Page 11 of Bones
Silvermoon has a familiar sound and it’s not long before I recall that Bones had been talking about it yesterday morning with another one of the demons. The two men hadn’t bothered keeping their voices down while discussing it and Heathen.
“I don’t know who I pity more,” Lacy says as she unbuckles. “Heathen or Bellamy.”
“Definitely Bellamy,” Cinder answers with a gruff laugh before getting out of the Bronco.
I’m realizing that Cinder might be a silent, terrifying guardian to me but to Lacy, he’s something softer. And much more talkative.
In a daze from everything this morning, I get out and follow a few steps behind the couple; Lacy is still a chatterbox. He opens the front door for her and when I go to enter, he drops an arm across the doorway making me stumble back a step with surprise.
When I look up into his eyes, all hints of anything soft have disappeared. Cinder glowers down at me; the promises of pain and death in his eyes makes me swallow hard.
“You make a single move towards my son that is in any way threatening and I will not hesitate to tear your skin from your body, do you understand?”
I nod frantically, too terrified to speak. His gaze stays on me for a tense moment before nodding and dropping his arm to let me pass.
My knees are weak and shaking as I walk by him, my eyes downcast. I follow the voices until I’m in a dining area attached to a kitchen that looks in the middle of a remodel. Lacy is bouncing a gurgling bundle, while a dark haired beauty--Kennedy I assume--is cooing at the infant and telling Lacy how good he was for her.
“Oh, hey,” Kennedy greets, looking up at me.
“Hi,” I respond, feeling incredibly awkward. “I’m Sloan.”
Cinder breezes past me, preventing me from answering, and walks up behind Lacy to lean over her and gaze at the half-demon infant. That pang of envy makes my chest ache and I struggle to breathe at the sight of the small family. Cinder’s unscarred arm is around Lacy’s waist with the ease of intimacy as his entire demeanor softens from the threatening male he was moments ago.
I used to dream of being a mom, of having a loving husband who’d be a fantastic father. I’d given up that dream years ago. Even if I escaped the Justiciars, who would ever want someone with my kind of baggage?
I try to picture myself in Lacy’s shoes and with startling ease, I can see it in front of me. Me holding a baby girl with my eyes and her father’s hair. Me, looking up at the man who owns my heart just as Lacy is doing now to Cinder. Except instead of ahalf-scarred demon in human form, the face smooths out and changes--
The front door opens and I spin around, heart racing and tense, ready to run.
Bones strolls in, saying something over his shoulder before looking back and noticing me and stopping.
Speak of the devil.
7
BONES
If I thought I knew what suffering was, I was wrong. Even at the worst times under the tyranny of Prince Tol’vazir in hell, it was never like this.
It’s like Sloan Davis is my personal tormentor, sent by the universe to determine how much I can endure before finally breaking. That day, when I’d dropped by Lacy and Cinder’s place to pick her up, was the first true strike against my walls. Walking into a home and having her turn to face me, her expression filled with hope and desire. Shit, it’d felt like Chainz punched me right in the fucking chest.
Then Lacy made me promise to take Sloan shopping for new clothes for this damn party we’re at. I’d resorted to being an asshole buried in my phone, reviewing the files we have for the Silvermoon event, while she tried on clothes.
Now I’m thinking I should have made her show me the outfits, because there’s no way in hell I’d have bought her the number she’s wearing tonight. An outfit I didn’t even see until she arrived with Sydney and Kennedy.
You’d never think that two weeks ago, Sloan was a Justicar who only wore white, shapeless cassocks or plain, long-sleeved dresses like some of the more orthodox religions in the world. Tonight, she’s wearing a dress that is the opposite of all of her former attire. It’s a velvety black material that crisscrosses over her breasts before tying behind her neck, leaving a section of her flat stomach exposed. The skirt is a death sentence for me, with the black velvet hugging her narrow hips and ending just past the swell of her ass. There’s a sheer black layer with black embroidery that reaches her mid thigh, like a half-hearted attempt at modesty.
I’m a sick bastard, because I can’t stop imagining slipping my hand under that fabric, stroking her smooth skin.
Fuck, I’m getting hard in my jeans.
I take another swig of the whiskey I’m nursing, trying to calm myself.
I have to avoid her, I tell myself. I have to stay away.
I take in the clubhouse’s courtyard, packed with club members, locals, and the out-of-towners who never miss their chance to rub shoulders with the infamous Knights of Hades bikers.
The sun set an hour ago and the lights strung across the courtyard illuminate the improvised dance floor. Blaze and Kennedy are there and I snort in amusement. Kennedy has Blaze so whipped. Chainz is out there too, happily grinding on a redhead with huge tits. He’s the type that picks his partner early and ramps up the tension until the chick is practically willing to deep-throat him in the middle of the room.
