Seizing Control: Awakening

The main condition of the Black Shamrocks MC’s new alliance with the Trinity is clear.

My union with Slash must bear fruit, or Zeke will die.

It’s the motivation behind my wedding vows.

The reason I willed myself to endure the ritual.

My fuel to uphold the promises I made to the two men I love, even as I understand that I’ve been set up to fail them both.

Until the news of Zeke’s untimely death is announced and my reason for marrying Slash dies with him.

Now, I am pregnant.

Paternity unknown.

Wed to a man who hates me for my inability to love him most, while our family’s wellbeing hinges on our capacity to make the Trinity believe that our broken marriage is real.

• Death of a main character

• Pregnancy after miscarriage

• Death of a newborn (not stillbirth) (off page, mentioned in passing)

• Death of a parent (off page, mentioned in passing)

• BDSM elements

• Drug use

• Profanity

• Violence

• Emotional manipulation

• Torture (on page, descriptive)

• Non-consensual sex

• Love triangle (readers may feel some events constitute cheating)

• Gravestone desecration

• Dub-con (under coersion)

• Self-harm Humiliation

Prologue
Lily
Aged: Nineteen

“He’s busy wit’ a couple’a cut sluts.” After he finishes drying the glass he’s holding, my cousin strides out from behind the bar. The double doors I shoved open swing dangerously close to my back when he uses his bulk to halt my passage. “You shouldn’t be here,” Toker offers in a softer voice. Since I expected this reaction to my impromptu arrival at the Shamrocks’ club night, I raise my hand to acknowledge his objection. He buys my diversion, visibly deflating long enough for me to sidestep him and dash through the main bar toward the sleeping quarters. Out of respect for the club’s rules, I keep my gaze averted so I don’t see anything that I’m not supposed to. “Fuck’s sake, Cherub... you don’t needa deal with him.” Although, the damage marring Zeke’s face when he arrived home an hour ago was all the warning I needed over Slash’s state-of-mind, my breath still hitches when Toker shouts after me, “It’s bad, Cherub... real bad. If you ain’t gonna listen to my advice, at least prepare yourself.” 

When I drop out of sight, the hush that dawned in the wake of my unwanted intrusion lifts and the party returns to its original level. The masculine outrage at a female intruding on their regular club night would normally make me smile. Tonight, though, I’m too worried about Slash to find amusement in the club brothers’ protectiveness over their weekly debauchery. In the hallway that connects the main building to the various additions made throughout the club’s forty-plus years in existence, I lift my gaze from the floor to take in the wall of remembrance. 

Photo after photo of fallen brothers wearing Shamrocks’ cuts. 

Scanning the faces of the deceased men drives home the unspoken implication behind my cousin’s warning. For the past six anniversaries, Slash’s mourning has been horrible. If a seasoned biker, a man who embraces violence like Toker does, believes that this year is “real bad”, I can’t help but worry that we’ve finally reached rock bottom. The end of the line was close last anniversary when he visited me as I lay in my hospital bed post-surgery to make a speech that sounded suspiciously like goodbye. Although, I was the person who alerted Zeke to the danger, I was never made privy to the full details of their ensuing confrontation. 

But I’m not an idiot. 

My mind has taken me to dark places. Places I imagine Slash has intimate knowledge of by this point. Because of this, I’m aware that there’s always a possibility that the big man won’t come back from one of his annual breakdowns in one piece—or at all. The blame he places on himself for his son’s death may only rear its head once a year, but the two weeks he allows himself to lose control and truly feel are fraught with risk. His ongoing belief that he’s not a good man is a ridiculous notion to me—considering Carter Hudson is one of the best people I know. Every year, I try my hardest to make him see himself the way we perceive him, but it’s a losing proposition and never ends well. 

Dealing with hard-headed men who prefer burning alive over asking for help rarely does. 

Slash’s grief almost won once before—seven years ago—in the days after his son’s murder. As minimal as my actions felt at the time, I know I played a part in him regaining some hope for his future. Between the Shamrocks, the Hudson family, and the close-knit bond of our circle of friends, the anniversary has always been approached with love, kid gloves, stern words, and occasional punches. We’ve worked together to keep our friend from imploding completely with grief. Over the years, I’ve helped as much as I can, but this time, I’m struggling through my own trauma. 

Which feels like a never-ending process... 

I should be getting better. 

I’m not. 

A few weeks ago, my attacker was imprisoned for almost six years. Now that he’s no longer around to whip them into a frenzy, our local media has lost interest in me. The culmination of the legal process and the disappearance of inaccurate articles and online innuendo brought some closure for me, only it’s proven insufficient in stopping the voices in my head and the crawling under my skin from winning. Every day, I wage a war to heal my damage. It’s a one step forward, two steps backward kind of process. I live, second by second, with the spectre of Alexander Kingsley hanging over me in the same way Slash exists with the loss of his son haunting him. 

We share an understanding of life’s cruelty that not many other people possess. 

Our survival is built on a throne of quicksand that’s powered by lies. 

Healing is slow. 

Trauma reigns supreme. 

Backslides are easily triggered. 

Belief in the goodness of others is hard to regain. 

As if on cue, the cuts I made to my inner thighs and lower on my belly earlier throb with shame. I slow my journey down the corridor when my legs turn to jelly, and I’m forced to acknowledge the turmoil I’m attempting to flee. My skin grows clammy. Dizzy, I lean against the closest wall. Trembling ripples through me. My head is a mess. The agony in my soul rages like an inferno. I’m too broken. Too damaged. Too filthy. I want to escape Alex’s taunting more than I want to prove to Zeke that I’m as strong as he thinks I am. 

