Chapter 5
Brody
I’ve got a tally of every instance Justice opens her mouth.She’ll pay in arse and pussy, and I’ll not relent once I’ve got her in my grasps.
“I still don’t understand why everyone’s at your parents’ house.” That confidence, her sexy curves were floating on, plummets. The soft evening sunrays were highlighting the sway of her hips. She stops at the closed entrance of my parents’ home, looking up at the tall doors.
“I’m not the leader of me clan, Justice. I gotta ask for ya safety, yer parents’ safety too. I don’t have the right to kill Marcus—”
“Kill?” She sucks air through pillow lips. I imagine the head of my cock popping straight between that mouth of hers. She’s on top of the moral high ground. Gabbing how killing Marcus isn’t what she asked for.
“First!” I cut into her whining. “If Marcus were here, in LA, I’d kill him. Nae need complicating shite by popping a fecking dog on its nose.”
“But murder?”
“Justice,” I snarl her name. “I reprimand that motherfucker ‘bout targeting ya, he’ll bide his time. He will bite ye back. That’s wit they all do. Think.”
I could lick the fear from her dark skin. Why’s she so antsy? The right lad’s on her side. Her mouth is agape again, and I’m shifting my stance, telling myself not to prey on her fear. Not to pounce. Not to slap some good sense into her.
“Brody, please. I can’t have Marcus’s death on my conscience.”
“Ya won’t. Listen. I’m saying I’m not permitted to kill him. Well, unless he pisses me off.” I run a hand over my beard. This is why I don’t involve myself in other people’s business.
Here’s a scenario: A woman’s getting smacked around by a lad. Ye do her a solid. Ye kill him. She cries bloody murder. Lasses are fickle characters.
“Okay, Marcus is in Boston. So, you’re not murdering him?” She steps closer to me, glancing around the good neighborhood my parents live in. Is she expecting authorities to rush in and haul us off on conspiracy charges? It’s cute.
“Nae. And not because ye’re asking, Justice. Boston’s owned by McFarlands. We’ve rules, lass. I’ll speak with Mam or Da, then address the issue with Clan MacFarland.”
Her tongue drags over her lips. “Okay, sounds political.”
Och “political” sounds law-abiding to her, I suppose—if ye are gullible and don’t associate politics with snakes. “Somewhat political. But if I see Marcus around here, my life gets easier. Ye will have to find a way to sleep at night. I always do.”
“Alright, well, thank you.” She chews her lip.
“Show me yer appreciation.” I reach past her, locking her between me and the door.
Justice bites her lip again. She’s nervous. Ain’t like she’s meeting the parents in that sort of scenario. My hand slides against the small of her back.
The shuddered hitch she lets out causes a predatory smile to fall onto my mouth. She’s oblivious to the world she lives in. Soulless arseholes rule this nation. Wee feckers like Marcus believe in nothing, and I’m supposed to reprimand the lad, not chop the threat in half?
Justice trembles beneath my touch. Instinct begs me to stitch that wee thread of fear, remind her that the ally she made is more than capable of bringing her enemy to heel. But the more we talk about my vindicating her, the more I sense her worry.
I’ll get it through Justice’s skull that ya don’t fight darkness with light. After a while, the dark consumes ye. That’s a concept that will go over the lass’s head right now. She’s trembling, afraid to revel in me—the real me—not the one who exercised his mouthwith her after seeing the suicide poster. This is who I am, and she was taught to hate the likes of a lad like me.
My steel-plated cock crushes her thigh, and my mouth drops a notch away from hers. The quiver of her breath fans against my mouth. My hands slip down the small of Justice’s back to her thick, soft arse.
“Brody, move.”
“Ye found yer voice?” My attention lands on her succulent mouth. While Her inhibitions lay dying, I marvel at how her entire body is mine to possess.
“Move. I-I never lost my vo—”
The double doors open. My wee bràthair Jamie, he’s fifteen or so, stops. “Mam said to get the mail,” he says, slinking past us.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Justice calls after him.
“That wee fecker is one of my six younger bràthairs,” I tell Justice. My three-year-old niece, Mia, scampers down the steps, calling my name. She’s got Chevelle’s light brown coloring and my bràthair, Leith’s, crazy reddish-blond hair.