Mallicks: Back to the Beginning (Mallick Brothers Book 5) Read online

  The primal, instinctive need to move overtook me before it did him, making my hips rock up against his, trying to get relief from the clawing need deep within.

  "Please," I begged, hands digging into the firm flesh of his back. "Charlie..." I added on a whimper as a pressure built slowly, promising the kind of oblivion I had yet to know. If only he would cooperate.

  He smiled softly down at me for a moment, eyes full of something I couldn't quite place - pride or pleasure or a mix of the two.

  "Greedy pussy," he rumbled at me as his cock slid out, then pressed back in, the pace unhurried, calculated, as he looked down at me to gauge my reaction.

  My legs curled up around him, wrapping him up with all my limbs as he kept thrusting, slow and controlled, but more powerful with each stroke, building the pressure within me until I felt like it overtook me completely, making it impossible even to pull in breath to moan, making my sounds of need come out like choked whimpers.

  "Close," he murmured, feeling my walls tighten around him. "You gonna come for me?" he asked, voice rougher than I had ever heard it.

  "Y...yes," I cried, fingertips feeling wet from his sweat or blood or both, something in that seeming to give me that final push toward the edge.

  When Charlie thrust forward, his cock burying as deep as my body could take, that was it.

  I shattered.

  His name came screaming out of me as the orgasm tore through my system, leaving nothing but shambles in the wake of the pleasure as Charlie kept thrusting through it, dragging it out, before slamming deep, and coming with my name like a prayer on his tongue.

  His weight came down on me, his face pressed into the crook of my neck as we both fought for air, for relaxed heartbeats, stumbling our way back to reality after something that felt like something else entirely, something sacred, something almost spiritual.

  It was a long time, our bodies cooling, our breathing evening out, before he pushed up on arms that must have felt wobbly, though he showed no signs of complaint or weakness, eyes intense, boring into me, searching, maybe, to find something, something that he felt and needed confirmation of from me.

  And it was there.

  It had been there.

  Unsaid for weeks, buried under the fear of loss, of vulnerability, of the repercussions of opening myself up in such a way, of entrusting that truth to another human being. A man especially.

  My hand rose, shaking in exhaustion and maybe a bit of fear as my hand landed on his cheek, watching as his tension softened.

  "I love you."

  Where I expected to feel uncertainty, all I felt as the words left my lips was rightness.

  Nothing, nothing had ever felt so right as loving Charlie Mallick.

  And, as it turned out, being loved in return.

  "I love you too."

  NINE

  Helen - 1.5 years

  It was our first anniversary when he finally told me the story.

  About the dog.

  About how the look in her eye was the same look he saw in mine when he first met me.

  The one that said she had had enough.

  The one that said she was going to rip out someone's throat as soon as she was given the chance.

  It was eerie, I decided as I sat there in silence following his tale.

  Eerie because of what had eventually happened.

  Maybe I hadn't bit his throat out with my teeth, but I had shot him there with his own gun.

  I hadn't seen it at the time.

  How a person could go rabid like a dog.

  How it could become a part of you, something you would always be, something that could be triggered in unexpected ways.

  But I was a person, not a dog.

  No one put me down and chopped off my head to peek inside.

  So no one could have known.

  That there was something different about me after that night.

  It didn't even occur to me for a long time. Those days and nights were full of unyielding hard work, tired feet, sore backs, and worry.

  Because as soon as Charlie finally rose from that bed, he set to work.

  He had meetings with local crime families to let them know he was in town, that he was no threat to them so long as they stayed away from me.

  Then he found down-on-their-luck people, offered them loans with interest.

  Everything went fine for a few months.

  Everyone paid back their loans, everyone in the world seemingly aware of what happened to those who missed a payment to a loanshark.

  But no good thing can last forever.

  And one night, someone missed a meeting.

  Was impossible to find.

  It was the first time in months that I had seen him as something other than the man I had come to share a life with, elbow out of my way when I was trying to brush my teeth in the morning, laugh with at movies, get sweaty with at night.

  He was no longer just Charlie, the man I loved.

  He was Charlie, a loanshark. A boss of his own slowly-building empire.

  And he was out for blood.

  Literally.

  Fear was a tied knot in my belly as I worked through my bar shift, having given up my diner job a month or so before, having finally been promoted to bartender, and making more than enough money in tips to cover our living expenses.

  I had expected to see his car when I got back to the motel.

  To feel that rush of relief that said everything was okay. He was okay.

  There was no denying the fact that the knot tightened further at seeing his empty spot.

  It was almost four in the morning.

  I never got home to find him missing. Not at that hour. Usually, he was waiting for me with a cup of coffee, and an always much-needed foot rub. That always led to something else which meant we often didn't get to sleep until the sun was starting to come up.

  I took a breath, reminding myself that this was the life I had proposed, that I needed to harden up, that I couldn't worry myself to ulcers when my man didn't come home when I expected him to.

  This was the life we chose.

  With all the ups and downs that came with it. And when it came to downs, a man who was a little late wasn't too bad overall.

  Especially when it was once.

  In over a year.

  "Heya, Helen," Bobby, a man who was living at the motel like we were - though in his case due to a vicious divorce brought on by his gambling addiction - called from where he was perched atop the railing for the ramp that led up to the main office building, a cigarette hanging between his lips. "Know when Charlie is gonna be home?"

  Probably because he had spent the day in AC and the tables were cold for him, and he wanted more to go back down to see if he could get some hot hands.

  "He'll be late. But I will let him know you were looking for him," I told him, yanking my purse back on my shoulder after fishing out the door key.