My fears for Slash’s safety are genuine, but part of my reason for running out on my boyfriend when he burst into our house hours earlier than expected was to avoid the repercussions of the scene he disrupted. His fresh black eye and bleeding split lip, relics from yet another fight with Slash during his annual mourning process, made my crime even harder for him to bear. Zeke came to me for support, and I made a mockery of his belief in my strength with my submission to my inner demons and the need to unhealthily purge my pain. 

It was the worst thing for him to walk in on. 

A razor. Our ensuite bathroom. Fresh cuts. My blood. Harried apologies. 

He was furious. 

Rightfully so... 

I let him down. Ruined our progress. Broke him in a way I can’t easily fix. 

Sobbing, I left Zeke to take out his disappointment with me on our brand-new bedroom furniture. The sounds of cracking wood and shattering glass followed me out of our new home. They stalked me during my rushed drive to the compound. Seeking a distraction from my embarrassment by drawing attention to Slash’s struggle is cowardly. With our best friend suffering, my boyfriend wavering between his love and loathing of me, and the Shamrocks doing their best to ignore mine and Slash’s downward spirals, it felt easier to face Slash’s self-destruction than it did my own. 

Now, as I reach his closed bedroom, I’m not so sure. The sounds on the other side of the wood separating us are carnal. Lusty moans. Slapping skin. Harsh words. My worst nightmare. My skin flares with a fiery itch that strips the air from my lungs. The dirty feeling flooding me merges with the need to scratch myself bloody. It tightens my chest and burns my throat, an inferno of dark desires that will chase me to my grave if I let it. Dragging my nails down my exposed forearms, I dull the urge to slice my skin by offering my shattered psyche just enough pain to take the edge off. 

“Where is she?” Violent tension heralds Zeke’s arrival at the Shamrocks compound. A reverberation of rage and regret that I can feel, even though I’m half a building away from him, echoes through the clubhouse when he yells, “Lily! I know you’re here...” In his voice, I hear my own fear that I am past the point of saving. A scuffle breaks out, then my old man curses, “Fuckin’ hell, Toker, tell me—” 

Zeke’s request cuts off abruptly. The dawning silence alerts me that time is running out. I should’ve known that he would follow me, despite his rage at my backslide, and chosen somewhere else to hide. Soon enough, everyone will learn that I am not the functioning adult I pretend to be whenever I’m near them. Because of my cowardly desire to use Slash as a shield, they’ll discover that I’m a mess. 

I hate being weak. 

Loathe displaying my fragility. 

These are the people I love the most. Losing their respect is an outsized punishment for the stupidity I displayed regarding Alex. Initially they stood by me, but as the trial came to an end and my father made it clear that the retribution they wanted to mete out against the Maddison clan wasn’t going to be taken to a vote, I’ve become an uneasy reminder of their failure to protect their little Cherub. 

First my mother, then me... 

As the only daughter born to each generation, we have been poorly championed. 

“Take it easy, Venom.” My cousin offers his caution in a too-loud voice that is obviously meant for me to hear. “I’ll...” 

A low conversation breaks out at the head of the hallway. They’re coming my way; trapping me between Slash’s closed bedroom door and my angry boyfriend. The choice of how this plays out is solely mine. I can face the hurt I’ve caused Zeke or do my best to redirect his focus toward our mutual best friend. 

Ever the coward, I choose the second option without hesitation. 

Turning the door handle, I let myself into Slash’s bedroom. The sight that greets me is worse than expected, despite Toker’s warning. My cousin’s use of the plural didn’t compute in my rush to outrun my guilt, an oversight of my own making that comes at the cost of my sensibilities. 

Shock loosens my tongue. “Oh, shit.” 

Toker’s caution about cut sluts becomes clearer as I scan the two naked women with a wide-eyed gaze. One of them is anchored to the end of Slash’s custom four-poster bed. The other lies on her back with her legs hanging over the edge of the mattress. I recognise them both almost immediately. They come to the compound on non-family nights, offering the club brothers sexual favours while they vie for official recognition via a seat on the back of a Harley and a “Property of” patch. Both women are tall, leggy blondes… which shouldn’t be an important observation, despite the way that fact sets off a ripple of precognition in my mind. 

Shaking free of my uneasy wave of clairvoyance, I return my attention to the blonde secured by her wrists. With her arms wide and her knees braced on the bed, she straddles the face of the second woman and eagerly seeks pleasure from her tongue. My view of the cut slut on her back with her legs forced apart by leather restraints is blocked by Slash’s big body, although I can see enough for my mind to complete the scene. 

The spreadeagled woman is the main source of the noise echoing off the walls. 

Her lusty keening is the opposite of the nightmarish sounds bouncing around my skull. 

Slash fucks her hard, uncaring and viciously, with their lower bodies slapping together even as no other part of them touches. Topless with his jeans sagging low beneath his arse, he is visibly angry, his body coiled tight as he unleashes a sensuous savagery that I would never have guessed him capable of doling out. Muscles bunched, sweat running the length of his spine, tendons in his neck corded, I am distracted from the triggering sounds of sex by the pure poetry I discover in the spectacle provided by Slash while he finds solace in this physical outlet for his rage and sorrow. 

He grunts, chasing his release with raw power in every thrust. I let out a sound that’s somewhere between a whimper and a gasp. Jamming my hand over my mouth, I play witness to the big man letting loose a flurry of slaps to the breasts of the woman riding the face of the cut slut he’s fucking. He reddens her torso, then brings his palm down against the other woman’s inner thighs. Over and over, Slash’s violence marks their skin with perverse precision as they cry out with pain at the same time as they mewl with pleasure. 

It’s wicked. 

Brutal. 

Immoral. 

