Page 15 of Property of Necro (Kings Of Anarchy MC: Illinois #1)

He jerks his chin at the gift as I unfold the bundle and drape it across the back of the pew in front of me. “For you.”

The ickiest emotions swirl in my gut as my nose begins to burn with the awful need to cry. I swallow the sudden lump in my throat, running my fingers over the softest blanket I’ve ever seen. It’s the perfect shade of purple—medium, not light, but not dark. It’s my favorite color. How did he know?

Watching my reaction, not saying a thing, or calling me out for the water that seems to have found its way into my eye sockets, he drops a matching purple set of …

Are those?

A broken laugh escapes me. “Are these crocheted slipper Crocs?” My voice wobbles as I drag the back of my hand across my eyes to catch any falling water.

Mama gestures to them. “Try ‘em on. I think I got them right.”

Not needing to be told twice, I slip them on my feet, stand to test their size, and squeal as warmth and the softest of soft cradles my toes for the first time in weeks.

Without thinking, I throw my arms around Mama’s thick neck in gratitude.

Crocs are my favorite shoes. I know I’m not supposed to wear anything on my feet, but maybe, just maybe, Necro will let me keep these, since they’re made of fabric.

Huffing out a surprised laugh, Mama pats my back. “You’re welcome, Sola.”

I pull away quickly, not wanting to make this too weird for him, and do a little dance in the narrow aisle. “Where did you get these?”

“I made them.”

My eyes widen in wonder. “You cook and crochet. Crochet like actual patterns?”

Grinning, his head dips in timid affirmation.

“You’re talented.”

Redness suffuses his cheeks as if he’s not used to being complimented. That can’t be true. I consistently compliment his skills. He’s the nicest man here. Possibly the nicest I’ve ever met.

I wiggle my foot for him. “Nobody’s ever made anything for me before.”

“Ever?”

“Nope. Never.” Shaking my head, I drop beside him, and he frowns as I pull the blanket off the back of the pew and drape it across my exposed legs.

I tuck it around my hips to stay extra warm and send a silent prayer to the universe that Necro doesn’t take this from me like they did all my other belongings, including my precious purple Crocs with all the fun charms I spent years collecting and swapping in and out. I miss those the most.

“Where did you learn to do all this?” I gesture to my gifts.

“In prison.”

Oh. Wow .

“You were in prison?” I ask, keeping any judgment from my tone.

“Yeah. Twenty years.”

“Am I allowed to ask for what?”

“What do you think it was for?”

“I have no idea. I’m still trying to wrap my head around that you were in prison at all.”

A belly laugh booms out of Mama as he knocks his massive shoulder into mine playfully.

I grin over at him and wait for him to decide whether he wants to tell me his story. I’m dying to know.

“I was a hellion growin’ up. Got in some trouble.

Then I got in more trouble, drunk in a bar one night.

Picked a fight with a group of men. Two of ‘em ended up dead, which I didn’t know, ‘cause I got the fuck outta there when the cops were called. Drinkin’ and drivin’ is bad on anyone’s best day.

Doin’ it hopped up on coke, on a Harley, in the middle of the night, might be the dumbest fuckin’ shit ever. ”

“Sounds like it. Then what happened?” I press for more, riveted by his story.

“I hit a patch of gravel on a country road, takin’ a corner too fast. Flew off my bike. I spent two weeks in the hospital with internal bleeding, road rash, and on account of both my nuts explodin’ in my sac when they hit my fuel tank.”

My mouth opens and closes like a fish, unable to find the words. “Wow,” I force out. “That sounds like…like a lot,” I fumble, twisting my fingers in my new blanket. I mean… His nuts exploded. He spent time in prison. How do you respond to that? Sorry about your balls ?

“It was.” He chuckles. “It sucked. I had a shit life growin’ up. Spent the next twenty years behind bars, gettin’ my head on straight.”

“When did you get out?”

“Six years ago.”

“Well, um…thanks for telling me.” I take a page out of his book and knock my shoulder into his. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Mama hums but doesn’t say anything more as we sit side by side, just existing together.

As I savor the peaceful moment, the urge to confess something I haven’t spoken aloud, maybe ever, crawls across my skin.

If Mama has the strength to share something personal with someone he barely knows, perhaps I do too.

Maybe that makes it easier. There’s less at stake, and I don’t think he’d judge me. “I was a child bride,” I blurt.

A minute passes. Then two.

The air thickens between us. Either I’m imagining it, because my heart is racing a million miles an hour, or it’s a real thing. I guess I’ll never know.

Another minute passes, and I finally gather the courage to peek at Mama out of the corner of my eye. He’s staring intently at me, urging me to go on with his kind, mature gaze.

“His name was… well, I guess it doesn’t matter what his name is…

was.” I wave off the thought with the flick of my wrist and huff an awkward laugh.

“He bought me from my uncle. I thought I had it made. Even though he sometimes scared me, I loved the idea of not having to share my bed with other men anymore.” At least Ted liked me enou gh not to share me with others. I was his, and he made it known.

I let the truth settle over us like a blanket before peeking at Mama again. His jaw is set, and his eyes are ablaze, but he nods for me to continue.

Very well.

I power through.

It pours out of me, and I’m not sure why.

Perhaps it’s Mama’s compassion or the belly full of bread.

But I share Ted with him, the only person I’ve ever told.

