Page 26 of Property of Necro (Kings Of Anarchy MC: Illinois #1)

Chapter

Twenty

Coffin’s actin’ weird.

And weirder and… weirder.

Right now, he’s quiet and broody.

Alright, that’s not so different from usual, except he’s been nice to me today. He gave me a mind-blowing orgasm, and don’t tell him, but the cut is kinda hot.

Yep. I’ve officially lost my mind.

I have Stockholm syndrome.

That must be it.

Only I’m not a hostage. Not really. I came here of my own free will, and if I tried hard enough, I might be able to get away. Maybe. Possibly.

Who knows? I haven’t tried and don’t plan to anytime soon.

What is there to go back to, anyhow?

More jobs.

Sleeping with more men who don’t see me.

Sounds fun. Right ?

Bumping my shoulder into Coffin’s side, I knock him out of whatever daze he’s in.

“Why do some of your trophies have lot numbers and others don’t?

” I ask to make polite, albeit strange, conversation.

It’s not every day you get to candidly ask about murdered women and their graves.

Or see their insides preserved in jars. Should I be grossed out?

Or scared? Or a whole slew of other words?

Yes. But I’m not. And I’m not in the mood or the right headspace to figure out why that is.

It probably has something to do with the nature versus nurture debate and becoming desensitized after years of living a shit life.

Yadda. Yadda. Yadda. It’s a tale as old as time.

“The lot numbers are of the women we tried to rehabilitate. The others are the women I killed elsewhere. I collect my trophy and dispose of their bodies,” he explains like we’re having a regular chat on the outskirts of a cemetery, not conversing about his vicious nature.

“How did you try to rehabilitate them?” I ask, genuinely curious. If, like the cards read by the trophies, the women did so much bad shit, why would they bother?

“Rot told you about the forty-four women that came before you.”

Playing with the hem of my t-shirt, I bounce my head. “Yep.” He never said much beyond that, but I haven’t asked either. Which is probably stupid on my part, given how many came before me.

“This is them.” Coffin juts his chin and two-finger points to the graveyard. “We get shipments in every so often. Sometimes, there are conventionally attractive, age-appropriate women in the shipment. ”

“That sounds very clinical.”

“For me. It is.” Coffin shrugs his big shoulders. “Rot picked out the ones we’d try out. If you haven’t caught on, he’s a bleeding-heart romantic and thinks everyone deserves a second, third, or even fourth chance.” He flashes me a smirk, and I nod. I’ve definitely noticed.

Coffin carries on. “We’d give ‘em a place to sleep, food to eat, and we’d fuck ‘em. We didn’t force ‘em. Apart from them arriving, tied up in a van, we gave ‘em a choice. Which is more than they deserved. They could die like everyone else or be with us.”

“And they chose the latter?” I guess. Not that I blame them. Have sex with hot, crazy men, or die. That’s a no-brainer.

Nodding, Coffin grunts his confirmation.

“And the altar thing?” I ask, hungry to learn more.

“That started later. A few years in.”

“Why?”

“As a test.”

Ah. That makes sense. “To see if they could endure, be quiet, and be still?” I check, getting the lineup wrong, but the sentiment’s the same regardless.

Staring across the land, Coffin hums thoughtfully.

“Basically. Yeah. I don’t like talkers, and as much as I love to hear women scream in pain, I don’t wanna hear it when I’m tryin’ to fuck.

Especially when I haven’t done anythin’ to make her scream.

Does that make sense?” He side-eyes me to catch my response.

“Yes. I think so.” I smile softly and bump my shoulder into him again. “You should eat weed more often.”

Coffin snorts and half-grins in a shy, awkward way you’d never expect from a man like him. He runs a hand over his short, blond hair, which shines brightly under the afternoon sun. “Eat more weed. Noted.” He winks as a light dusting of pink fills his cheeks.

“It helps you,” I note, smiling privately to myself. He’s cute like this. Adorable, even. Which is odd, given who he is. Is that insane? You probably think so, but it doesn’t make it any less true.

“By calming me down. Yes. I know.”

Going out on a limb, I say the first thing that comes to mind.

I try not to overthink it, since I don’t usually talk this way.

Wringing the edge of my t-shirt in my fist, I gather the last ounce of courage I need to just…

say it. “This is the first real conversation we’ve ever had.

It’s nice. I’m enjoying myself. Thank you for sharing with me,” I sputter, staring at my Crocs.

Coffin groans, and my heart sinks to my toes. “Sola. Don’t.” His tone’s ragged like gravel and whiskey, but I won’t let that deter me. This is different. Today is different. He can’t spoil that.

Blowing out a harsh breath, I squeeze my eyes for half a beat before I look at him. “Do-don’t. What?”

Staring straight at me, all those hard edges out and proud, Coffin grits, “Thank me.” His nostrils flare like he’s angry, either with me or himself.

Either way, I’m not having any of it. Sure, this is weird, but I started it, so I’ll finish it.

I can’t continue living like we have—months cooped up inside—the same shit day after day.

