In the Arms of the Beast (Kings of Hell MC 5)

With his hands steady on the steering wheel, he bolted through the woodland, past the head of the rift that parted the ground as if it were made of wafers. When a blue light made Laurent shut his eyes, he thought it was the heavens raining lightning on the earth, but a brief glance into the rearview mirror revealed the truth that was even worse.

The glow, the same Knight’s fists emitted when using his powers, flashed from the open cleft, already trembling like air over open fire.

Laurent was so shocked by the image that he barely missed a tree as the road bent toward the gates to club grounds. Breath caught in his throat when he turned the wheel, and for the briefest moment, when centrifugal force dug its claws into his insides, he was more than convinced that he and Marcel both would come to an anticlimactic end, just minutes from reaching their goal.

Past flashed in front of his eyes. The blurred image of his mother standing by the fire in the only room of their home, her face—no longer clear—as she squeezed Laurent’s hand, saying goodbye. Father waving at Laurent while the ship departed from the harbor at La Rochelle. Dead travelers thrown into the waves. Rats. The smell of unwashed bodies. A country where people spoke languages he didn’t understand. His first night at Mr. Barnave’s, sleeping on the cold floor, and with no food in his stomach. Learning the alphabet and maths. Watching sailors bathe in the river while hidden in the bushes. The tingle of attraction when William Fane discreetly touched his hand. Baal. A world that was familiar yet alien.

And then, Beast, protecting Laurent from King, showing him kindness even when that wasn’t in his own interest. People who liked him around even when he didn’t have much to offer. Kisses. Beast’s arms around him. Home. Safety. Family.

Love.

He sucked in a gulp of air so huge it hurt his lungs when he realized the car wouldn’t tip over, and instead dashed past the gates, but the moment Laurent crossed the borders of the club grounds, the light changed, as if he’d left the bright spring day behind and had entered a world-sized circus tent that filtered the light into a dim red glow that colored the clouds above purple.

Laurent dashed out of the woods and into the vast grassy area, only to see someone leave the eastern wing of the clubhouse. It was impossible to tell who it was from so far away, but before Laurent could have come close enough, lightning erupted in a vicious sequence between the thick clouds, and the ground under the lone person parted. Laurent didn’t even get to hear their final scream.

The noises coming from the closed backpack kept Laurent on edge, but he tightened his hands on the wheel and drove, drove as fast as he could toward the palisade-surrounded encampment Magpie called his temporary home. Blue lightning tore through the red sky, spreading its arms over the firmament in a weave so dense Laurent half-expected the coloring to fade, ripped to shreds by the electric blades. But that wasn’t happening, because none of this was a special effect in a moving picture.

It was reality.

The world was about to end before he had truly started living with Beast and Marcel as a family.

His thoughts were with his husband. He didn’t even want to imagine what Beast could be going through. Horrific visions of the acidic resin spilling on Beast and burning his already scarred skin made Laurent tear up and regret not staying. Maybe he should have at least made that last kiss longer, communicate all his love for Beast with touch. For all he knew, it could have been their last moment together, and it tore his heart to pieces.

He parked the car in front of the tents so abruptly dirt splattered the palisade, and he was glad for seatbelts because otherwise both he and Marcel would have been lying outside the car among shards of broken glass.

Taking out the egg was another matter altogether. The backpack was now so heavy Laurent could barely carry it on his own, so he called for help as soon as he noticed Malachite standing by the gate of the camp as if the sky were still clear.

The ground shook so abruptly, the tremor brought Laurent to his knees. He hit his head on the side of the door, sending a tearing ache through his skull, but when he saw the gap that had earlier swallowed a person widen and move farther toward the front of the clubhouse, toward him, he dragged himself right back to his feet.

He was about to reach for Marcel again when the wooden gate guarding Magpie’s glampsite burst open, and the man himself strolled out in silk pants and an open robe, still in the process of wiping his face with a towel. His damp hair was combed back, as if he’d been resting after a long bath, but there was no trace of relaxation in Magpie’s posture. He tossed the towel at Malachite and ran up to Laurent.