Page 91 of Savage Outlaw

“Weren’t you fucking listening? Because I got targets on my back, get it? I ain’t gonna be around forever to make sure my girl is protected. Assholes would love nothing better than to use her against me and I don’t have to tell you how they’d do that. They wouldn’t put her in a grave. They’d fucking destroy her first.”

“So your solution is to hand her off to a dipshit like Reno, instead of asking the fucking man who would walk through fire for her. The man who’s loved her more than breath for years. You must be out of your goddamn tree, Axel. This is where I take over and I dare you to say shit to me right now.”

No argument came and that was the biggest surprise. Axel hung back in his leather chair, nursing his glass, pensive. “Make sure no fucker gets near her.”

Butcher found Roux sitting in the passenger seat of his truck. She’d watched his every step out of theDiablosclub. Before he climbed in, he slipped back into hisSoulscut and leather jacket.

“It feels impossible, Tad. How can wanting to be with you be so hard?”

He tagged her hand, bringing it to his lips. “Yet here we are, Cookie. Somehow we always end up where we’re meant to be. This shit won’t last forever and you know I’m not letting anyone get near you, yeah?”

“I should stay at home tonight and talk to dad, but can we go to your place for a while first?”

After their great mini trip, he hated to see her so despondent. He kissed her inner wrist and laid her hand on his thigh. “Anything you want, baby.”

And he meant it.

TWENTY-FOUR

“Rock bottom.”–Arson

It’s funny how quick Arson accepted memory loss.

It felt like every morning he woke up in one pit or another—sometimes a bed he didn’t recognize. He took it with acceptance that the last ten hours or more was a black hole inside his mind.

No matter how much he tried to remember what the fuck happened, it wouldn’t come.

When the hell did he turn into the sort of person who had no control over his actions?

When did he become this person?

He did the usual check. Lifting his hands out in front of him, ignoring how they shook as he looked for abrasions.

Not a scratch in sight, so at least he wasn’t in a fight of any kind.

It wasn’t unusual. Not the first time drunk Arson pissed someone off and sober Arson had to deal with the ramifications.

Next, Arson went through his pockets.

His wallet and phone were there. He had his bike and house keys. But a glance around him, he saw no motorcycle parked anywhere.

On his inside jacket pocket, he heard crinkling and he brought out three torn condom wrappers.

His whole belly dropped with disgust.

Fuck.

At least he’d been safe, yeah?

Fuck. He hated this—himself— so fucking much.

Sitting with the biting breeze in his face and his mouth feeling as though he’d deep throated a sand monster, he wanted a drink so fucking bad. And not water. A hard drink to level him out to feel normal.

That was something else which had crept up on Arson in the last two years. How he needed a swig of something before he even got out of bed. To get him to human level.

How easy he’d justified it to himself.

This wasn’t him.

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