Anya's heart turned over. She leaned her head against Reaper's shoulder. "Don't leave me," she whispered. "We can work through this, I know we can."
Steele knelt in front of her, his hands gentle as they moved over her face. She kept her eyes glued to Reaper's face. He didn't look away from her. Not once. Steele sat back. "No broken bones. You were lucky. The angle probably helped and it looks like you were pulling away from him. Let's get some ice on that."
Storm went into the kitchen just as Ice emerged, handing Anya and Reaper both a bottle of water. Reaper set his on the floor, took Anya's, unscrewed the cap and handed it back to her. She was afraid to take a drink. Her throat felt swollen. It felt as if only a little air could get through at a time. Still, she sipped a little experimentally. It was wet and ice-cold, feeling good on her burning throat.
"Thanks for the rollout," Reaper said. "I'm not crazy now." He started to pull his hands away from Steele, but Czar made a noise in the back of his throat and Reaper subsided, allowing the VP to examine his knuckles.
"You sending us home?" Absinthe asked.
"Trying to. Got some things to work out with my woman," Reaper said. "Czar's right. There's always a solution. I've been thinking on it and I think I've got an answer."
"You want to share?" Czar asked.
"Not likely," Reaper said.
Anya knew he wasn't about to tell them he couldn't tolerate her hands or mouth on his cock. At least, she was positive that was the problem. He hadn't exactly talked to her about it. He'd given her an order not to touch him unless he said it was okay and she hadn't. He'd been the one to touch her. She hoped he'd share his solution with her, because neither of them was going to get much sleep until the situation was resolved.
She pressed the ice to her cheek while Reaper did the same to his knuckles. The club members talked back and forth, mostly she knew to assure themselves that Reaper was in a much better state of mind. Somewhere along the line she drifted off, her head on his shoulder, while the talk swirled around her.
When the club members left, Reaper carried her up to the bathtub, but he didn't tell her what his solution was.
SIXTEEN
Therapy. It wasn't a word bikers threw around, and if they did it, they sure weren't going to talk about it. It had taken him a couple of weeks to work up the nerve to talk to Ice and Storm. He couldn't bring Savage in on his plan because a younger brother had to look up to his older brother. He was the fucking enforcer of the club. Talking therapy with any of them was a risk. They could hold it over his head for the rest of his life.
He knew he had to do something. Two weeks of not sleeping in the same room with his woman was enough to make a man crazy. Worse, it was making her moody. She was doing her best, trying to make herself into the best possible old lady imaginable, but Anya had a temper on her, and the edges of that sweet nature were becoming frayed.
He took her furniture shopping. He bought a washing machine and dryer. He went grocery shopping with her. He insisted she buy a new car. He went with her and, in the end, bought one far out of her price range and paid for it outright. Nothing she said could convince him not to do it, and in the end, she gave in because she knew he was still very upset over what had happened. Yeah, he'd played that bullshit pansy card to make certain she had a safe vehicle.
Preacher refused to allow Anya to work until the swelling went down and the bruising eased. He said it wasn't good for customers to see her face like that in a biker bar. They'd jump to the wrong conclusion. Reaper was happy about the decision. He didn't want people to know he'd struck the woman who meant the most to him in the world. Preacher's decree left her planting flowers in the yard--something Reaper noticed the minute he got home. He stared at them a long time and then smiled at her. A real smile. Those flowers meant something to him. She was planning on staying no matter what. She was making a home for them.
She baked bread. Loaves of it. She braided the bread and made cinnamon loaves. She tried out recipes she thought were kick-ass. Reaper ate the food whether it was great or not. He helped with dishes. He noticed when she did the laundry. Sometimes he was gone with the others for hours, but he never told her what he was doing and she didn't ask, especially if his face was grim.
Their make-out sessions were long and the most amazing thing Reaper had ever experienced, other than sex with her. The sex was wild, but she was always on her hands and knees, facing away from him. He was inventive in that position, in every position where she faced away from him, but after a while he wasn't satisfied and he knew she wasn't either. He wanted to look into her eyes. He wanted to hold her, fall asleep with his body wrapped around hers.