It’s... something I am unable to name. 

Eyes wide, I observe the kindest man I know give in to his dark side. Tension builds within Slash’s physique as he radiates level of dominance and desire that’s at odds with the self-loathing that also emanates from him. 

He’s unhinged yet resolute. 

I am a mess of emotions. 

Awed and disturbed. 

Slash rains down a series of slaps that make me jerk like I’m the one being struck. 

Taking every inch of his angry cock, the woman on her back emits a moan that sets my pulse racing. Unblinking, I watch as Slash’s narrow hips move with animalistic intent. His palms mete out violence that drives the women wild. They squeal and squirm, vocally edging each other toward climax. The woman being eaten out noisily orgasms and the cut slut below her lets out another guttural groan. 

This kind of scene would usually make memories of Alex’s violation push into my head, yet I am enraptured. Normally, I’d spiral into a panic attack that only Zeke or Slash could pull me out of, a situation that would end in tears and recriminations as I apologised for my mental failing. For some reason, instead of losing control, I’m captivated by the power Slash is exerting over the two women. The big man is intimately involved in the scene, yet he’s also somehow disconnected. He’s in charge despite barely interacting with them. Cruel, but not dangerously so, as he walks the tightrope between pain and punishment. 

Something strange settles low in my belly.  

I press my thighs together to combat the odd sensation. 

My eyesight wavers as I find it hard to catch my breath. 

Lifting my hand to my throat, I press my index and middle fingers to my pulse point. It’s a tactic my therapist taught me to use whenever I need to steady myself. By concentrating on the steady rhythm of my heart, I can ground my emotions. In this moment, it fails. My heart is racing, my mouth is dry, and I swallow deep when Slash’s thrusts turn sharp and deep, then he comes with an angrily shouted, “Fuck.” 

After Slash delivers a slap to her clit, the woman he’s inside orgasms a second time, her sounds of pleasure muffled because she’s still lapping at her fellow cut slut with enthusiasm. It’s wrong—I know it is—yet I am enthralled by what I just witnessed. 

Not by the two women. 

By Slash. 

By the way he made it clear that there is nothing significant between them, yet they still trust him with their bodies and their safety.  

This is just a fuck for him. 

A way to reclaim his equilibrium. 

And they accept those parameters without question. 

I’m envious. 

Jealous. 

I want this for myself. 

Sexual dominance from someone I implicitly trust. 

Physical connection without the worry that my damage will ruin the moment.  

Maybe if the choice was taken away again, the part of me Alex broke would be fixed? 

“You’re starin’, sweet thing.” Approaching me from behind me, Zeke is careful not to come too close. He knows that crowding me without warning is a recipe for a panic attack. As always, guilt makes my stomach churn when I recognise the hunger he’s fighting to conceal. It doesn’t matter that I can stand his touch in a way that I cannot abide anyone else’s. It’s not enough. It’s not fair on him—or me—that more than a year after Alex’s attack, I still can’t have sex with the man I love without freaking out. “If you like what you see... I’m more than happy to give it to you.” My old man trails off as he gently circles his arm around my waist and pulls my back to his chest. Nose nudging my hair, Zeke murmurs, “If you’re not ready for that, at least allow me to ease your ache... ’cause I know you’re wet as fuck right now.” 

Sliding his hand along my stomach, his movements are slow deliberate, designed to give me time to object before he cups my pussy over the denim I’m wearing. Although my breathing hitches at his touch, I melt into him. His thumb finds my clit beneath the seam of my jeans. He applies the perfect pressure, making me whimper, “Zeke, I’m—” 

“Nope, metukà shelì... the time for hidin’ from your needs is over.” When Slash steps away from the cut sluts restrained to his bed, I’m swept off my feet and turned away from the threesome I just observed without permission. From the corner of my eye, I catch the smallest glimpse of the big man scowling at our intrusion before I’m carried across the hallway into the room I share with Zeke whenever we stay over at the compound. Our door slams shut, the lock engaged in a heartbeat, then my man manhandles me so I’m straddling his waist while he easily supports my weight with his arms. “Look me in the eye, Lil... tell me you’re not turned the fuck on right now? Tell me you don’t want me to take the edge off for you?” 

Averting my eyes from his face, I run my tongue over my bottom lip, then mumble, “What if I freak out?” 

“What if you don’t?” 

“I’ll hurt you.” 

“Doesn’t matter.” Zeke shakes his head to consolidate his point. When I force myself to meet his eyes, he skims my face with a searching gaze. I do the same, but the bruising around his partially swollen eye makes it hard to read his expression properly. “I’ll be fine.” 

“Jesus, Zeke.” Fear and desire go to war in my head. My distress wins. I sink my teeth into my bottom lip to still the resulting wobble in my chin. Zeke balances my backside on his forearm, then deftly releases the flesh with a soft tug before I can make myself bleed. Those same fingers cup my nape a moment later and he draws my forehead to rest against his. In my man’s multi-coloured gaze, I see the same kind of self-recrimination that haunts me. “I’m sorry... I wish I was stronger, but I’m not. All I hear when you touch me are his—” A shudder runs the length of my spine as I acknowledge Alex out loud. “—horrible words. His painful grip. His...” 

I can’t verbalise the rest of my thought, even though it echoes through my brain. 

Squeezing my thighs tighter, I push away the memory of my monster’s violation. 

It doesn’t work. 

Alex has infected me, and I don’t know how to purge his poison. 

“I know, sweet thing, but cuttin’ ain’t the answer.” 

My tone is stringent as I demand, “Then what is?” 

