Page 23 of I am Dressed in Sin (Death by Daybreak MC 2)
My eyes lift up, searching for Crown amongst the carnage. I see him in the back, brutal, ruthless. He smashes a mafia man’s face in with the butt of his gun. He’s not the only one either. Beast is there, too, so covered in blood that I hardly recognize him. Sin … he’s holding an assault rifle, mowing down the guards in the rear balcony.
The only person I don’t see—besides my father—is Cade Grainger.
I look back at the fleeing wedding guests.
Even though it takes me some time, I guess I’m a club daughter after all.
I aim the Uzi into the fleeing crowd of luxury and jewels, and I start to fire. It’s easy to tell who’s who. The Grey Wolfe Mafia is dressed in their finest, in tuxes and dresses and diamonds. The club … well, the club is dressed in denim and leather, and flying colors.
My bullets spray the audience, and I find myself thankful beyond thankful that there are no children here. Any adult I see is culpable, is a part of this, benefits from its blood and poison. I become lost in that, in the bloodshed and the death, until someone grabs my arm.
I startle, swinging the gun their way, but stop when I see who it is that’s touching me. I might’ve known, just from the rough feel of his fingers through the elbow-length gloves I’m wearing, that it was Grainger. Goddamn motherfucking Grainger.
His umber eyes catch mine, and a million things pass between us.
The one that I catch on and hold tight to is this: relief.
He’s relieved to see me? Why? So he can strangle me himself, punish me for stealing Crown’s bike and freeing a hostage and running into the arms of the mafia?
He doesn’t look angry though. Instead, his face is drawn and tired, that scowling mouth of his pressed into a thin line.
Grainger doesn’t bother to take the gun from me, dragging me toward a door to the left of the pulpit and yanking me through. He slams it closed behind him and then turns to look at me.
I want to say something, anything really. It’s been three months since we’ve seen each other, but it may as well have been a minute. It may as well have been years. Time seems both meaningless and like an impossible chasm, all at the same time.
In a surprising move, he puts his hands on my hips and I gasp, letting go of the Uzi and letting it hang from the strap on my neck. Grainger lifts me up to sit on the edge of a table that’s pressed to the wall, knocking candles and other religious paraphernalia all across the floor. This must be a thing for us, this sacrilegious lust that taints the whole world filthy.
I quoted the Bible to him the first time we slept together. The second time, was in a church. The fourth time is here, at my fancy Catholic wedding.
One of Reba’s oft-repeated quotes floats to the forefront of my mind: So put to death the sinful, earthly things lurking within you. Have nothing to do with sexual immorality, impurity, lust, and evil desires. Don’t be greedy, for a greedy person is an idolater, worshipping the things of this world.
And oh. Oh, how I want to be an idolater, worshipping Grainger and everything about him that I hate so damn much.
He shoves the white layers of my dress up, like too much frosting on a cake, cursing as he does so. When he finds the lingerie underneath, he stills and lifts his eyes to mine. He moves his tattooed hands to his belt and undoes it, freeing his cock as I wrap my legs around his waist. Grainger pushes the lacy scrap of my panties aside and drives into me like he’s on a mission.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever felt.
My arms wrap his neck as he presses his face to the side of my neck, brushing stubble against the softness of my throat.
“You forgot to shave,” I whisper, which is such a bizarre thing to notice or say in a moment like that.
Even though my dress is splattered with blood, and crimson is leaking underneath the door, it doesn’t matter. Grainger fucks me hard into the side of the table, denting the wall as the sound of gunshots and screaming echoes from inside the chapel.
“How many times did you fuck that mafia brat?” he whispers back, licking the side of my neck as his familiar black pepper and vanilla scent surrounds me in a cloud, simultaneously soothing me and waking me up all at the same time. That’s me and Grainger right there, a dichotomous mix of opposing things. Dare I say … love-hate? “How many, huh?” he growls, ripping the panties clean off me.
He pumps his hips hard into me, and I revel in the hot, full feeling of his cock inside of me. I’ve missed this so much. I’ve missed him so much, even if I could hardly allow myself to admit it. The logical part of me, the bit that knows I’m about to die, tries to push back, tells me to run, to take this opportunity to shoot Grainger and use that trapdoor in the chapel before it’s too late.
