“I love women… but I’m smart enough to never trust one.”
That was one of Cowboy’s mottos. He had one for every occasion and multiple opinions where women were concerned.
Thoughts of my father make me stiffen under Candi. Even from the grave, he’s ruining the one thing I consider good right now. It won’t last forever. I know that. Nothing ever does. The only thing guaranteed in my life is death, and I chance meeting the devil every day I wake up.
“I marked another thing off my list,” Candi grumbles sleepily against my skin, “But I don’t think I ever want to do that again. You’re enough.”
You’re enough.
Two fucking words.
Three syllables.
Eleven fucking letters.
A simple proclamation, but a statement capable of bringing me to my knees if I were standing.
My lips meet the top of her head as my eyes squeeze tight. The words you are too lodge in my throat.
My skin itches, overheating where she’s pressed against me. Her touch almost burns, irritating me at every point of contact. Her breath, which only moments ago was almost warm enough to heat my cold, dead heart, is now scorching me from the inside out.
I shake my head, my mouth unable to form words as I climb out from under her. She groans, agitated that I’m jostling her in her sleep. It’s almost endearing, almost enough for me to reach for her again. My body misses her immediately, but my brain is working a little better now with the distance. I yearn to comfort her as she twists to find a comfortable spot under the sheets. My lips want to press against her head while my mouth whispers, “Get some sleep, baby.”
But I do none of that.
Rather, I keep my eyes on the closed door, feeling caged as I pull my clothes back on. The weight of my cut as I drag it over my shoulders calms me. It gives me purpose, grounding me in my responsibilities. My expectations, my role in this club are clear when it’s covering me.
The tug to go back to her only strengthens with each step I take down the hallway. Each inch I create between the two of us makes the leather on my shoulders heavier, makes the knot in my gut grow bigger.
I need something to replace the feelings, to compensate for the voices in my head telling me I’m fucking up. Ignoring the whisper in my ear urging me to go back to her, I zero in on Ronan. He’s back at the bar, serving drinks, and no worse for the wear. He’s not hovering outside of the room or waiting in the shadows to catch Candi when she leaves my room. He’s doing exactly what he’s supposed to be doing, earning his keep by plying the people in the clubhouse with alcohol. It’s the pink still in his cheeks and the knowing grin that keeps making his lips twitch that makes me murderous.
You’re enough.
Fuck her for whispering those words.
Fuck her for taking everything I’ve given her and begging for more.
Fuck Ronan for not eating her better, and for not slamming into her mouth with enough force to choke her. She would’ve loved that. She would’ve begged him for more.
Then and only then, I wouldn’t be enough.
I don’t want to be enough.
My fingers itch for the coarse texture of my rope as my eyes flit between the bartender and the back door off the kitchen.
“Lynch.”
My head snaps, my heart thrumming even louder as if I’m a lion getting caught stalking its prey. It’s actually not too far from the truth.
Briar’s eyes narrow, shooting between my next victim and me. “Nope.”
He positions himself between us.
“Move,” I order.
He doesn’t.
“I will regret killing you,” I seethe, “But that won’t stop it from happening.”
“That boy did exactly what you told him to do,” Briar says as if I need the damn reminder. The images of his face when he blew his load in her mouth are pretty fucking vivid. Thank you very much.
“He shouldn’t follow orders so well,” I spit.
Briar chuckles. Levity has no place right now.
“Move,” I repeat.
Briar moves, but only to look over his shoulder at Ronan. The heat of both of our gazes pulls the motherfucker’s eyes in our direction.
“Leave,” Briar tells Ronan.
“Prez?” His blue eyes plead with me, telling me he won’t walk out of this clubhouse without my permission.
That.
That fucking kind of loyalty is what the Ravens Ruin MC is all about. This boy, this twenty-three-year-old man will stay, will probably walk down to the basement unescorted and slip my noose around his own fucking neck if that’s what I want him to do. You don’t find that mercy, that willingness to sacrifice very often.
“Go home for the night,” I urge. “Tomorrow you patch in.”
“I got what you asked for,” Briar says as my eyes follow Ronan all the way out the front door.