“Me.” The man holding me moves toward the bed that dominates the room. He lowers me to the mattress, then backs away. There’s a clarity in Zeke’s expression that I haven’t seen before, a naked need in his gaze that he hasn’t allowed me to witness since my attack. I peer up at him, suddenly filled with vulnerability, despite being fully clothed still. “Watchin’ you watch Slash gave me an idea.” 

“Okay...” I am sceptical that there exists a solution to my issues, but I’m willing to try anything at this point so I offer him an encouraging nod as I say, “I’m all ears.” 

“You know how you can touch me, but I can’t touch you?” 

“Yes.” 

“What if I...” My boyfriend scans my face again. My uncertainty must show because he backtracks a moment later. “You know what, sweet thing, this can wait... I ain’t gonna push you.” 

Inhaling raggedly, I freeze in the wake of his despondency. As he takes in my reaction, Zeke noisily exhales. After dragging his fingers through his hair, he laces them at the back of his head before glaring up at the ceiling. The damage wrought by Slash’s fists is stark on his face, yet it has nothing on the agony I cause him with my ongoing rejection of his love. 

It’s not like him to dance around a topic, yet he remains silent. 

In my heads, I struggle to find the words to encourage him to speak. 

Zeke’s unusual reticence to tell me what he’s thinking is maddening, and that feeling grows harder to bear when I hear Slash and the cut sluts in the hallway. The two women are cheerful as they say their goodbyes to the big man. Happy and satisfied. Their normalcy makes me yearn for simpler times—times that I barely experience before they were ruined by Alex and his violence. Before I lost the ability to function as a human. Before Zeke felt it necessary to tiptoe around me and my panic. 

“You know I love you, right?” he asks in a soft voice. 

Heart in my throat, I mumble, “Yes.” 

“You know I respect you and I’d never hurt you?” 

Sniffing, I give a sharp nod. “Yes.” 

Shaking besets my body as I suspect that his next words will break what’s left of my heart. I’ve been trying to avoid this outcome since I was discharged a few months ago and agreed to move in with him instead of into the house my twin brother had purchased. My determination to evade a breakup is one reason that I cut. Logically, I know that I can’t bleed Alex completely out of me, but I’m not rational when I’m driven to purge the filth that makes my skin crawl with a razor blade. 

I don’t want to lose Zeke. 

I love him. 

I’m in love with him. 

Yet I’m cognisant that without sex, we are no more than housemates who sometimes kiss. 

If I can’t get my head on straight, I’d be better off living with Slash—at least we share the same taste in books, television shows, and movies. Even moving in with Nadia would be a preferred option to the half-life I’m offering Zeke right now. He has stuck with me through thick and thin. More than twelve months of heartache counterbalanced by the occasional moment of happiness. I’ve managed to bluff my way through the physical aspect of our relationship with sporadic hand jobs and a solitary BJ. He can touch me, hug me, kiss me. I am receptive to his affection, even though I rarely feel the urge to initiate anything more than a quick cuddle. My freak-outs whenever Zeke accidentally startles me are lessening, however, they’re still more frequent than they should be. 

We have had sex once since we declared our love for each other. 

At my eighteenth birthday party. 

A mere hour before Alex ruined me. 

I’ve been pushing shit uphill in a desperate attempt to keep Zeke from leaving me. 

But it appears that I’ve failed... 

“I think you need me to take control... to force your submission.” 

Blinking twice, I push upright on to my elbows. “What?” 

With the most serious expression I’ve ever seen etched in his features, Zeke perches on the end of the bed. I fight not to stiffen when he places his hand on my calf. He looks three decades older than his twenty-six years as he wearily regards me. The eyes examining my face are filled with contradictory emotions. It’s a strange mix. A confounding blend. Worry and hunger. Apprehension and craving. Concern and desire. The emotions he’s feeling match the ones I had when I walked in on Slash with the two women and didn’t immediately meltdown. 

“I’ve been readin’,” Zeke offers slowly. The rigid set of his shoulders makes me frown. When it hits me that he expects me to react mockingly to his confession that he’s been reading, I shuffle onto my knees and crawl over to him. As I cup each side of his face, he covers my right hand with his and leans into the same palm. “Some women who’ve been raped—” His throat works as he swallows down the bitter description of Alex’s crime against me. “—need to have the choice to have sex taken away from them... it gives them leeway to enjoy somethin’ that they feel like they should hate.” 

“Do you think...” I trail off, unable to bring life to the rest of my question.

“I do.” He smiles. It’s a wistful sight, filled with adoration that’s tinged with fear. “It’s selfish, sweet thing... my need to possess you like that. If I was a better man, I’d forgo—” 

Pressing two fingers to his lips, I halt his upcoming apology with another question. “What if we try and it doesn’t work?” 

“Then we keep on keepin’ on, exactly like we have been.” 

“Wonderful.” I huff. “Just a hot biker and his frigid girlfriend... seems ideal.” 

“Fuckin’ hardly—I ain’t all that hot.” Zeke scowls at the eye roll I make when he downplays his rugged looks, then he wraps his arms around my waist. I squeal when he twists and falls on to his back on the bed. It’s a happy sound, devoid of fear, a fact that makes me smile when I end up with my body on top of his and his strong arm circling my waist without panic flaring. “You’re a hellova lot more than my girlfriend.” Smoothing my hair out of my eyes, my boyfriend takes a second to make sure that I’m okay with our positioning before he adds, “And crude as this may sound, you’re more than a hole to me, metukà shelì. I love you... would fuckin’ die for you. Don’t care if it takes you ten years, or for-fuckin’-ever to come to terms with the idea of sex... I ain’t goin’ anywhere.” He kisses the end of my nose as his arm tightens around my waist. “The only thing I want is you... healed... inside and out.” 

