Sophie

TO DISTRACT MYSELF from thoughts of my roommate, I leave early for tonight’s performance venue. It’s a small space hosting a highly publicized meet-and-greet before the concert.

By the time I arrive, the air is thick and humid. The crowd outside is hyped up, but not in a good way. I can sense the potential for chaos; my brief experience as a paparazzo has taught me to recognize the signs. There’s a restless energy rippling through the crowd, a desperation that makes me uneasy.

I find a decent spot to catch the guys as they exit their limos and to snap photos of the fans. It adds depth to the story and keeps me away from Gabriel, though I can’t shake the uneasy feeling in the air.

Teenage girls are pushing for prime position, elbowing each other without restraint. While they haven’t started fighting yet, it’s a close call. The glares and shoves are intensifying, and security is visibly frustrated, responding with their own shoves to keep the fans back.

Surrounded by fellow photojournalists, some familiar and others strangers, I can’t help but scan the crowd for Martin’s face. I dread the thought of him showing up unexpectedly, so I’ve been on the lookout every night, cursing him silently. Thankfully, he’s not here.

“How’d you land a gig traveling with Kill John?” Thompson, an old colleague, asks as he drags on a cigarette. His face looks bloated and gray under the harsh marquee lights. “You fucking them?”

“Yes, all of them.” I don’t bother looking at him. “It’s kind of a train situation. I hear they’ve got an opening for a bottom, if you’re interested.”

“Cute.” He tosses down his cigarette butt, not bothering to snub it. The glowing stub comes close to my open-toed sandal. “I should quote you, brat.”

“Because your credibility is so reliable,” I mutter.

The weasel stomps out his cigarette, barely missing my toe. I don’t react, though I want to.

Never get emotional. A good mantra, but not one that’s easy to follow. I’m regretting my plan more and more as bad memories of desperate days fill my head and make my stomach churn. I hated being a pap. Hated who I was and how I felt—as though I was covered in mud from the inside out.

My phone buzzes.

Brenna: We’re coming around the block

Go time. I’m about to tuck my phone back into my pocket when another text chimes.

Sunshine: 30 seconds ETA

His text does for me what Brenna’s can’t: make me feel cared for, and make me care back.

Keeping my distance from him isn’t going to work, not when we’re in constant contact, anyway. But I can’t bother worrying now. Kill John’s motorcade is in sight.

The crowd erupts into pandemonium. Girls scream, shoving turns rough. All of us are so packed together that we seem to undulate like a raging sea.

I brace my feet and start snapping, capturing chaos.

The first large SUV pulls up to the curb. The guys are in there. Gabriel, Jules, and Brenna will be in the next one.

Jax is the first to exit, and it’s like he’s touched a live wire to the crowd. Everything amps up. My view behind the camera shakes as I’m jostled. But I get the shot of Jax’s face—the flinch and then the smoothing of his features into some bland neutrality. He smiles, but he’s not really there.

None of the guys are. Not this time. The crowd is just too wild for them to linger. They move toward me at a steady pace. At my back, people shove and push. I’m in a good spot and clearly that’s not sitting well with more than a few girls.

“I can’t see!”

“Get out of the way!” “Move, I was here first.” “Fuck you.”

Those last two were not aimed at me, but I’m in the middle of it. Suddenly arms are flailing, hands slapping. I duck a few blows and edge away. But that fuckface Thompson shoves me right back into it. I’m glaring at him when someone grabs my hair and pulls. Hard.

Tears prickle behind my lids, my scalp screaming. I lower my head and twist my body, my elbow connecting with the wrist of my hair puller. The girl lets go with a squawk.

Someone grabs for my camera, and I slap the hand away. Around me, other fights break out.

In my periphery, I see Jax. His gaze catches mine, and he frowns, slowing down.

No, no, no. Get out of here.

The other guys are pausing too, seeing me in the melee. Not good. The crowd surges again, crushing me into Thompson and a security guard. A blow hits me right in the eye, and I see stars. It hurts so badly, I cry out. Another blow comes. Pain sparkles and tears.

It occurs to me that Thompson just elbowed me twice. He actually hit

me.

I’m about to rip into him, when a body pushes between us with enough

force to send Thompson sprawling on his ass. Gabriel stands before me with an expression of rage so fierce my skin prickles.

I can only blink up at him before he grabs me close and hauls me up in his arms.

I will not swoon.

But my head falls to his shoulder. And I cling. Because he is a wall against the world. My wall. He moves through the crowd without pause, and they get out of his way, instinctively knowing he will mow them down if they don’t.