She didn't say anything about the sex, but she was upset that she was upstairs and he was downstairs. He didn't like Anya upset over anything. So . . . he had to find a way to fix it. The idea sickened him, but it had to be done. For her. Ice and Storm agreed. Ice read everything. He read up on the various therapies, and they'd discussed what to do over and over. The twins urged him to get moving on their plan, but he'd been putting it off, reluctant to go through with it. The idea made his skin crawl. He had nightmares every night, and just thinking about it made him break out in a sweat.
Reaper tossed back his third whiskey, let it burn down his throat, hoping it would dull the edges of his mind. He couldn't put it off any longer. Every time he saw his woman, even if she was across the room, like now, he was as hard as a rock and he needed to be normal. To be like other men so he wasn't afraid he'd kill the woman he loved just because she touched him. Preacher had allowed her to come back to work. Reaper had taken Anya to Santa Rosa to get clothes and she was wearing one of the kick-ass outfits. The jeans were straight-legged so she could wear the soft leather boots he'd bought her.
He especially liked her in those jeans, because she'd worn them a few days after they bought them and he could barely peel them off of her when they were frantic to get at each other. They'd ended up together on the floor laughing. He'd actually laughed. The woman could tame the devil if she was in the mood. He couldn't help thinking about what had happened after he'd gotten the jeans off of her.
He took another sip of whiskey, his eyes on Anya. He knew she was watching him. Ice and Storm had joined him--a rarity. He was drinking hard alcohol, something Anya had never seen him do. She was worried, and he couldn't blame her. He sat back, studying her through half-closed eyes. She was so beautiful she could take a man's breath. Her hair, usually worn in a high ponytail for work or a braid, was pulled back with a thick clip at the back of her neck so the silky mass fell in waves to the middle of her ass. Every man in the room was looking every time she turned her back to grab a bottle.
"You got to get this done," Ice said. "You're like some edgy beast, Reaper. What's the big deal? We'll be there to make certain nothing bad happens."
He wasn't going to discuss his feelings with Ice or Storm. The two of them sat there, putting away nearly as much whiskey as he was, and they weren't the ones who had to get therapy. He winced at the word. How did civilians do that sort of thing? He wasn't spilling his guts to some bored idiot who would be all superior and lord it over him that he was so screwed up he couldn't let his woman blow him.
He closed his eyes, groaned and pressed his whiskey glass to his forehead. He could have sworn Storm snickered, and his eyes snapped open and he glared. He'd threatened the twins with death by the worst torture imaginable, but even then, the look they exchanged alarmed him. Now, it was ten times worse. They knew he was fucked-up. They didn't know why and he wasn't telling them. He wasn't telling anyone. Certainly not a therapist. Still, he had to do something before his woman ran out of patience with him.
"Don't be such a pussy, Reaper," Storm said. "What's the worst that can happen?"
"I kill someone?" He snapped the question right back, but that wasn't the worst. Not for him. The thought of another person anywhere near him. A woman not Anya. He rubbed the glass across his forehead again. He had to do this. He had to go t
hrough with it. He'd do anything for Anya--even this.
"We're not going to let that happen," Ice said.
Reaper swung his gaze to Ice's face. Studied it. There was no trace of amusement anywhere on his tough features. Not in his eyes. He was serious, and he wanted Reaper to know it. The twins might give him a hard time, but they were in this with him, fully committed.
"Don't like the idea, but I know I gotta do it," he said and tossed back the entire contents of the glass.
"You should be lookin' forward to it," Storm said. "Getting blown can take you to another planet."
Ice scowled. "Are you out of your fuckin' mind, sayin' something like that? You've been watching too much porn."
"Maybe we ought to film Reaper getting his rocks off," Storm continued. "It could inspire him when he needs a reminder."
Fury burst through him. Sweat broke out and trickled down his body. "Fuckin' shut the hell up, Storm," Reaper snapped. "I'm going to pound you into the ground if you don't."
"And I'll help," Ice said.
