Page 2 of Property of Necro (Kings Of Anarchy MC: Illinois #1)

Chapter

Two

Crossing into the sanctuary, my Crocs squeak across the center aisle. I wince at the sound as men sitting in the pews look up. Their penetrating gazes lock on me as Rot urges me to keep going.

Stained glass windows depicting angels line one wall, casting beams of colorful light across the space.

As I reach the middle of the room, a bone chandelier hangs overhead.

From here, human skulls guide my way, hanging on the end of aged pews, some with dried flowers poking through their eye sockets.

Keeping my head down, I clasp my hands in front of me and keep going.

Nerves gnaw my insides like an anxious rat trying to get free.

Incense perfumes the air but does nothing to quell my unease.

A man clears his throat, but I keep moving.

“Five more steps,” Rot whispers from somewhere behind me .

Right. Five steps.

Counting them in my head, I take them slowly. The gray-and-black tiles underfoot flow to a single red tile, where I stop.

The man behind me hums his approval, and for some reason, that little sound warms me the tiniest bit as I school my features and glance up.

On a stage, a shirtless man, carved with muscles and littered with scars sits on a black throne, watching me like a predator does its prey, with eyes so blue they’re almost white.

A black mask out of a post-apocalyptic hellscape covers his nose and mouth.

He cocks his bald head to the side, and his dark brows hike to the sky as if daring me to say something, to do something, to challenge him, to cause trouble.

But I won’t. That’s not why I’m here.

Feet together, I stand on my red tile and await his instructions.

This is the man I’m here to please.

I’m his gift.

Sure, I might not be much of one with my curly red hair and pale skin covered in freckles, prone to sunburn, but Dark asked this of me, and I owe everything to the Sacred Sinners. They gave me life. They saved me from a fate worse than death. This is the least I can do to repay them.

A different man, also shirtless, though blond, lumbers up the steps and leans down to whisper in his president’s ear. They exchange nods, and the man disappears.

Rot steps beside me, no longer laden with my bags, and touches my arm. “It’s time.” Wrapping his much larger hand around my wrist, he escorts me up the steps onto the dais and past his president on the throne, where a wall of stacked bones reaches the ceiling behind an altar draped in black cloth.

Scooping me into his arms, my stomach flutters to the sky as Rot lays me upon the altar like a sacrifice to the gods. When I try to sit up, he pushes my shoulders down. “Rest,” he whispers, moving to light black candles on iron holders nearly as tall as me.

Flat on my back, hands down at my sides, I watch him move from one spot to the next. The flame of each candle casts an eerie glow across the bones, accenting their shadows.

A wooden groan echoes through the space as their president rises from his station. His footfalls grow heavy as they near. At the end of the altar, by my feet, he stops, eyeing me with his ethereal gaze. I shiver, and his head tilts as if fascinated.

Rot finishes lighting the wicks and kneels next to my ear. Looking toward his president, he whispers, “I need you to be quiet. I need you to be still. I need you to endure.”

A surge of alarm ripples through me.

I need you to be…

Quiet.

Still.

Endure.

Why those things?

What am I really doing here?

I open my mouth to ask, but Rot’s warm finger presses there, stalling my words.

His head shakes, and a mop of dark hair falls onto his forehead. “No.”

Right.

I swallow hard, meeting his gentle gaze.

He needs me to be quiet.

“Do you understand?”

I do.

Be quiet. Be still. Endure.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I dip my chin in obedience.

I am the gift.

I am the offering.

I agreed to this.

The words tumble over in my head on repeat.

Flashing me a lopsided smile, Rot kisses my cheek and motions to someone. The same blond man who spoke to his president approaches and produces an enormous steel blade adorned with ruins. Its handle is wrapped in leather. Rot accepts it with a grateful tip of his chin.

“Remember,” he mutters the moment my world descends into darkness as a blindfold is tied around my head.

Quiet.

Still.

Endure.

I will remember.

Pressing my lips together, I relax. Through my nose, I breathe slowly.

I will not freak out.

It doesn’t matter if I hate blindfolds or if I’m terrified of the dark.

I have survived. I will survive.

The tip of the cool blade presses into the shallow dip at my throat.

Goosebumps break across my flesh as I suppress the urge to gasp.

Down it travels, leisurely cutting through my shirt, careful not to nick the skin.

Reaching my bra, someone lifts the sliver of fabric connecting the center.

