Dead Man Walking (The Fallen Men #6) - Giana Darling Page 0,93

The Fallen, I was in heaven.

Priest

The feel of my bike between my thighs, the icy tug of wind in my unbound hair, and the endless scope of road to ride before me were three of my favourite damn things about my decidedly ascetic lifestyle. I couldn’t concentrate on any of them at the moment. Not with Bea pressed to my back, not knowing she was wearing nothing underneath that little skirt. I’d left her so wet, so full of my cum, I knew it must’ve been leaking all over the leather seat of my bike. My cock was an iron bar in my jeans as I thought of how she was baptising it with her sweet fucking honey.

The entire ride was a battle. I regretted driving back to the farm to swap out her car for my Harley. It was her idea as much as mine, and now I knew why. The feel of her was a distraction I couldn’t shake.

I intended to drop her off at her house, search it before she went in, then wait outside until some other brother arrived to safeguard her. She wanted to spend a night in her own bed, which was fair, but there was no way in hell I’d leave her without at least two of my most capable brothers as her guards.

Even then, I had no doubt I’d end up back at her little pink house later that night to stand sentry in the shadows myself.

But I needed space.

Suddenly, just existing in the same place as her, knowledge that had once brought me some kind of fucked-up solace, was too much to bear. My skin itched and burned the way it had years ago when I’d been scarred and torn and branded. All the old wounds of my flesh and mind were festering, blistering, and I knew they’d pop horrifically into open sores if I stayed a moment more with my angelic girl with the dirty mind.

But, but, but….

The refrain haunted my thoughts.

Memories of the night flashed through my brain each time I repeated the caveat.

Alone in a graveyard with a dead man and a killer, Bea had offered her hand in a way that implied she was willing to follow me wherever I went, and the courage of that action made the breath catch in my throat.

“Come,” she’d said, ethereal in the moonlight, voice as sweet as some singing angel. “Show me who you really are, only ever alone. Let me follow you into the dark.”

That this was Bea Lafayette, the sweet girl who led Bible studies and wore ridiculous pink bows in her hair, the girl who had studied me for years the way some monks dedicated their lives to the study of religion, the girl who seemed to know just exactly how fucked up I was. That this was her.

It rocked me.

Fucking rocked me.

I’d blinked because that was the only thing my body knew what to do as I attempted to process the sheer, over-fucking-whelming beauty of this girl and her trust.

I blinked, and I breathed.

Bea waited, patient as a saint.

In truth, I was in conflict with myself. I already considered her mine in a way I’d never be able to shake. It was scarred into my skin, my muscle and bone. I felt her possession of my body and whatever soul I might’ve retained just as I felt her like my obsession was something omnipotent, fateful and huge. I couldn’t cut this feeling out of me neatly with a good blade and sheer will. It was too late for that, too inconceivable of me to even want to mire myself from such a miraculous thing.

Because her love was a miracle. I knew that, and I didn’t even believe in such things. The love of a woman like Bea, like the women some of my brothers had been lucky enough to find, was a miracle. I’d just never believed in that for myself.

Miracles were for the good.

What did a damned man do when he was graced with one? If he had even a fucking ounce of goodness, he would turn and run from her, free her of his ominous presence and his death-dealing ways.

Oh, but there was not even an ounce of that in me.

Not even a fucking molecule.

I was all bad, and unfortunately or not for Bea, I was all hers.

If another man wanted her, I would kill him. I didn’t care why or how or even if Bea would hate me for it. She was mine