Dauntless (Sons of Templar MC 5)

The door opened and closed and the sound of motorcycle boots wafted into my muffled ears.

I felt him enter the room but didn’t look up.

“Hey, babe, what you starin’ at so intently? Trying to move something with the power of your mind? Waste of time. Telekinesis is something that manifests when you’re a kid. Trust me, I already looked it up on—” I’m guessing he stopped because he saw the syringe full of heroin sitting on the coffee table.

Inches away from me.

My hand twitched. Even with him a few feet away. Him. The man who promised salvation.

Salvation and damnation within my reach, and I couldn’t move because I was scared of what I would choose.

Or what would choose me.

I expected him to lose it. To transform into that man I knew lurked underneath the façade that droned on about telekinesis.

He didn’t say a word but his rage filled the room, mingling with the presence of the heroin and tasting bitter as I sucked air in.

His boots echoed as he rounded the coffee table and came to sit next to me. He didn’t touch me, just sat there, right there, resting his elbows on his knees and staring in the same direction as me.

I was jealous. His stare was a choice. Mine was not. It was like being up on stage before the true nightmare began and having that magnetic force pulling my attention to him. This wasn’t natural chemistry, nature trying to yank me closer to something that promised light. No, this was something wholly unnatural that I’d chosen and would have that seducing pull to venture back down that dark path.

The allure of nothing.

My hand twitched again.

Nothing. No pain. No memories. No nightmare. No filth. I wouldn’t feel trapped under my own tarnished skin.

There’d be nothing.

A tanned, tattooed hand settled over mine, encompassing my small pale one in its strong grip.

He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to.

If I got nothing, then that meant no Gabriel. No stupid jokes about penguin’s knees. No soulful glances. No falling asleep in his arms and feeling safer than ever. No chance of anything… more.

I stood, my decision made.

Gabriel stiffened and I bet he itched to stand too, to stop me. He stayed. I picked up the junk I’d gotten off one of my old dealers. Then I dropped it to the ground and crushed it under my combat boot.

Out of the corner of my eye, Gabriel’s entire body sagged with relief. Mine did not.

He stood, slowly coming to stand in front of me, his face etched in stone. “Why?” he asked. There was no judgment in his voice, not an ounce.

“Tonight,” I replied, my voice thick. “Everyone was just so… right. They fit.”

Gabriel’s eyes flared. “You fit too.” It was almost a growl.

I shook my head, stepping back as my emotions whirled in my stomach.

“I’m never going to be this old lady version of Mary Sue all your brothers seem to have,” I said, pacing the room before stopping in front of him. “Birds don’t help me dress in the morning, and I don’t wake up looking like a supermodel. I wake up looking like a ‘before’ picture on Extreme Makeover, or a swamp creature, depending on the hair situation. I don’t have a fancy designer wardrobe or some strange superpower to wear white while rearing sticky-handed toddlers. I don’t like toddlers. Or kids.” I started pacing again. “I don’t smile at people for no reason. I don’t like people. I’m pissed off at the world most of the time, and I just can’t find it in me to make the effort with people I don’t think are worth my time. A lot of people think I’m a bitch.” I gave his amused face a meaningful look. “A lot. When I get PMS, I’ll either cry at an insurance commercial or seriously consider murder over someone if I don’t like the way they breathe. There’s no in-between.” Lucky grinned at that and I ignored it. I had to. “I’m not funny or quirky or….” I searched for the word and somehow, something in me broke. “Clean,” I said finally. “It’s ironic really, that that’s the name for being sober. Clean.” It even tasted bitter on my tongue. I laughed a humorless laugh. “It’s a sick joke. I’m not clean. I’m so covered in filth, in dirt, that the word shouldn’t be used in a sentence next to my name. I’m broken. Used. Tarnished,” I listed in a detached tone. “I’m so fucked-up even your most ruthless brother looks well-adjusted next to me.” I laughed again. “I’m too dirty for even the outlaws.”

My laughter stopped and I gazed up at Lucky’s tight form. The amused look was wiped from his face and it was taut. His fists were balled at his sides. I took it in, then continued.