“Why wouldn’t I thank you?” I challenge, lifting my chin in defiance, willing him to fight me like he does with just about everything else.

“You shared a part of yourself you didn’t have to.

You’ve been nice to me. Considerate. That says a lot.

After the past few weeks with Tiffany, I appreciate seeing this side of you.

” I more than appreciate it. Up until now, I thought he was a massive asshole. A hot one. But an asshole, nonetheless.

“You know, just ‘cause I’m talkin’ to you about this doesn’t change me. I’m still the same man,” he growls, like that’s gonna change my mind. It doesn’t.

“Who kills women for hurting kids.”

“Sola, don’t say it like that. I’m not the hero in this story.”

“You’re not the villain either.”

“How could you say that? You saw the trophies. You’re lookin’ at the proof.” Coffin juts his chin at the cemetery.

“Exactly. And why did you show me? What did you think would happen?”

“I don’t know. Not this.” He gestures between us and the ease with which we’re talking.

It’s nice opening up with someone besides Rot, and this is far more than I’ve ever gotten out of him.

Had you told me last week I’d spend time having a semi-normal conversation with Coffin and it wouldn't lead to us fighting, I’d wash your mouth out with soap for lying. Yet here we are.

“It was a test. Was it not?” I ask.

“Everything’s a test, Sweet Cheeks.”

“And you wanted me to call you names and cause a big fucking scene. Didn’t you?” I push harder than I should.

“I didn’t want that.”

Turning to face him, I stiffen my spine and push a little more. “Then what did you want, Coffin?”

“You!” he booms and throws an arm to the sky.

“For you to be different. Fuck!” Coffin grips the nape of his neck and stares up at the clouds.

His throat bobs as he swallows hard, and he shuffles from foot to foot like he can’t stand still.

“I… I don’t want to be alone. Okay?” he rasps, sparing me a quick look before he resumes cloud watching.

“I don’t want my brothers to be alone. I don’t want you to be alone.

I want us to take care of you. You belong here, Sweet Cheeks.

You belong with us. Not with your sisters or some other man’s bed.

With us. We have all the space you need to find yourself.

To be you.” Coffin’s abs ripple as his chest expands with the world’s deepest breath.

He rubs his knuckles across his heart, and I…

well… I stare at him in awe, dumbfounded by the words coming out of his mouth.

I’d expect this from Rot.

But Coffin… I just…

A wild mess of coked-up butterflies riding the scariest rollercoaster wreaks havoc on my insides. I press both hands to my belly to stop the madness, but it doesn’t do anything as I watch Coffin. His swaying. Flushed cheeks. The strong set to his jaw covered in a week’s worth of scruff.

His shoulders deflate as he blows all the air out of his body and turns to stare me down. “I swear to fuckin’ Christ, if you ever breathe a word of this to Rot, I’ll spank your ass for a week…” he vows, nostrils flaring.

My pussy clenches at the thought.

Spank me? With those big hands? Oh…

I look at them as they ball into fists down at his sides and all those glorious, corded muscles.

That doesn’t sound so bad. But that’s not the point, is it ?

Swallowing thickly, I bob my head. “Okay. I won’t.”

“Good.” Coffin takes a menacing step forward until we’re flush—my tits to his bare abs. His pulse melds with mine. He pinches my chin and forces me to look him in the eye, where he holds me firm, caressing my skin with his thumb. I shiver. It’s impossible not to.

“This is where you work through your demons,” he states.

“For real. If you want us to find dirty cops and you wanna carve ‘em up to deal with your past, I’ll ask around. We’ll find the pigs.

I’ll teach you how to carve ‘em up any way you want. Then Rot can make you a trophy room. Fill it with dicks...” Coffin’s brows knit together, and he clears his throat.

“Alright. Maybe not dicks. I don’t want you touchin’ anyone else’s dick.

I’ll cut ‘em off for you. You can watch.

We can draw funny faces on ‘em with a permanent marker.”

Wait.

What?

“You want to draw faces on severed dicks that you want me to keep as trophies?” I bite my bottom lip to keep from laughing.

Coffin’s entire face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning. “Fuck yeah.”

Good lord, this man. My silly, fickle heart suddenly feels ten times lighter than it has my entire life. Cutting off dicks and keeping them as trophies, while disgusting, the sentiment is beyond sweet. He’s beyond sweet. Who knew?

Grinning at the crazy man, I pat his chest. “Always eat weed, Coffin. Always eat the weed.”

More pink blots Coffin’s cheeks, but his lips slit into the brightest smile. “If it makes you happy and keeps you with us, then I’ll be high every goddamn day. But first, I’ve got more shit to show you.”

“Worse than all this?” I flick my gaze down the hill, then behind him to the workshop.

He nods. “Yeah. My sweet, sexy whore. Far worse.”

Fuck.

Knowing I must go through with it, I slap my palms onto Coffin’s massive pecs. “Umm. Okay, bitch. I guess let’s do it.”

Grinning, too fucking handsome for his own good, the hot biker releases my chin and swats my ass. “Atta girl.”

I am so screwed.

Wish me luck. I’m gonna need it.