Page 7 of Tell Me Why
Lifting my arms over my head, I spread my legs. Thank God, I’m wearing jeans. Skye had suggested I wear a short dress to “encourage” the Sacred Sons to accept my proposal. But in the end, I decided against it. I grew up around a bunch of guys, and I know for a fact they don’t need much encouragement when it comes to the opposite sex. Most of them are willing to fuck anything that moves.
The guard pats me down quickly and takes my phone from my back pocket. “Security code?”
“91125,” I grate out.
With a stiff nod, he gets on his walkie and tells someone on the receiving end why I’m here.
“Copy,” is the garbled response.
I turn to face the massive front door, expecting the guard to let me in. Instead, he resumes his original position, eyes focused straight ahead.
Um,hello? I lift my hands. “Aren’t you going to let me in?”
“You’ll need to wait,” is his only answer.
My eyes drop to my duffel. “And my bag?”
“It’ll have to be cleared.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him why he’s not doing that now, but I hold it back. I don’t want to piss these people off before I’ve even gotten through the front door.
So I just stand there awkwardly until, finally, the front door opens. A massive figure fills the doorway, and my hand flies to my throat.Shit.He’s so tall, and his muscles are so big, they strain the seams of his t-shirt. His dark hair and green eyes give him away immediately.
He’s one of the Sacred Sons—Jackson McKnight.
His gaze flicks to the guard, who nods at him in response. “She’s been checked. She’s clean.”
“Yup,” I smirk. “I left my machine gun at home.”
No response. Cool. I clear my throat awkwardly.
Jackson looks down at me like I’m a bug he’d like to squash. “What do you want?”
Am I supposed to make my case out here on the porch? “I need to speak with the Sacred Sons,” I answer.
Jackson crosses his arms over his broad chest. Of all the Sons, he’s the largest and most intimidating. They’re all brutal, but there’s something uniquely ruthless in Jackson’s eyes that instantly makes me second-guess this whole thing.
“I’m a Sacred Son,” he says impatiently, like he’d rather be doing literally anything else than talking to me right now. When I hesitate, he glances over at the security guard. “Yates, get her out of here.”
“Wait, it’s important,” I say in a rush. “But I need to speak withallthe Sacred Sons.”
“About what, exactly?”
I pause. Maybe this was a dumb idea. These guys are never going to listen to me, and I was an idiot for thinking they might—especially since Christian hates me. He already thinks I’m a liar.
“You know what, never mind,” I say, holding my hand out so the guard can hand me my duffle bag. With one hand still on his gun, he moves to retrieve it.
“Hold up,” Jackson says, opening the door wider. “Come in. But if you touch anything, I swear to God, I’ll rip your fingers off one by one.”
My hands curl into fists. “Yup. Got it.”
Jesus.
It’s the middle of the morning, but as soon as I step into the ancient house, darkness engulfs me. And when Jackson shuts the door, the morning light is blotted out entirely, only a faint gleam coming in through the intricate stained glass windows in the entryway.
The Sacred Sons are born in darkness, and they live in darkness, too, apparently. It’s no wonder their souls are as black as tar and just as disgusting.
“Follow me,” Jackson says, like a young, handsome, but very moody butler.
