you, I’ll break every bone in his body.”

His body moves behind mine, and I let him pull me into the rhythm. His hips press against my ass, his hands grip my waist, and I hate how perfectly I fit against him. He’s hard, and I can feel every inch of him through my dress. I know he wants me to feel it.

“I’m still pissed at you,” I tell him over my shoulder.

“Good.” His teeth graze my earlobe. “I like you pissed and grinding on my dick.”

I like myself grinding on his dick too. That’s the fucking problem.

CHAPTER 9

AXL

Kase hits the punching bag hard and sends it swinging into my chest. I catch it with both hands, shoving it back at him. He’s every bit of my height and size, and he needs to let off some steam. We all do. It’s been a long couple of weeks waiting for the fucking ceremony. When I’m not working for the Ravens, I’ve been following Saylor, making sure no one fucking touches her when she goes out with Kynlee.

Ever since she grinded on my dick at Velum, all I can think about is getting my heathen on her knees. So I’ve been hitting the gym a lot.

“Harder,” I tell him. “Is that all you’ve fucking got?”

“Fuck you.” He drives his fist into the leather, and the impact rattles up both my arms. That’s more like it. Kase has been here for the past two hours, and he’s not slowing down. His knuckles are raw and sweat is dripping off of him. He’s got that look in his eyes that tells me he’s not punching the bag. He’s using the bag to get out whatever is working him up.

I know the feeling. I’ve been running on it for three years. I’ve spent so much time working out down here, trying to get my mind off of fucking my little heathen.

The gym at the estate is underground with heavy bags bolted to the ceiling in rows. Weight benches and weight stacks line the other side with mirrors along the walls. The Ravens gave us this elaborate gym so the men they control can burn off their fucking aggression instead of killing each other.

Priest is on the bench across the room, bench pressing 300lbs and hardly breaking a sweat. The bar goes up and down, smooth and controlled, and his face doesn’t change. He’s been quiet tonight, which means he’s either pissed off about something or there’s something on his mind too. With Priest, it’s usually the same thing. All of us seem to have different shit going on—different from the fucked-up work we do.

“Again.” Kase throws a combination that rocks me backward. The leather cracks with each hit, and his wraps are soaked through with sweat and blood from where his knuckles split.

“Your hands are fucked,” I tell him.

“I don’t give a shit about my hands.”

His phone buzzes on the bench behind him. He ignores it. It buzzes again. Then again.