Page 65 of Property of Necro (Kings Of Anarchy MC: Illinois #1)

Softly trailing my fingertips down his bare sides, I whisper, “And you’re crazy, but I love you anyway. ”

Shivering at my touch, Coffin presses his forehead to mine. “I want to fuck you with my crucifix. I made one for you.” His hot breath washes across my face as his dark desires seep into my soul.

“You want to… What?” I whisper, afraid I didn’t hear him right.

“I made you a crucifix.”

“That you want to fuck me with?” Drunk on him and the thought of us playing with something he made just for me, I wrap a leg around his hip and dig my heel into his ass.

“Yes,” Coffin hisses inches from my lips as he grinds his trapped erection against my belly.

“It’s shaved down. It’s safe. I made sure of it.

But I want to. I want to bleed you and fuck you.

And watch you scream. And I want… your trophy.

I want to carry it for always. Now, what do you think?

Now, do you love me? Now, do you want me? ”

“Yes.” I tremble, desperately wanting that for us. For him.

Rage explodes out of the broken man, echoing through the trees as he rips himself from our bubble. “Stop lying, whore! Stop your fuckin’ lying!” He points his knife at me with such hatred, nostrils flaring, face red. Anger fills the gap between us.

Hell no.

We are not doing this.

Not after the strip club. Not after he built me a shed and a coop.

“Fuck me on your crucifix, Coffin. Do it,” I provoke, pushing off the tree. “Do. It.” Lifting the hem of my dress, I flash him my pussy. “ Do. It.”

Grumbling to himself, Coffin marches over and throws me over his shoulder like a rag doll.

“You want to be fucked. You’ll be fucked,” his dead voice declares as he trudges through the forest to his barn, where he sets me down on his workshop table, walks over to the corner of the room, and rips a coffin from the stack he’s built.

It slams to the floor with a chilling echo before he drags it to the middle of the barn.

Plucking me off the table, he gently sets me inside the wooden box. “Lie down,” he growls, and I tremble, equal parts anxious and excited that he’s no longer himself, he’s other, but I still obey. For him. For us. This needs to happen.

He won’t hurt me.

Even in his manic episode, he didn’t kill me when he could have.

Coffin returns with a smooth wooden cross with a brass Jesus nailed to the center.

The bottom is rounded and shaped more like a dildo.

Kneeling beside the coffin, he shoves my dress up to my belly and forces me to rest my parted legs on the rim of the box.

He rubs the base of the cross against my pussy lips.

A low growl emanates from his chest, and his eyes widen like a feral animal when he reaches my center and slams it inside.

Back arching in pleasured pain, I grip the smooth edge of the coffin and cry out.

“Whore. Whore. Whore,” he rumbles, fucking me slowly, staring at my pussy.

Mesmerized. In and out, in and out, he plunges the crucifix and licks his lips.

“I can smell you.” Audibly inhaling, Coffin stills his creation, produces his knife, and carves through the C for what seems like the hundredth time.

Blood rushes to the surface, and he pulls a small vial out of his pocket and presses it to my wound.

Toes flexing, I hiss but remain still, not wanting to interrupt whatever he’s doing.

“My trophy,” Coffin whispers, corking it once it’s full. Then he slips it into a leather necklace, tightens a knot around the vial, and secures it around his neck.

He’s wearing my blood as a trophy. That’s what he was talking about.

My. Blood.

Runnin’ next to Rot, I check my phone again to make sure my camera feed is correct. Yep. He took her to the barn.

“What the fuck?” Rot huffs as we approach the open doors and find Sola lying in a coffin, legs perched on the sides as Coffin…

“Oh,” Sola moans, and my cock gets instantly hard.

“Whore. Pretty whore. My whore.”

Rot looks at me with wide eyes.

Manic, I sign.

He nods.

High emotions are a trigger for Coffin. They always have been and probably always will be. The violence comes out, and he goes crazy. At least we know he won’t kill her. The insane part of his psyche loves Sola enough to know she’s ours.

