Page 57 of Penance

I feel it then, without needing to look. His eyes on me, blazing a trail across my skin, goosebumps erupting. Anxiety hits me harder, my breathing picking back up as I fight to keep my demon in check. Restless and pacing inside me, my skeleton her cage, my heart and lungs her target.

Endless long corridors of thick concrete, steel doors leading to six-by-six cells. Windowless, lightless, bleak grey space.

My chest heaves, my stomach twisting, a bead of sweat rolling down my spine. A knuckle tucks under my chin, my eyes squeezing ever tighter as another hand lays over my throat, the grip gentle but firm. Thumb brushing along my jaw, fingers flexing against my pulse.

“Breathe, Lala, I’ve got you,” the devil breathes into me.

My soul soothes. Lying lips grazing over my ear, hot breath down my neck. The devil’s hand tightening lazily on my neck like an inked collar of ownership. And I don’t hate it. Icraveit. My soul aches and flares all at one. Flames licking at my insides, heat coursing through my body as his fingers tighten further, my breath hitching.

“I’ve got you,” he tells me, and, in the moment, he means it.

But for how long, Maddox?I want to scream at him, but I don’t.

Instead, in this moment, right here and now, I eat it up.

I crack my eyes, his grip on my throat never wavering. I pull my bottom lip into my mouth, gnawing on it savagely.

“Don’t do that,” he scolds me.

His voice wrapping around me, pulling me under the all-consuming wave that is Maddox fucking Sharpe. His free hand plants beside my head just as a sudden rush of air sends my curtain of silver hair flying up all around us.

“Our train,” he breathes, his words against my lips as his thumb pops my abused lip free.

I nod, swallowing beneath his hand, it tightens once more, a split second before he releases me. Taking hold of my hand and tucking me behind him. His huge body shadowing me with protection. The devil leading the lamb to safety. What a contradiction. But then, I willingly gave my soul to him so long ago, of course he would never forget he owns me. Mind, body and wicked little soul. He’s just waiting for the perfect time to eat me up.

The train comes to a stop with a drawn-out screech. Beeping alerts us that the doors are about to open just as feet hammer their way down the stairs at the other end of the platform.

“Wait,” Max orders, his voice just loud enough for me to take notice of.

I suck in a sharp breath, my blood heating for an entirely different reason now. I love a good fight, but as I listen to the continued footfalls descending the stairs, I shake it off. Between us we have two guns, three knives and one arm out of action. We might enjoy a good fistfight, but these guys are playing big men. They’re strapped up with fuck knows what, God only knows how many guns. So to even attempt a fight would be suicide, if their goal is to take us out.Me.

Which is when it hits me.

I actuallycare.

I care if I get into a fight right now. I know I won’t win. I care about seeing my boys again, touching them, feeling them. They need me as much as I need them.

I care if I die.

“Max,” I whisper urgently, and he hears it in my voice too.

The sudden panic in my tone, replacing the excitement, the rush. And then my insides are prickling for an entirely different reason. Something foreign. Something strange and indescribable works its way through my bones.

Realisation.

I need to be at home, tucked up safely in my impenetrable fortress, salaciously demanding the attention of my loyal hellhounds. Clawing at each other, breathing life into one another. Carving into each other’s flesh, claiming souls with teeth and tongues and fucking. That’s what I want. It’s what we need. We can be each other’s safety, the place we go when we don’t feel our best. When we need to have difficult conversations and make hard decisions. Feel heat and passion and love.

My breathing speeds up as I hear the first warning beep of the train doors closing. Murmured conversation hits me next, far closer than I would like and my hand fists inside Max’s, my fingers crushing his laced through mine.

“Max,” I hiss through my teeth.

The front of my body now flush with his back, my wounded hand clutched to my chest resting delicately between his shoulder blades. The warning beeping grows faster. And just when I think we’re about to miss it, Max lunges forward. Spinning me and throwing me through the closing doors ahead of him into the end carriage. Slamming into me from behind, we both hit the floor, launching ourselves between the seats. He smothers me with his body, my wounded hand crushed to the floor. I cry out, gritting my teeth as my eyes squeeze shut. Max soothes me, his gentle shushing in my ear helps me breathe as the train pulls away. Juddery and uneven, but we’re alone and there’s quiet and I can’t hear any voices. There are no stomping feet and no hail of gunfire.

Max rolls to one side as we’re embraced in the darkness of the first tunnel. Shifting to a sitting position, he peels me up from lying on the filthy train carriage floor. Although, the familiarity of London grime helps me breathe a little easier. We’re on home turf,myturf, I own these fucking streets, just as I own everyone in them.

“Lemme see your ‘and,” Max grunts with concern.

I look down to the fist clutched at my chest. Deep red blood stains the heavy white bandage, my fingers twitching with pins and needles.

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