One snarling look at security has them hustling us to a door that leads to a quiet, dark hall. Compared to the bright heat of the lights and noise of chaos outside, it’s like a balm to my tense body. I sag further into Gabriel’s hold.

He doesn’t stop but marches along, muttering under his breath. It’s a stream of pissed off motherfuckers and bloody stupid and son of a bitch mixed with other choice words. I let his low growls flow over me like warm hands.

My heart is still racing, and I’m shivering. I don’t want to. I want to be strong. But the adrenaline is wearing off, and I’ve no place to go but down.

The side of my face throbs like a heartbeat, pain punching out in all directions. I think about Thompson elbowing me and whimper despite my anger.

Gabriel’s arms squeeze around me. “Hush, now. I’ve got you.”

We enter Kill John’s dressing room, and the guys are instantly up and surrounding us.

“What the fuck was that shit? What happened to Sophie?” Jax says, peering at me. “You all right, honey?”

“It is bloody apparent that she is not,” Gabriel snaps at him as he pushes past and sets me down on a chair.

“Fuck. That was a disaster,” Killian mutters. “Shit crowd control. We should have pulled you in with us, Sophie.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” I say weakly as Gabriel kneels before me, his gaze darting over my face. “You would have been mobbed.”

“They wouldn’t have hurt us.” Rye looks sick, his golden complexion pasty as his gaze lingers on me.

“You don’t know that.”

Gabriel scowls and thumbs aside a lock of my hair. “Got you good, chatty girl.” Anger radiates over his frame. “You’re bleeding.”

“Here.” Whip hands him a first aid kit and gives me a smile. “Babe, you stick with us from now on, right?”

My lip wobbles. “Right.”

“I want to go back there and kick some ass,” Brenna mutters. She’s lost her glasses, and her hair is mussed. I hadn’t even noticed her in the scuffle. She hands me a cold compress. “Those fuckwads.”

From behind her, Libby watches with wide eyes, as does Jules. They’re all watching, sadly looking at my face. I duck my head.

“All right,” Gabriel says in a firm tone. “Let’s give Sophie some room.

Go about your business.”

No one argues, though Jax gives my shoulder a squeeze before leaving.

With Gabriel’s body blocking everyone’s view, it’s almost as if we’re alone. He opens a disinfectant wipe and, with a frown, gently dabs at the bottom of my eye socket. It burns, but I keep still.

His voice is soft when he finally speaks. “I could kill him.”

“You going to jail over human garbage would be a travesty. And a wasted effort.”

The cool cloth runs along my bruised face. “No, it wouldn’t.”

I clutch his wide wrist, feel the rapid thrum of his pulse just below the surface. And his eyes meet mine, all dark with rage. It softens my heart, even though I have to be the rational one here. “No retaliation, sunshine. Promise me.”

When he doesn’t answer, I stroke the skin of his wrist with my thumb. “Please, Gabriel. For me.”

His lips flatten until they’re edged in white, but he nods, his gaze sliding back to my eye. With careful touches, he cleans me up and then smears a layer of Vaseline over the cut. “Keep putting this on until that heals. It will help prevent scarring.”

He hands me the tube of Vaseline and holds the ice pack to my face.

“You an expert on dealing with contusions?” I joke. I have to joke or I’ll

cry.

He stares back at me, his expression solemn. “Yes.”

My hand settles over his, ready to take up the job of keeping the

compress in place, but he doesn’t let go. His thumb edges out, strokes my face, rasping over the corner of my lip. “Whip is correct. No more going out on your own.”

“I’m a big girl. I can handle myself.” He looks pointedly at my face.

“A fucked-up fluke,” I retort.

Again, the tip of his thumb caresses my cheek, touches my lips. His lids lower a fraction as he inhales sharply. “You asked a favor of me. This is mine. Don’t make me worry about this happening again.” He holds my gaze, and the emotion there is a punch to the system. “Please. I won’t be able to function properly.”

I swallow past the lump in my throat. Tears well in my eyes. Stupid tears. I start to tremble, everything crashing all at once. “I was scared.”

He sucks in a breath, and his forehead rests against mine. His free hand goes to the back of my neck, holding me there, steady, solid.

“So was I,” he whispers, shocking me enough that I flinch.

Misinterpreting my surprise for pain, he hisses out a curse. His fingers give me a gentle squeeze. “You’re safe, Sophie. This will never happen again.”

“I know.” I take a shaky breath as I close my eyes and breath in his scent. “You keep your people safe.”

“I look out for my people.” His lips ghost over my unmarred cheek, the touch so light I might have imagined it. Only I didn’t. I feel it to my toes. It hums along my skin even as he pulls back slightly to look me in the eye. “I protect what’s mine.”

