Battles of the Broken (Sons of Templar MC 6)

This was a challenge. He wanted me to be scared. Think he was going to hurt me. He wanted me to escape that. Escape him.

But I didn’t. I just stared at him, my eyes a silent dare to squeeze harder. Fury and arousal danced in his eyes at my reaction. He held me for a beat longer, and then his grip loosened. He didn’t completely let go, still held me in place, but the pain was mostly gone and I could breathe easy.

In theory, at least. No one could breathe easy with Gage’s eyes on them.

“You don’t fuckin’ know what you’re asking for,” he growled, voice feral.

“Yes I do. I’m not afraid of you,” I said, slightly raspy.

He looked at me as if trying to find the cracks in my words. “Yeah, babe, because you’re brave in ways I’m not,” he said finally.

I wasn’t prepared for that response, not in the midst of his fury. “What are you talking about?”

“Because I’m afraid of you,” he ground out. “Only thing in my life I’m afraid of. Because you’re the only thing in my life that’s priceless.” The grip on my neck tightened once more. “And you askin’ me to show you what’s inside, what’s really inside, that fuckin’ terrifies me, because I can’t fuckin’ control that shit. And once I let it out, I can’t rein it in. I’m terrified that I’m gonna be responsible for ruining the only thing left in my life that’s priceless. It’s been ten years since I’ve touched something—someone—and not wanted to cause them pain.” He paused. “Not needed to cause them pain. I don’t fuckin’ want to do that to you, Will. You’re the first person in a decade I’ve wanted to touch with something resembling tenderness. But I don’t have that now. It’s gone, that ability. It died. There’s only pain left.”

I didn’t let his gaze go, though I was sure he wanted me to. He wanted to scare me away with his admission. His threat.

“You’re not going to ruin me, Gage,” I whispered. “The world has already done that. And even if it hadn’t, I want you to ruin me. There’s something inside of me, not something you created but something you awakened. It’s a darkness, maybe not as black as yours, but one that wants you to drag me further down. Wants you to show me everything depraved in your head. I want you to do things to me that you’ve been too scared to do to anyone else.” I paused. “In fact, I’m going to have to insist that you do.” My voice was husky, the being inside me that I’d silenced for so long finally getting her say.

The knife he always wore on his belt was out of its sheath and running down my body before I even knew what was happening. The tearing of my clothes was a roar in my ears as he literally cut my shirt off me.

And my bra.

My core pulsated with the violence, with the sharp and deadly weapon being so close to my skin.

Not the knife.

Gage.

He had transformed since he’d unsheathed his knife.

Because at the same time, he’d unsheathed his monster.

My need was almost painful as my eyes locked on his, the flat edge of the knife pressing into one of my hard peaks.

Gage’s gaze didn’t leave mine.

The knife circled one nipple.

Then another.

“Your cunt dripping wet, Will?” he asked, voice little more than a growl.

I gasped as the sharp edge of the knife pressed into the swell of my breast, almost tearing at the skin before Gage flipped it and ran the point down my midsection.

His hand came up to shackle my neck when my answer was a succession of sharp breaths. “I asked you a fucking question. When I do that, you answer.”

The tip of the knife pressed into my lower stomach in warning.

“Yes,” I breathed.

The knife ran along the waistband of my skirt. “Yes what?” Gage demanded.

He wanted me to prove something. To shed the skin that covered what was really underneath. “My cunt is dripping wet for you, Gage,” I whispered, my voice throaty. Raw.

“Christian,” he said, his voice feral. Throaty. “I’m Christian to you when we’re like this. Never outside of this. Never. I’m always Gage then. I have to be. But here”—the flat of the knife pressed into my soaking panties—“here, I’m Christian.”

I jerked, and the movement pressed the tip of the knife into my skin, enough to draw blood. Gage hissed as though it had cut through him, his eyes flaring in panic.

I snatched his wrist, the one holding the blade now stained with my blood, stopping him from yanking it away.

“No,” I demanded, not breaking his gaze. “Don’t stop.”

It took pain, brutality for Gage—Christian—to slice off a tiny piece of himself and hand it to me. And I was willing to go through anything to get more.