Page 112 of Reckoning

When he finally lets me come it’s like an actual explosion goes off in my head. I kick out, I scream, my limbs seem to find some sort of life of their own and he has to pretty much hold me down to keep me there for as long as possible.

I collapse back into the mattress. I need a shower, I need a serious wash and yet right now I don’t want to move, I want to lay here, content in the afterglow of my orgasm.

Koen lies back, putting one tattooed arm behind his head, letting me curl into him. I run my fingers across his chest, tracing all that ink.

“What made you get them?” I ask because I need something safe, something okay to say.

He drops his gaze, staring at his body. “I’ve always been into them.”

“Are there any you regret?”

He grins, pointing to where a skull covers his right peck. “I had a tribal one done when I was seventeen. Everything about it was shit. This is a coverup but a good one.”

“So you thought a skull was better?”

He laughs. “A skull is more me.”

Yeah, I’d say that again.

His hand skims my body, his fingers brush where those words are carved into my flesh. “Were you never tempted to cover these?” He asks.

“I’m not sure they can be covered.” I reply. The scar tissue is deep, even if they were fully inked, the skin would still be raised enough for the letters to still show. “Besides, I’d have to show someone them. That in itself feels impossible.”

“If you want to, I can be by your side.” The way he says that makes my heart flip but I also don’t know how to reply. Covering them won’t hide what is there, and even if Koen was beside me, another stranger would still see my body.

“Maybe.” I murmur, lowering my gaze, scanning his tattoos once more.

He’s completely covered, right down to roughly where his boxers would sit. Most of them are interconnected, skulls, guns, exactly what you’d expect the king of the underworld to have permanently drawn on his skin.

My eyes pause when I see a name scrawled in fancy letters on his arm, a woman’s name. Is it a past girlfriend? Some woman he loved and lost? Suddenly my jealousy spikes and before I can stop myself, I ask. “Who is Aaliyah?”

Koen

My body tenses. I feel that flash of pain that even now, after so many years is just as cutting as the day I realised she was gone.

Her face is fading now. I just remember her bright smile, her blue eyes, and the fact that she always had a smart answer for everything.

“She’s my sister.” I say before correcting myself. “She was my sister.”

Sofia relaxes, that spark of what I know is jealousy instantly dies. “What happened to her?”

I shake my head, grabbing her body, tightening my hands around her curves as if I need her close to fight the wave of grief and anger that hits me. “Darius.” I growl. “Darius fucking happened.”

Her face reacts. A flash of horror morphs her beautiful features into something pained. Perhaps it would be better not to speak of this, but then, she was the one who brought it up. And besides, I won’t pretend Aaliyah doesn’t exist. I won’t disrespect her memory like that.

“She got in with the wrong crowd.” I state like that explains it all. Like it was that damned simple. She was always outgoing, confident, and it didn’t help that our parents were so bloody religious. Of course, they were convinced she was full of sin and made her see a therapist, for all the good that did.

“She started using drugs. Started running away. And then she vanished.”

Sofia frowns, tightening her jaw, just listening to me without interrupting and for that I’m grateful because I don’t think I’d be able to continue if I stopped. I’m not used to feeling vulnerable, to pouring my heart out but right now, I want her to know, I want her to understand.

“I tracked her movements, spoke to everyone that’d seen her and it turns out someone picked her up, they took her right off the fucking streets.”

“Where?” She whispers.

I don’t know if Roman told her everything that Darius and the Capulets were up to. If she truly knows about their little money making scheme, the fact that they trafficked people, chopped them up, sold their organs on the black-market for those who had the money to pay millions for the privilege of life-saving transplants.

I meet her gaze as I say the words. “The barn.”