This was worse than Reaper thought it was going to be. Feeling eyes on him, he looked up to see Anya staring across the room, her green gaze speculative. Yeah, now there was real trouble, because his woman was smart. She figured things out fast. They had to go. Get this over. He stood up abruptly. It was now or never.
He didn't wait for Ice and Storm. He strode to the bar, beckoning to Anya with his finger. She came straight to him, ignoring the calls for drinks. He caught her under her arms and pulled her up onto the bar. She scooted on her butt around, dropping her legs over. His hands went to her waist and he lifted her down to the floor, set her on her feet, and took her mouth all in one motion.
The moment her lips parted for his, that familiar fire swept through him. She just had a way of lighting that stick of dynamite. His heart contracted when she gave him everything. Right there. Right in front of the world. She didn't care if the world was watching. She let them know she belonged to him.
"Honey, you going to eat me out right now in front of the world?" she whispered. "Sit me up on the bar and go at it?"
"Would you let me, baby?"
She smiled at him. "I'd let you do just about anything."
His chest exploded. He could do this for her. He had to do this for her. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight, burying his face in her neck, breathing her in. He needed the comfort. He needed to know why he was doing such an asinine, very risky thing. It was for Anya. For his woman and he could do anything for her.
"Honey."
Anya's hand slid up his back. Rubbed. Went to the nape of his neck. Massaged. She knew how to make him feel good. Special. Like she cared about him. As if he was the only man in the world for her. She was a great old lady. The best a man could have. He had to step up and be that man for her. He was determined to work through his problem no matter what it took or how long.
A shudder of revulsion went through him. She felt it. How could she not? She tried to pull back to look at him, but he refused to allow it. She saw too much. She always did. He wanted to tell her he loved her, but the feeling was too overwhelming and choked him.
"Goin' to the clubhouse. If I'm not back to walk you to your car, or take you home on the bike, have Fatei or Preacher get you safely home." His voice didn't even sound like it belonged to him. It was gruff. Impersonal. He still couldn't look her in the eye so he gave the order into her neck.
Abruptly, Reaper put her aside, turned on his heel and left the bar. Ice and Storm nearly knocked over chairs in their haste to follow him. He went straight to his Harley and forced himself to head toward the clubhouse when he wanted to go home. To smell Anya, pull her deep into his lungs. He wanted to put her on the back of his bike and go for a long ride. A road trip. Somewhere safe for both of them--but there was nowhere Anya was safe until he got a handle on his trauma.
He fucking hated the word trauma. Blythe liked to use it to describe what her kids had suffered. Trauma. What the fuck did that even mean? That he couldn't sleep? How did that word describe what had happened to him? To any of them? Or the end results. They were fucked-up. Trauma was just a word people used to soften the blow. He was damaged. Broken. Couldn't be fixed.
How the hell could therapy fix him? Nothing could ever fix him. He was that fucked-up. He got off his bike and stood beside it, looking at the clubhouse. Ice came up on one side of him. He took a breath and shook his head.
"Feels wrong, Ice. It isn't going to work. Something bad could happen here. What's the difference between someone you call a surrogate and the bitch from hell getting her rocks off on torturing kids?"
"Surrogate's tryin' to help you get over the bitch from hell. You read the article. She stands in for Anya, trains you not to have triggers that bring up traumatic events." Ice quoted the article. "Plus, this way, you're not takin' any chances that you clock Anya again. You can't go to the real thing, so this is the next best thing. It can work, just let it."
Reaper's stomach lurched. The moment he had been fully awake, when he knew he had punched Anya, worse, he'd violated her, he'd been sick to his stomach. That feeling hadn't diminished in the last two weeks. There was no other word in his vocabulary for what he'd done. He knew she hadn't consented. He'd been exactly what they'd made him into. He'd been forced to repeat their words over and over, thousands of times, those lies, telling him it was his right to take by force whatever he wanted from a woman, a man, a child. They had been determined to shape him into one of them. He had become that very thing he despised with the woman he loved.
It could never happen again. Never. He'd endure anything to ensure Anya was safe from him. He'd walk barefoot and naked into the flames of hell. Letting another woman touch him? His entire body shuddered at the idea. His stomach rolled again.