Not even the sisters know I’m married. How could they?

I never told Blimp, the biker who saved me…

and I changed my name when I joined the sisterhood, like many of us do.

My past is a mystery to everyone. Sure, they know I was abused.

That’s a given. The details only go as far as I’ve divulged to them, which isn’t all that much.

Fingering the edge of the blanket, I flash Mama a soft, watery smile.

“He only hit me sometimes. Whenever he felt bad, he bought me things. Little things to make me smile again. But he never made me anything. Thank God I couldn’t get pregnant.

My uncle did me a favor there.” I pat my stomach right above the faded scar.

“You can’t have kids?”

“No. When I started my cycle, my uncle paid a doctor to give me a hysterectomy. I got to keep my ovaries, so I’ve got a while before I hit menopause yet, but my uterus is gone.

” I shrug, barely remembering that long ago.

I’m sure there were drugs involved. Whenever I got out of line, there were always tranquilizers to settle me.

That’s probably why I don’t remember most of the stuff that happened in the bedroom .

When I married Ted, the drugging stopped. He wanted me awake to remember every horrible moment with him.

“Is your uncle still alive?” Mama asks.

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. Once Ted moved us away, I never heard from my uncle again.

“And your husband?”

“I’m sure he’s still alive. Unless someone braver than me got sick of his shit and finally slit his throat.

I thought about it a lot. But he’s a cop, and I didn’t want to go to prison for the rest of my life.

Then again, that would have been better than living with him.

” I imagine in bigger parts of the country, cops marrying children is illegal or at least frowned upon.

In Kentucky, childhood brides are common.

Nobody batted an eyelash at Ted’s underage wife.

Most of them put him on a pedestal as a small-town hero for loving a poor girl who lost her family and had mental health issues.

That’s how he framed it. I was the problem one.

I can’t remember what imaginary mental illnesses he sold them, but it kept them from asking why I never visited town.

I only know that from the few who came by.

Most of them were wives of his cop friends, dropping by under the guise of neighborly kindness when what they really wanted was something new to gossip about.

“He had a God complex like most cops do,” Mama comments.

“For sure. Small-dick energy with the small dick to match.” I snort at my stupid joke.

When I peek at Mama again, he isn’t smiling. “So that’s why you’re tied to the Sacred Sinners,” he deduces.

I nod sharply. “Yep. After I escaped, they got me off the streets. ”

“Now you’re here.”

“Yes. Now I’m here.” I draw the blanket up to my throat. “Cuddling with the nicest gift anyone has given me.”

“Sola,” Mama’s tone is grim when he says my name.

“What?” I chew my bottom lip.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know, I shouldn’t. But I am. I know I’ll probably end up like the rest of the women, buried in the yard out back. I understand.” It’s taken me days to come to terms with that , but I’m a firm believer that everything happens for a reason.

“You’re a good person.”

Not even close, but it’s sweet he thinks so.

“Good people don’t sleep with as many men as I have for the reasons I have.” They also haven’t liked it as much as I have.

“People use sex to cope all the time. You’re not so different from most of the men here.”

“Except I’ve never killed a person.” Not by my own hands, at least. Sleeping with bad men to get close to said bad men, to help get bad men killed… Oh. I’ve done that a lot.

“Semantics.” He chuckles with his entire body, holding his round belly like Santa Claus. “You saw Necro’s office walls, huh?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I think he has some serious demons.” That’s the understatement of the century. It’s also none of my business .

A short boom of laughter erupts from Mama’s throat. “Oh. You have no idea. But you will. Ask him about it sometime.”

“He won’t talk to me. He doesn’t even try.”

“He will. Give him time.”

I’m not so sure about that.

“And Coffin?” I prompt, not wanting to discuss Necro anymore.

Mama crooks a finger for me to lean in closer, and he whispers in my ear, “One thing you should know about this place, sweet girl. There are ears and cameras everywhere.” Pulling back, he flicks his eyes to six spots in the chapel where the cameras must be hidden.

I dip my chin a fraction to let him know I understand.

They’re watching. They’re listening. They heard this entire conversation.

Part of me knows I should be upset by their intrusiveness…

the other part is relieved I won’t have to relive this same story again now that they know.

Not that they care. Why would they? I’m a hole. Not a person.

But at least now I can bake bread and am the proud owner of soft Croc slippers and a matching blanket.

Focusing on the positive, I sit in peace, mulling over anything and everything with Mama as my silent companion.

When Necro claims me sometime later, I follow him on the same path we always take to the basement and my bedroom.

I don’t ask if I can keep my new gifts. He doesn’t acknowledge their existence as I use the restroom before sliding into my casket for the night, my feet pleasantly warm and my legs extra cozy.

He drops something hard on my stomach and shuts me inside before I get a chance to ask what the hell he threw at me.

Patting around in the pitch-black darkness, I find whatever landed on my belly, feel around the hard plastic, and push one of the five buttons.

The first one activates two strips of LED lights that outline the edges of the interior of my casket.

What in the world?

A silly laugh breaks free as I change the color to purple.

That looks awesome.

I push the other buttons, and they don’t do much other than change the lights or turn them off. The final button plays music. It’s low. Soothing. The sound of the outdoors. No. It’s the beach. The crashing of the waves. A seagull. Wind.

Closing my eyes, a small smile graces my lips until the calming sounds of the ocean drag me into a blissful dreamland.