Careful not to spook him or cause further distress, Rot and I approach one at a time. He on one side, and I on the other, like a well-oiled machine.

Don’t interrupt, Rot signs.

I hadn’t planned on it.

If Sola isn’t screaming for help, she has this under control.

When I get a solid view of them, Coffin looks up from where he’s screwing her with one of his crucifixes. There’s now a vial of blood around his neck. He’s panting… Ah. He’s got his pants down, and he’s jacking himself off as he fucks her on the makeshift dildo.

You having fun, brother ? I sign.

He snaps his teeth at me and growls.

“Of course, he is. Look at her. Ain’t she perfect?” Rot adds. “Care if we join?”

“She’s mine,” Coffin snarls.

“She’s ours,” Rot corrects, rolling his eyes.

“Mine.”

“Yes. Yours. Ours,” he tries again. “Maybe she deserves one of our cocks instead of that. Don’t ya think?” Rot points to the crucifix.

Flashing Rot his teeth, Coffin snarls, “Mine!”

“Coffin. Look at me,” our angel whispers.

Like a moth to a flame, he stares at Sola with dead, pupil-filled eyes.

“I love you. ”

Coffin shakes his head, refusing to accept the truth. “No.”

“Yes. I love you. Stop punishing me. Stop punishing yourself.”

Snarling at Sola’s words, Coffin snaps his teeth. “Whore.”

Ever so slowly, My Soul sits up, using the sides of the box to keep her from falling back as Coffin continues to fuck her with the cross. She cups his unshaven cheek, and he leans into her touch. Closing his eyes, he releases a harsh breath, and the tension in his shoulders melts.

“I love you,” Sola mutters. “Now put your cock in me.”

When my brother opens his eyes, they shine with adoration and swing from me to Rot to Sola. He clears his throat roughly and looks down at the cross inside her. His face twists in disgust as he gently pulls it from her body.

Remorse pours off him in waves as he pitches the crucifix across the room.

Well, this was a quick turnaround. Far quicker than usual.

Sola doesn’t look the least bit disturbed when she climbs out of the coffin, blood dripping down her leg, and sashays over to Coffin’s tool bench, where she bends over and pulls up the back of her dress, exposing her creamy white cheeks.

Looking over her shoulder, a naughty glint in her eye, she purrs, “Now, which one of my men is gonna fuck me first?”

As my brothers flock to her, their visible joy expands…filling every nook and cranny with warmth.

I bask in it.

In her.

In them.

In the completeness.

In us.

I don’t need another thirty days to know what I want, what I need.

It took seventy-two hours to open my eyes.

To feel.

To accept this is what’s meant to be after losing her the first time.

Which was torture. Not the physical kind. That, I can take. It went deeper. To the soul. Spreading like a cancer. Eating away. Killing.

And I wanted to die.

Hell. I did die.

But I don’t want that anymore.

I just want her.

Even if we don’t deserve her and never will.

But she doesn’t care.

For some goddamn miracle, she loves us anyway.

I watch that love blossom as they take her, making her scream for us.

It’s the most beautiful melody I’ve ever heard.

Once they’re through, cum drips from her pussy lips and their dicks are tucked away, I slide up behind Sola, turn her around, and sit her on the bench, facing me. I rip off my mask and rest it on the table, along with my wraparounds.

We built a sanctuary for our queen.

We now own chickens.

We will rebuild this town.

I heard her talking to Rot.

Whatever Sola wants… My Soul gets .

Placing my hand over her heart and the other around the back of her neck, I slide my cock into her drenched pussy, and she moans, staring into the shattered window of my soul.

I love you, I mouth.

A single tear treks down the corner of her nose to the top of her lips.

I love you, too , she mouths in return, and my heart fills with more than I can take as I lean in and kiss her, washing the tear away.

She comes, shuddering in my arms as I bring her pleasure, just as I plan to do for always, until my dying breath.

We don’t deserve her.

Kings never deserve their Queens, but we get to worship them all the same.