"Maybe I should talk to Anya about this. Make sure she's okay with it." But he knew what she would say. What she'd already said, over and over. It didn't matter. She could live without ever going down on him. She would be careful, follow his directions. She wanted to sleep with him. She'd be careful not to touch him.
He wasn't certain she had touched him first. Fuck. Why was he so screwed up? Why couldn't his woman be all over him the way he was all over her? Why couldn't he shut out those fuckers' voices? Why couldn't he forget the things they'd done to him? The things they'd forced him to do to others?
Anya. Her laughter turned his world around. She made him better. He had no idea why, other than when he was with her, those demons receded. They were pushed back so far he could almost close that door in his head to keep them locked away. He was afraid if he couldn't keep bolts on that door, he would lose her. He would hurt her again, and he'd never forgive himself. Never. That wasn't the worst that could happen. He could kill her.
He touched his heart with shaking fingers. He'd done exactly what he'd told her he would. Ink had taken Anya's fingerprints and tattooed them over his heart. He'd added the unbreakable chain right over them, weaving her name into the links. He'd done the same on his left wrist, the chain forming a bracelet just like hers, with her prints on his inner wrist. He looked at it, needing courage. Reminding himself why he was putting himself in this position.
"Man up, Reaper," Storm encouraged. "This is for your woman."
Reaper swore. He was sweating and he wiped the beads from his forehead. Some ran down his face. A few more trickled down his chest. He went into the clubhouse, clenching his teeth, knowing it was a bad idea, but not knowing what else to do. His head hurt so bad that every step pounded through his mind like a jackhammer digging at him relentlessly.
"You sure you two can stop me if I try to kill her?" he asked. "It's a very real possibility." He was already feeling a little murderous toward the woman. His mouth was dry. So dry he could barely get words out.
"There's two of us. You don't have any weapons, right? No knife?" Storm inquired, suddenly looking worried.
Reaper stopped in the middle of the common room. "For fuck's sake, Storm. Don
't act like we didn't go over this a million times. Can you stop me?" His heart raced hard, putting so much pressure in his chest he thought he might be having a heart attack.
It was Ice who answered. "We can stop you. All it's going to take is to drag you away from her. The moment either of us puts our hands on you, you'll go after us. A few punches and you'll know who you are and who we are."
The confidence in Ice's voice steadied him. Reaper took another deep breath. "What did you tell her?" God. God. He couldn't do this. He couldn't let another woman put her hands on him. No one touched him. No one but Anya.
"I was bringing a brother for a birthday surprise. I told her I wanted her to give you the best blow job of your life, but to do a lot of hands-on stroking. That you like that. Told her to blow your mind. Of all the club girls, she's got the best mouth."
Reaper didn't want to know that. He didn't want to have her hands on him, let alone her mouth. He swore, his stomach in such tight knots he was afraid he'd vomit all over the woman.
"Think in terms of her helping you get over this," Ice encouraged. He urged Reaper into the hallway leading to the rooms.
Just knowing the woman was in his room made Reaper feel sick. Angry. Tense. Hell, he didn't know what he was feeling except this was all wrong. He stopped again, just outside the room. He was never going back in there knowing this woman had invaded his territory. He'd make Czar assign him another room.
"Wait. Really. I think I should talk about this to Anya."
"She'll say no and you'll be back to square one," Storm pointed out.
"Anya could do this. With you two there, there's no way she could get hurt." Reaper backed a few steps from the door. "I think I'll wait until I talk it over with her."
He couldn't breathe anymore. Tremors ran through his body and that blinding rage was close. So close he could taste it. Metallic. Like copper. Blood. Blood in his mouth from biting down, trying not to feel. Trying to go someplace in his mind where he could block out pain and humiliation.
The door to his room opened, and one of the club women was there. He couldn't remember her name, but she liked to be with more than one man at a time. He couldn't--or refused to--focus on her, so his vision remained blurry. She was indistinct, just like Helena. Even remembering the bitch's name struck him like a blow. The woman in front of him became even more indistinct.