Page 49 of Demon
Ciara paused again, her breath catching as I forced mine to stay steady.
“Then he pushed the tip up against my throat. He told me he was going to cut things off me. I was so scared I was shaking. There was no one around, not even passing the top of the street. And even if I wanted to scream, to cry for help. I couldn’t. I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t even find the words to beg. I don’t really know what happened next. There was a noise behind him, a metal bin crashing to the ground. He jumped. So, I kicked him in the balls as hard as I could.”
“And you escaped?” I asked, desperate for this story to end. Desperate not to hear anymore.
Ciara shook her head.
“It only made him angrier. He slashed the knife at my face. I think I must have turned slightly. I thought he was coming for my throat. I thought I was going to die. The knife caught my cheek. It didn’t hurt at first. Not at first,” she whispered. Closing her eyes as if she felt that same pain again.
“I dunno what happened next, really. I screamed. I remember that. And there were voices from the street. A commotion. Maybe there was a siren? I can’t really remember. The man with the knife nodded and his men just let go of me. Then he said he would find me again. And when he did, he would cut me to pieces bit by bit. I’ve been running from the Polish mafia ever since. I’m never sure whether they find me. But sometimes I feel like I’m being watched, like they’re there.”
“And so, you run. Every time,” I added.
She nodded, tears welling in her eyes.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I pack up and I leave. So, I can never promise you I’ll always be here. Because I may have to go tomorrow.”
The realisation of those words hit me harder than the story she had just told me. Despair. The thought of her just up and running. The thought of never seeing her again. That diluted the anger, condensing it to dread, to fear, to a sadness deeper than anything I’d ever imagined before.
“I’m sorry, Demon,” she whispered.
I muffled the words with my lips. Kissing her gently, distracting my brain from the ache of loss, even though I hadn’t lost her yet. For a moment we stayed like that, careful gentle kisses, until I pulled away.
“I can keep you safe, Ciara.”
She looked up at me, a mix of longing and sadness in her rich brown eyes.
“I can,” I added. “If I make you my ol’lady, the club will protect you. It’s our rule.One in all in.Ol’ ladies are protected under that.”
“Sounds like the musketeers,” she mumbled.
“Guess it is. All MCs follow the rule. There are loads of rules, but that’s one of the most important ones. That and no one talks to the police.”
“No grasses, eh?”
“Aye, that’s right. Even if it helps your defence. You never talk to the police. So, what do you say?”
“Nothing. No comment.”
Smile lines animated her face, and I couldn’t help but let the wide grin join her, seeping across my face, that warm fuzzy feeling taking over the cavity in my chest where a heart was supposed to be.
“I mean, will you be my ol’ lady?”
“Sounds like a marriage proposal,” she shrugged.
“Not yet, darlin’. But just keep letting me fuck you like you do, and it might be.”
The lines on her face moved again, dragging her mouth into that gorgeous smile, the scar pulling at her skin. I swiped my thumb just underneath it, feeling the rough edges. She was stunning with that scar, and I’d never known her without it, but it was deep and red, and it marred those perfect features and that beautiful face. I slid my hand around the back of her head, securing my fingers into her hair, pulling her to me. Then, lightly, I pressed my lips to her cheek, kissing the damaged skin.
“Be mine,” I whispered against her.
“Maybe,” she answered. “Let me sleep on it.”
I nodded, scooping her up off her feet and carrying her to the bed. She was so light. Too light. At her height, she should carry more weight. The only real flesh on her were those amazing tits. Ciara needed looking after, whether she wanted it or not. Sitting her gently on the bed, I tugged the covers from underneath, my knuckles brushing against the exposed skin of her legs from the cut of denim shorts she wore as a uniform.
If she was mine, I would make sure everyone knew it. Everyone. I’d tattoo my mark on that beautiful skin. On her thigh, maybe? Or on her tits where every man’s eye went. Wherever they looked, they’d know she belonged to me. I just needed her to say it.
Ciara wriggled out of the shorts, a white lace thong underneath. Inviting. And then she unbuttoned the shirt, pulling it off and dropping it on the floor next to the bed. Then she reached for the covers. I caught her hand, stopping her.