Gabriel

IT TAKES me too bloody long to get away. Too long, holding in the rage, breathing like a normal man, talking like a calm one. By the time I head out into the back alley, my hands are shaking so badly, I can barely open the door.

Warm, muggy air slaps heavy against my skin. I draw in a breath, smell the sour stench of garbage and the musky fug of wet cobbles. Doesn’t

matter. I breathe in again, slow, long. Dizziness threatens, and I lean against the slimy back wall of the theater.

My suit will be ruined. People will notice. I don’t sodding care. Not anymore.

Staring up at the bleak, orange light flickering by the door, I wonder who the hell I am now. Scottie is crumbling. The cracks of his venerable armor are appearing over my weary body. And Gabriel? Only one person calls me that name anymore. Only one person makes me feel like a man of tender flesh and not a cold machine. And I let her down.

The image of Sophie’s battered face fills my mind. The way that fucking cockwomble bashed her with his elbow. Twice. Before I could get to her.

My heart beats so hard, my shirt trembles. Again, I am short of breath, struggling to get enough in my tight lungs. The ground beneath me tilts and rolls. I’m going to be sick.

Two rapid steps have me hunched over a rubbish bin. I retch until there’s nothing left. Until my throat burns.

Fuck, I hate that it takes me an eternity to stand straight, and that even when I do, my head throbs, feels both too heavy and too light. I hate that my hand still shakes as I take the silk handkerchief from my breast pocket to wipe my mouth.

Warm wetness rolls along my lip. The white silk handkerchief is stained crimson. Another nosebleed. My fingers go cold. I think of Mum when she faded—the dizziness, fainting spells, nose bleeds.

Another wave of cold washes through me.

The titter of feminine laughter rings through the night. Little snatches of conversation bleeds in and out—how hot Jax was during his solo, how this one prefers watching Whip beat his drums, the other wants to have Killian’s love child. Concertgoers leaving the show, enjoying themselves. They’re calling this the best night of their lives.

I helped bring it to them. These girls will never know that, or care. As it should be. But the pride I feel in knowing I brought them a bit of happiness is there all the same.

If I’m gone, someone else will do the job. But will they do it as well? Will they watch out for my boys and make certain everything runs like silk? Or will they think only of their own gain?

The fact that there are no guarantees chafes.

Laughter rings out again, husky, unfettered femininity. It reminds me of Sophie’s laugh, though hers always has a tinge of self-deprecation to it, as though she’s part of the joke, never ridiculing.

I’ve never been one to freely laugh and often found those who did rather annoying. Life isn’t a joke—not for me. And yet I want to swim in the sound of Sophie’s laughter, let it cleanse me and wash away all the heaviness in my life.

I don’t know how to ask for that, or even how to let myself ask.

I called her mine. She’ll want an explanation for that. I’ve none to give. It just is. Whether I fuck her or not, it doesn’t matter; she has me now. Even if she doesn’t want me.

A text buzzes on my phone.

Brenna: Car is here. Where the hell are you?

The idea of sitting in a car with Brenna, Jules, and Sophie while I stink of vomit and most likely have blood smears on my face, makes my mouth sour even more. I don’t have the imagination to come up with a plausible excuse for my appearance, nor do I want to lie—or tell the truth.

But lie I do. My thumb types out a quick message.

GS: Already left. Have some business to attend to. Be safe.

That last message is for Sophie, and Brenna will know this.

Sophie. She’ll be hurting and is probably unsettled. It was clear she isn’t accustomed to being hit or treated with violence, and thank Christ for that small mercy. I should be with her, offering her comfort. Our bed—because

it’s ours and has been from the moment she laid down in it—will be cool and soft.

But if I get into it with her tonight, I don’t know how I’ll react. I’ve already shown too much of myself to her. Exposure has never been easy. I can’t do more of it right now without losing the hold I’ve kept on myself for years.

Sophie. Regret pinches my chest.

I tap out one last message to Brenna.

GS: I’ll be a while. Make certain Sophie is settled and icing her eye.

Little dots appear on my screen.

Brenna: You know it, boss man. Be safe yourself.

I suspect Brenna knows exactly what I plan to do, even though the urge has just registered in my own head. But I need it. I need the release.

Scrolling through my contacts list, I find the one I want.

GS: What do you have available for tonight?

Not five seconds later, the answer comes.

Carmen: It’s been too long, S. Beginning to think you’d forgotten all about me. Have a slot. 2am.

And address follows.

I tuck the phone away, feeling dirty, depraved. I shouldn’t. I’ve nothing to be ashamed of. But I am. I always am when I give in to weakness.