“Me, too.” In a poor semblance of a smile, I offer him a quick quirk of my lips. Biting down on the inside of my cheek to stop myself from crying, I sigh. It’s a slow exhale filled with my frustration and fears. “If I was a better woman, I wouldn’t allow you to put your life on hold like this.” Feeling brave, I snuggle closer and bury my face in the crook of his neck. “But I’m never letting you go... I love you too much.” 

While I breathe deep to take comfort in his familiar scent, Zeke asks, “So, you wanna try?” 

“I want to try,” I respond in a whisper. Lips brushing the pulse point in his neck, I murmur, “Come what may... cure or carnage.” 

“Carnage.” He gently pushes me onto my back. I blink up at him when he cages me in with his hands planted on either side of my head and his knees on the outside of mine. “That’s your escape word.” Holding his weight on one arm, Zeke frees the necklace I wear daily from the collar of my t-shirt. The alien head pendant matches the one that swings from his neck. “Seems fittin’. I’m Venom and the only thing I’m good for is carnage.” 

As much as I wish that I could kick my father in the shins for the way he downplays Zeke’s other talents, I know that it’s better if I stay on Dad’s good side. He’s the national president of the Black Shamrocks MC nowadays, and he’s already delayed my old man taking his rightful place at the head of the table once. I refuse to give him another flimsy excuse to delay handing over Zeke’s legacy. Considering our relationship is barely accepted by the club, thanks to my dad’s evil insinuation that Zeke and I were messing around before I was of legal age, rocking the boat is the last thing I should do until we’ve found our feet within the new structure of the Shamrocks. 

A girl can dream, though. 

My dad’s betrayals can’t go unanswered forever... I hope. 

“It’s a safe word,” I explain in a light tone. Designed to distract Zeke from the memories of past neglect that I can see flaring in his gaze, I scrunch up my nose as I tell him, “Carnage will be my safe word... that’s the proper terminology.” 

“How do you know?” The taunt in his voice alerts me to the lightening of his mood. Zeke’s eyes widen, filling with mirth as he teases, “Did you read that in one’a ya dirty books?” 

“Yep,” I retort with a laugh. 

My reading habits have become a source of humour from my boyfriend and my brothers since they got their hands on an advance copy of Ziva’s debut novel a few months ago. Before that, only Slash and Nadia understood the full extent of my romance catalogue. 

I’m not sure how I feel about their jokes. 

I kind of liked having my fictional boyfriend’s to myself. 

“What would you say,” I ask before embarrassment can stop me. “If I told you that the book I’m in the middle of goes into minute details about the dom/sub dynamic?” When his grin widens, I blurt out, “I could probably teach you some things.” 

“Hmmmm,” Zeke muses. He lets go of my necklace to trace the cupid’s bow of my top lip with his fingertip while I wish the floor would open up and swallow me whole. “Guess we’re gonna find out who’s the master and who’s the student, sweet thing.” 

The lust in his voice sets off inconsistent responses in my body. Heart pounding. Skin crawling. Warmth floods low in my belly at the same time as my head rebels at the idea of trusting my broken body’s responses. Alex’s voice echoes around my skull, reminding me that I’m his Jezebel, that he’s inside of me, that I’m belong to him. Curling my fingers so I can dig my nails into my palms, I screw my eyes shut and battle the filth circulating through my veins and my desire to keep Zeke from being infected. 

As usual, my perceptive man notices my reaction, but this time, he doesn’t immediately move off me. Instead, he cups my nape and tangles his fingers in the hair at the base of my neck. “Eyes on me.” I shake my head, but again, he doesn’t back down. “Lift those eyelids... give me that blue I love so much, sweet thing.” Something in his fierce demand overrides my panic, and I reopen my eyes without conscious decision. The multitude of colours in Zeke’s gaze swirl as his pupils dilate. His Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows hard. “Remember... you call carnage, and this stops. I’ll be across the room before you can blink.” 

Unable to speak, I loop my arms around his neck in silent consent. 

“Not gonna take things too far. This’s a test... a taste.” 

When Zeke presses his lips to mine, I breathe in his cologne. Tom Ford Black Orchid. The spiced amber mixes with leather, motor oil, and cigarettes to create my most favourite scent in the world. Ezekiel Miles is my home. My safe harbour. His love is my reason for surviving when it would’ve been easier to give up and die. If I didn’t have Zeke, there would be nothing left to inspire me to keep on fighting my trauma. 

He says he’d die for me. 

That’s a truth I accepted when I was just a small girl. 

Because I’m just as hyperbolic when it comes to him.

Except I’d die without him. 

The reality is that I’m not as strong as he is. 

I’m the weak link in this relationship. 

The girl constantly on the cusp of giving up... 

The girl who needs to take some days millisecond by millisecond in order to keep living. 

I know I should be grateful that I was saved from Alex. That the legal system did its job in the end. That my old man, friends, and family are understanding of my idiosyncrasies and triggers. That cutting is the worst of my coping strategies. 

But I’m not grateful for any of that... 

Iguess, I’m more like Slash than Zeke in that way—I’m equal parts furious and fatalistic. 

My life’s mission is to keep the fatalistic side from winning. 

And that means I need to stoke the desire that’s building inside of me into an inferno that incinerates Alex’s poison. I can’t keep the love of my life trapped in purgatory with me. I don’t want to keep him trapped with me. He’s my reward for surviving. His love. His danger. His strength. The ink that telegraphs his inherent savagery and his adoration of me. The muscles that ripple beneath my palms as I grip his shoulders tighter. Every inch of his ripped body, from the top of his bronzed head to his tattooed toes. Each thought that enters his agile brain. Hands that can craft exquisite jewellery and kill with equal skill. Feet that would chase me to the ends of the earth if I ran from him. A heart that beats faster just because I’m in his life. 