One slice and my breasts bounce free. The cool air bites my nipples, and they pucker as the men continue their descent down my body, making quick work of my jeans and panties until I’m left exposed to them, every inch of my body on display—a feast for the hungry.

Someone slides my Crocs off.

Chilled air caresses my bare toes. On instinct, they flex, now freed from their confines.

Nobody speaks.

Boot heels crossing the wooden floor vibrate through the altar into my back.

There’s a plastic click like a latch being opened.

Someone’s breath is heavy, like they’re… turned on.

Metal clinks , and a man grunts.

Warm skin brushes against my arm, and I sense them hovering over me. There’s a gentle poke on the side of my nipple.

I stiffen, and that same hand I’ve come to know rests on my shoulder in support—Rot.

What are they doing?

The same poke touches my other nipple and is gone a second later.

Relaxing my fingers, I focus on the softness of the fabric beneath me—silk. It’s cool to the touch. The quiet sounds of the men fade out as I force myself to remain calm. Dark wouldn’t put me in danger. This is a ritual. It must be. That’s all. A ceremony to welcome me. Why else would I be here?

This isn’t the closet I lived in as a child.

I’m not being punished.

If I were, I’d be held down.

They’d restrain me.

This was a choice.

Quiet.

Still.

Endure.

Repeats like a songbird in my head, as a cold vice squeezes around my nipple.

I exhale through my nose.

Quiet.

Still.

Endure.

It’s going to be okay.

A sharp piece of metal pierces through my flesh. My toes flex as the flash of pain tears through my breast, radiating into my middle before it fades out, leaving a warm throb.

But I’m still. I’m quiet. I endure.

When they move to the next breast and do the same, I breathe through it. I’m ready for it. It must be a needle. It has to be.

The hand on my shoulder caresses me there. The rough callouses are a welcome comfort. I focus on the silent support and don’t flinch or fight when my legs are bent and my feet planted on the altar. Dragging the fabric down, they scoot me along with it to the bottom edge.

As my pierced breasts throb to the beat of my heart, my legs are spread wide, held by two strong sets of hands, exposing my most intimate parts to whoever wishes to look. Air hits my bare folds. I’m glad I shaved last night and trimmed on top to tame the wild curls.

Someone gruffly hums their approval.

Rot brushes his fingers across my neck until he settles there, wrapping his hand around my throat as someone shifts between my legs, and those baring me to the world force me to spread wider.

Something wet brushes my clit, and I gasp. The fingers around my throat squeeze in gentle reprimand as something slides up my clit, and then there’s… pain. Radiant pain. Horrible pain.

Fuck!

Clenching my teeth, I force myself to breathe through the agony as what must be jewelry settles in place, and my body is left on fire from clit to tits.

Christ, these men don’t mess around, do they?

Hot breath tickles my ear. “Good girl,” Rot whispers.

But I’m not a good girl, am I?

I’m here to spy on them, and in return, what? They blindfold me, cut off my clothes, and pierce me? Now what?

Before I can process another thought, my back arches off the altar as blunt fingers slam into my core. Curling slightly, hitting my G-spot, they fuck me, and I moan. I can’t help it. The sounds rip from my throat, and they don’t stop as they pour from my soul like the desperate sex fiend I am.

It’s been weeks since I’ve been touched.

Weeks.

For someone like me, that’s far too long.

This is what I know.

This is what I crave.

Soon, those fingers are replaced with a thick cock, ribbed in what must be jewelry.

My hands ball into fists, and I sob as the studded shaft wrecks me.

He’s neither patient nor kind. He doesn’t whisper sweet nothings or promise me a good time.

The men hold me, and he takes, stealing my pleasure for his own, slamming his cock into me over and over.

My sore tits bounce, and the throbbing soon morphs into more—a mixture of bliss and heat.

I endure the onslaught.

The cock.

Those ridges.

Oh. I endure him. All of him.

When I come, I don’t hold back.

If they need me to be quiet.

To be still.

I don’t obey.

Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip, I moan as my pussy clamps around the thick intruder, and still he doesn’t relent.

He fucks me like a savage, a quiet savage—a ghost with a violent thrust.

Drawing out pleasure and time… it lasts forever, but it’s still not long enough .

When fingers toy with my fresh clit piercing, I writhe, wanting to crawl out of my skin.

It’s too much.

Too fast.

I grip the silk beneath me and hear it rip as it gives way.

The hand around my throat trembles then tightens, taking away my ability to breathe, to speak. I welcome it… and when I die, I die coming on a magnificent cock. The way the good lord intended.