Dauntless (Sons of Templar MC 5)

“You want that hand to remain attached to your body, you remove it from mine right now,” I hissed as he dragged me along. The anger was for my own good more than anything else. His strong, large, and dry hand clutching my small, clammy one had me feeling some type of way. The wrong type. The pink sparkly type.

Lucky looked straight ahead, directing us out of the double doors. “I’m willin’ to take the risk of dismemberment to hold your hand, Becky,” he replied, a smile tickling the corner of his mouth. “Plus, I heard they’re doing great things with prosthetics these days. Maybe I’ll get a hook hand. I reckon I could work that shit.”

A hook hand?

I struggled in vain as he led us out of the hallway and opened the door to the parking lot. I flinched back as the harsh sunlight assaulted me and caused black spots to dance in front of my vision.

Lucky stopped immediately, standing in front of me. His large body obstructed the rays of the devil ball, thankfully.

Spots still danced around my eyeballs, so I couldn’t gauge the look on his face.

“Shit, it all makes sense now,” he said.

I squinted at him. “What makes sense?”

He yanked me closer to his body, as if he were trying to shield me from the sun. “You’re a vampire. I’ve never seen you in daylight, and I knew no one human could possibly look like you and do the things you do with your body. How could I not know before? A creature of the night. Of course you sold your soul to the devil. That’s how you hypnotize me so,” he deadpanned.

I blinked at him a couple times. He was right on one score; I did sell my soul to the devil, or I’d tried. Even he wouldn’t take that mangled thing. “You’re insane,” I muttered.

He grinned at me. “Only two doctors have come to that conclusion. The rest just say I have an overactive imagination. Let’s get my little vamp to the car.” He made a big performance of lifting his leather cut in front of my face. “Don’t want that beautiful skin getting scorched.” He grinned at me when I scowled at him. “If you’re a really good girl, I’ll even let you suck my blood. I’m tasty, you know.” He winked.

“You’re something,” I replied, almost lower than a whisper. Something was dangerous. Especially when I’d almost killed myself to escape something in pursuit of nothing.

As soon as we got in the cab he seemed to sense my unease. Though it wasn’t exactly easy to hide. And I was doing a crappy job.

“You gonna tell me what’s wrong, or am I going to have to torture it out of you?” he asked blandly, putting his hand over the back of my seat so he could reverse out of the lot.

I stared at the caramel, sinewy, tattooed flesh. I had an unbearable urge to lick it. That’s all my body and mind was it seemed—animal urges. Lick people, get high. Whatever.

“Torture what?” I asked, my response slightly delayed as I watched the journey of his arm back to the steering wheel, hypnotized by the way his veins pulsed from his skin.

His eyes flickered to me. His voice and face may have been easy, as was his default, but the depths of those hazel irises showed something different. Something that unnerved my newly sober eyes. Everything off the junk was clearer, starker, and not in a refreshing way. The world was jarring, and it rubbed up my skin the wrong way. Seeing it without the film of a high was uncomfortable because it was reality. I thought the worst thing was looking in the mirror, but it wasn’t.

It was looking at Lucky.

I’d convinced myself that my feelings for him were intermingled with my feelings for junk, and going cold turkey would wash away the daydreams of the cheerful yet deadly biker.

Oh, how wrong I could be.

The air in the cab of the truck was so stifling I felt like I might choke on it. Or throw up. I really hoped I didn’t throw up.

Somehow Lucky’s attention was on me even though he was in control of a motor vehicle. It should have unnerved me, but it didn’t. I felt safe with him. That’s what unnerved me. I wasn’t safe with anyone, not even myself. Safety was an illusion and surrendering to the feeling was the moment you opened yourself up for destruction.

“The reason behind this,” he answered my question, his jaw hard as his eyes flickered up my seated body.

I clasped my hands together at my knees. I knew I looked like shit. Even though I’d tried my best to paint my face and disguise the toll the loss of my ‘medicine’ had taken, it was impossible. My arms were skinny and my face was sallow. I was always pale, but now my skin had a grayish sheen to it and the bags under my eyes couldn’t be covered with industrial strength concealer. So not cute.