It’s all mine. 

Just like I am his. 

God... how I want to be his in all the ways that count. 

“This is just a taste,” Zeke reiterates when I give the whirlwind of love that’s whipping through me an outlet by nipping at his chin with sharp teeth. A low growl rumbles in his chest and his fingers dig into my neck so he can keep our gazes locked. “Tell me it’s just a taste.” 

“A taste,” I concur to my man’s demand in a breathy tone that becomes more urgent as the seconds pass. Kissing him hard, I explore his mouth, then suck on the tip of his tongue. When I scrape my teeth over his battered bottom lip, tugging with more force than necessary until I’ve reopened the cut from Slash’s fist, he groans. The sight of Zeke bleeding makes my heart pound, and I purr suggestively, “And nothing more?” 

The scepticism in Zeke’s face in response to my desire is hard to swallow. 

Accurately gauging my headspace, he soothes my agitation when he tells me, “Not havin’ our first time together in a year happenin’ at the compound with all those motherfuckers in hearin’ distance.” 

Cinching my arms around his neck tighter, I arch my back to press my breasts to his chest. I’m unsure why I feel the need to test him like this, with an audience to my failure if it comes, except for the dawning awareness I have that another disaster could be the last straw. For me. Not Zeke. I don’t think this let-down will be the one that drives him away. The urgency tonight is on me. I want to make love to my boyfriend like a normal woman instead of having him pussyfoot around me and my panic attacks. 

“I want more than a taste,” I admit, even as doubts creep into my head. “I want you.” 

We stare at each other for too long. 

“You’re only human, sweet thing.” 

I blink to clear the dark thoughts crowding my head. “What?” 

The chuckle he makes is forced. “I’m your hot boyfriend, of course you want more... ’cause you’re only human.” 

In the same way I stopped him from spiralling into painful memories, Zeke does the same thing for me with his attempt at levity. I swear he can read my mind, that he can see my rising anxiety and hear the recriminations I’m heaping on my psyche. I’m faking my need for him when the only thing I’m truly feeling is fear. 

Fear of losing him. 

Fear of falling victim to my brokenness. 

Fear of losing my battle to outrun Alex’s filth. 

“Eyes open,” Zeke commands. I meet his narrow-eyed gaze, inhaling harshly when he licks at the blood pooling in the left corner of his mouth, then runs his bloodied tongue across the seam of my lips. In an instinctive response, I suck my bottom lip between my teeth. The iron tang is imperceptible, more in my imagination than reality, so I dart out my tongue to steal a proper taste of his blood. A shudder runs through his wide body, and he drops his hips to press his hard-on into my stomach. “Fuck, Lil... tryna be the good guy here, but you’re sendin’ me mad—” 

“We’re all mad here.” I smile as I paraphrase the Mad Hatter. Hands cradling the back of his head, I pull his mouth to mine. We kiss him, then I murmur, “Welcome home, Zeke... come for the love, stay for the craziness.” 

Our connection is deepened when, tongues tangling and hands grasping, we give in to the desire that finally, finally swells inside me. The reticence with which he usually touches me disappears when I slide my hands underneath his cut, then his t-shirt, and draw my fingernails over his skin. His hiss is music to my ears, a reminder that I have claws as well. Lust makes my heart race when Zeke pulls my arms from around his neck and pins them above my head with one hand. 

Trapped by the man I love, captive to a long-forgotten hunger, I melt into the mattress. 

He accepts my submission for what it is... permission. 

“Fuckin’ knew it... you need me just as much as I need you.” Zeke pushes his knee between mine. Desperate to feel him, I willingly part my legs. “Tell me you want this.” He grinds his erection against my pulsing pussy until I throw back my head and whimper. “Say it, sweet thing.”

“Yes... I want this.” 

My Jezebel... 

The return of Alex’s voice makes me stiffen, but his malevolence is immediately evicted when my love bites down on my earlobe with a viciousness that should scare me. It hurts. The ache makes me whimper. The delicious throb of pain pulls me back to the here and now, and my man drives home his control of the situation with a follow up command, “Get outta your head, sweet thing... stay with me.” 

“Zeke,” I plead. “I need...” 

Circling my legs around his hips, I lose the ability to breathe when he acts on the request I was unable to voice and angles his erection perfectly. Every thrust of his hips strikes the perfect balance between pleasure and pain. My clit pulses. Warmth swirls in my stomach, down low where only painful memories previously resided. With our lower bodies separated by two layers of denim, my mind is set at ease. I am free to submit to my desire without the risk of penetration. 

Even if the threat of Zeke’s cock pushing inside me adds to my excitement. 

“Fuckin’ love you.” He hums against the sensitive skin where my neck and shoulder join. The combination of his hot breath and the scrape of his whiskers sets off another wave of heat, and the throbbing in my clit builds into an effervescent ecstasy that heralds the approach of an orgasm. When I grind against his hardness, matching the rhythm of his swallow thrusts with my own, my man palms my breast. He squeezes lightly before pulling away. “Need ya to call carnage now... sweet thing, I need ya to stop this from goin’ too far. 

“No.” 

“Yes.” 

I arch my back, chasing his touch as I reject his demand. “Please... I need to...” 

“Come, sweet thing.” Zeke finishes my plea for me. He rests his forehead on mine, peering deep into my eyes as he tells me, “I know you wanna come... I can smell your need... can feel how crazy you are for me, for my cock, for me to touch you. You want me inside you... but I can’t give you that tonight. Not yet. Not until you’re ready...” 

“I am—” 

“No,” he retorts. “You’re not ready for me, sweet thing... just know that you will be ready sooner than you realise. I can feel it. Smell it.” Zeke captures my mouth with his, swallowing my moans before he adds, “Soon, I’ll taste it.” 

His dirty words are the final push I need. 

There is no shame in his portrayal of my hunger for him, just awe. My man is reverential, devoted, and filled with a need of his own. One that he’s repressing out of respect for my trauma. In the same way he can sense my readiness for him, I can read his restraint. He refuses to push me too far. I wish he was wrong in his assessment of the danger, but he isn’t. While I’m mindless with desire, I am not ready to risk the progress we’ve made by moving too fast, too soon. 

“Hold me.” 

“Always.” Zeke tightens his grip on my wrists, slides his other arm along the small of my back, then quickens the motion of his hips. The denim separating us is both a nuisance and protection. Safety and desire meld. My body softens. The throb of my clit and the heat washing through my stomach flares into an unstoppable inferno. “I’ve got ya, sweet thing.” 

The waves of red-hot pleasure pulsing and swirling inside me are buffeted by shock when the locked door keeping the rest of the club out of our private sanctuary rattles. As the latch is picked from the outside, I cannot stop the climax that crashes through me. Spots burst in my eyesight. My hearing tunnels into a dull roar. Zeke covers my body with his, ensuring that I remain safe and protected while our space is invaded, so I ride the thunderbolts of ecstasy shooting through me as quietly as I can. 

Rather than kick out the interloper, my man chooses to maintain his promise to me. 

He holds me close, his mouth over mine as he swallows my whimpers and moans. 

Replete, I breathe him in, gasping when aftershocks ambush me almost immediately. 

“Been a long time... since I witnessed... a dry hump,” Slash slurs while I’m coming down to earth from my first orgasm since my ill-fated eighteenth birthday. He drunkenly stumbles into our room, his unsteady footsteps loud despite the ringing in my ears. I pant in an attempt to catch my breath. My shoulders shake when Zeke presses kiss after kiss along the column of my throat. “Shoulda known you didn’t have a decent fuck in you... ‘specially after I handed ya yer arse earlier. Cherub deserves better—” Our inebriated friend lifts his chin at me in an arrogant salute. “—Shoulda hollered... I woulda given you the same treatment you watched me give the cut sluts.”

“Don’t.” I caution when Zeke narrows his eyes and inhales sharply. “He’s drunk, and he’s hurting.” 

“Doesn’t mean he gets to talk to you like that.” 

“It’s fine... I shouldn’t have hung around once I realised what was going on.” 

“Besides the point, he’s—” 

“I like havin’ an audience... makes me hard as a rock.”

Growling low at Slash’s crass comment, Zeke pushes back to his feet. I squeak, scared that another fight is about to break out between them. Rather than throw a punch, my boyfriend inhales deep, then exhales through his nose before he holds out a hand to me. Assisting me upright after I’ve wrapped my fingers around his, Zeke is a ball of repressed fury. I warily observe the two men, bracing for a brawl, but hoping for some peace. My body is satiated. The strain that usually has me walking a fine line between exhausted and manic has been beaten into submission for the moment. It’s an odd feeling, the post-orgasm glow that I’ve experienced only once before. 

I’m a nineteen-year-old almost virgin. 

I’ve had sex a single time—and it was glorious. 

Then I was raped, and the memories of that magical experience were tainted. 

The world was my oyster before it was destroyed a few hours later. 

Before Alex... 

“He doesn’t get to ruin this,” Zeke tells me. When I stare up at him, he hits me with a knowing look. I realise he understands that I’m on the cusp of spiralling from the reappearance of the poisonous voice that lives in my head. “Don’t let him back in, sweet thing... look at me. Remember me. Be with me.” 

I nod, my gaze darting between Slash and Zeke. 

Alex is the least of my problems tonight. 

Sensing my anxiety, my boyfriend settles with his back against the headrest of our bed, then he pulls me onto his lap. “Don’t worry about that dickhead... he’s almost done with the self-destruction for the night.” Cradled sideways, with my head on Zeke’s shoulder and my legs splayed out, I push away the shame that floods me when I realise that he’s still hard. As if he can read my mind, Zeke murmurs, “Don’t worry about me... I’m more than satisfied.” 

“But—” 

“Slash is fucked-up. Give him some of your love... he’ll pass out soon enough.” 

I scan our best friend from head to toe. 

Zeke’s right. 

Slash is a mess. 

In the time we’ve been hidden away in our bedroom, he’s managed to wipe himself out. 

“Come lay down,” I tell the big man. He’s swaying on his feet, glaring at us from the foot of the bed like we’re responsible for all his problems. Patting my thigh, I ignore his glowering look and say, “You’re going to fall down... why don’t you make yourself comfortable instead...”  

The smell of whiskey and beer is strong when Slash inelegantly face plants on the mattress, then half-crawls, half-pulls himself toward me. Once he’s reached the top of the bed, the big man drops his head on my thighs, presses his face to my stomach, and loops an arm around my waist. His embrace is too tight, but I don’t protest because I know that he’s hurting, and he needs me. 

“You smell like sex,” he grumbles. His breath is warm through the thin material of my shirt when he sighs. “Fuckin’ bullshit... shoulda been me.” 

My heart breaks at the pain in his voice. It kills me that I’m unable to make him understand that he did not fail his son. The blame rests on Jenna. Her actions. Her need to punish Slash for his refusal to choose her over the Shamrocks. Feeling like a shit friend since I’ve been too busy licking my own wounds to focus on the big man, I launch into Operation Console Carter Hudson without hesitation. 

“Slash.” Caught between my seething first love and our drunk best friend, I nuzzle my head under Zeke’s chin to settle his upset, then I run my fingers through the big man’s long hair to soothe his anger. Slash’s man bun is tangled, and in need of some serious care—the perfect metaphor for his current condition. “You’re not to blame for anything... and you definitely didn’t deserve to die instead.” 

“Not what I meant,” Slash retorts. He hiccups, tensing the arm around me even tighter. I shift awkwardly, but he doesn’t let me go. Stroking his cheek, I frown when he whispers, “Don’t matter... I lost either way.” 

“Go to sleep, brother.” With a growl, Zeke grabs the remote from the bedside table and turns on the television attached to the wall opposite us. “You can explain yourself tomorrow when you’re sober.” 

Before my boyfriend settles in to watch one of his bike restoration shows, he passes me the e-reader I keep on the bedside table so I can read while I work my magic on Slash. I switched to ebooks last year while I was in physiotherapy and it became too much of a hassle to carry around paperbacks. Noticing that, Slash kindly gifted me two e-readers to me for Christmas so I can leave one in my car and one at the compound in addition to the one I keep at home. This way, I can continue my book, no matter where I am. 

Slash’s thoughtfulness inflames my guilt. 

I stroke the big man’s face as he fights his inebriation. 

“Close your eyes,” I tell him. “Sleep... we’ll look after you.” 

“Promise you won’t leave me?” 

Tilting my head back to meet Zeke’s gaze, I find the same resolve that fills me in my man’s eyes. We won’t let anything bad happen to Slash. He’s our third piece. The voice of reason when we’re struggling. We owe it to him to look after him in his time of need. 

“Promise,” I murmur. “We won’t go anywhere.” 

“We’ll be right here,” my man adds. “When you wake up... hungover as fuck and feelin’ like arse.” 

Slash’s chuckle at Zeke’s comment lightens any residual tension between them. The big man falls asleep moments later. With my head on my first love’s shoulder and my fingers tangled in Slash’s hair, I read. Zeke watches TV. 

It’s just the three of us. 

Like old times... better times. 

Times I pray we’ll have again. 

Sometime later, I wake to find myself sandwiched between two warm bodies. My man has tucked me and Slash in bed without waking us, then climbed in himself. Clad in Zeke’s t-shirt and my panties, I’m snug as a bug, safely cocooned by their body heat and their solid presence. The big man has a fistful of cotton while Zeke has his arm around me and his leg thrown over mine, staking his claim even in his slumber. 

I smile as I peer at them both in the dim light. 

The love of my life. 

The man I trust implicitly. 

My two handsome men. 

A longstanding sense of safety floods me. 

I am so lucky to have them both. 

Even if they test my patience and drive me a little insane at times... 

Long before my relationship with Zeke, impromptu sleepovers like this are something we used to do when I was younger, whenever one of us was struggling. Drama at the club, trouble at school, and everything in between. The two of them would decide to sleep over in my room, sometimes with Toker, mostly without. It was a platonic friendship shared between the three of us that my lone wolf of a cousin would dip in and out of as it suited him. 

Last year, while I was hospitalised, Slash and Zeke slept in plastic chairs next to me instead. This year is different... for a multitude of reasons. Slash is heading for rock bottom. My trauma is driving me to mutilate my skin. Ever the protector, Zeke is fighting to keep both of our heads above water. 

The small strip of light from the hallway that disturbed my sleep reduces, and after my eyes adjust, I watch my cousin trip his way across the floor. He strips off his boots, then pulls his jeans down his legs. Toker’s slumped posture alerts me that he is struggling as hard as the rest of us. A solitary man, by choice, it’s been a couple years since he sought us out like this. 

When my cousin sprawls across the end of our bed, I whisper, “Everything good with you?” 

“Good as can be, lil cuz, with the world tryna fuck us over.” 

“Want to talk about it?” 

“Nup.” Holding my breath, I wait to see if he’ll change his mind. When Toker’s silence makes it clear that he’s not in the mood to elaborate, I grab the pillow that Slash isn’t using since he’s stolen half of mine, and toss it toward my only cousin. He catches it easily, plumps it up, then slides it under his head. There is weariness in his voice when he tells me, “Go back to sleep, Cherub... I’ll fill you in in the mornin’.” 

“Why not now—”

“You heard him, Lily.” My man’s arm tightens around me. He slides me closer to him, then pushes my head onto his shoulder. “Let Toker sleep... I’ll beat the answers you want outta him in the mornin’.” 

“You better.” After I snuggle into Zeke’s side, I nip at his chin with my teeth. “I love you.” 

“Love you more,” he murmurs back to me. When he slides his hand under my t-shirt to palm my bare breast, I brace for my skin to crawl or for some other negative reaction to hit. For once, all I feel is the urge to get closer to him. I slide my thigh over my man’s, silently giggling when my knee reaches his cock, and he growls, “Still tryna send me mad, aren’t ya, metukà shelì?” 

“Maybe...” 

Zeke grumbles something unintelligible under his breath, then he raises his voice so I can hear. “We’ll go furniture shoppin’ in the mornin’, then you’re mine for the rest of the day. Can’t wait to explore carnage with ya.” 

This is the closest we’ve come to acknowledging the fight we had before he followed me to the compound. I cut again. He caught me in the act. I ran from his disappointment to use Slash as a shield. My man took his frustrations out on our bedroom furniture. The scene he stumbled upon, his frigid girlfriend spying on his best friend while he fucked a pair of cut sluts, and the victory we had over my triggers after that, might’ve distracted him for a little while from the pressing issue, but Zeke is back in his right mind. 

He’s not going to let my deceit slide.