  I slid the chain when I got inside, deciding that if I couldn't have a foot rub and some pain-relieving sex, then a hot shower would have to do.

  See, the funny thing is, sometimes you don't get a vibe.

  Sometimes there is no gut instinct.

  Sometimes people don't put you on edge.

  But that didn't mean they were good.

  It didn't mean they weren't dangerous.

  It just meant you could never let your guard down.

  But I had.

  Dozens of times over the months since I had met him.

  And I had put too much stock in a chain on the door.

  The first thought as I felt a hand rip the knot from my towel and yank it away from my naked body, skin still pink from the overly hot water, was one of blaming myself.

  For not turning the deadbolt.

  For not being street-wise enough to sense a threat.

  But then all there was after was panic.

  The kind that rooted in the belly and grew upward, strong, thick vines that wrapped themselves around your neck un
til you felt like you were choking for air, felt like your face was getting tingly, like your brain was getting thick and slow.

  "Fucking dreamed of this moment since that first day I met you."

  Bobby.

  Bobby was in my room.

  Bobby was the one who ripped off my towel.

  Bobby, our friendly neighborhood gambler.

  Except there was nothing friendly about baring a woman in her room, looking at her with desire in your eyes.

  With hands that were clearly bent on taking if what he wanted was not offered.

  "Charlie is going to kill you for this," I told him, scrambling toward the bed to snatch the sheet up, more aware of my nakedness than my proximity to the door.

  "Well, now. Charlie ain't here, is he?" he asked, stalking closer, stale cigarette breath seeming to waft into the air around him, making it toxic to breathe as I scrambled away, backing myself up into the table where my purse was still situated.

  "I'll scream," I tried.

  "Not if your face is in the mattress," he said, hand snagging my wrist, closing tight around it, a grip sure to leave bruises in its wake, forcing me to relive this moment days in the future.

  And as my body yanked forward, colliding with his, as his hard dick pressed into my hipbone, I realized he was right.

  Charlie wasn't here.

  I was on my own.

  But I wasn't helpless.

  I wasn't the five-year-old girl who couldn't save her mama.

  I wasn't the young woman who got her ass beat by a grown man, not even thinking to call child services.

  I was not some meek, helpless girl.

  I was a woman who shot her own father.

  Who killed her abuser.

  Who sent her brother to jail for it.

  I didn't cower.

  I didn't give in.

  I stood my ground.

  And I ripped their fucking throats out for daring to think they could hurt me.

  I felt a hand close around my throat, squeezing.

  But the panic melted away like a pre-dawn fog to the unyielding morning sun.

  Because maybe Charlie was a new man.

  A man who lived life by his own terms.

  But I was a new woman too.

  One who refused to ever be used again, ever be taken advantage of again.

  And this?

  This would not fucking stand.

  My hand came up, the heel catching him under the chin, sending him flying back a foot with a savage curse.

  Maybe the smart thing would have been to retreat, to run to the door, to seek help.

  But smart wasn't what I wanted to be right then.

  I wanted to be savage.

  Ruthless.

  I wanted to be a goddamned Mallick.

  Not just by name, as the ring on my finger suggested, one Charlie got as a place-keeper from the secondhand store until he could get me one he thought I deserved.

  No.

  Not just by name.

  By fucking reputation too.

  So I didn't retreat.

  I charged.

  I punched, kicked, slapped, clawed, bit.

  Unprepared for the fight, he froze at first before coming at me.

  I was untrained.

  Clumsy and predictable.

  Tall, but weak.

  Compared to his compact strength.

  I felt a fist to my cheekbone, the pain a shattering, eye-watering thing.

  Another to my mouth, my lips seeming to swell immediately, feeling puffy and unable to hold in the trickle of blood that slid out.

  "Fucking bitch. You're gonna pay for that," he roared when my knee just barely landed a blow to his crotch.

  He stopped to suck in a breath before he charged.

  Enough time.

  Just barely enough.

  For my hand to close around the sturdy glass base of the nightstand lamp, ripping it up fast, the cord yanking from the socket just in time for me to raise it and swing.

  The crack was a sickly satisfying thing.

  I watched with perverse pleasure as the blood bloomed across his temple before he dropped to the floor, knees hitting first, then face second, another hauntingly welcome sound that said I did it.

  I saved myself.

  I proved myself.

  I loved Charlie.

  I loved that his reputation was growing, that he was going to be a man to be feared and respected.

  But I didn't want to live in his shadow, be protected by his name.

  I wanted to be feared for my own.

  I wanted the men in this town to take a step away from me out of fear that a brush to my shoulder might mean a broken jaw, eating through a straw for months.

  I wanted everyone to know I was not someone to fuck with.

  That thought was still taking root in my head when I saw it.

  The way the room was lighting up red and blue.

  My heart flew up into my throat as I groped for the comforter, just barely managing to yank it up when the door burst open, and two men rushed inside, flashlights and guns raised, one crossed over the other.

  "Hands where..."

  "Connor?"

  The name croaked out of me, shock and awe. Like I was seeing a ghost. And I guess, in a way, I was. A ghost from my past. One that didn't belong here.

  "Helen?" he asked, voice filled with wonder, uncertainty.

  His eyes raked over me for the barest of seconds, taking in my near-nudity before finding the body on the floor, seeming to put things together in a second. "Take him," he demanded of his partner as he moved back toward the door, flicking on the overhead I hated because the fan attached made the light flicker, something that set my nerves on edge.

  The harshness made my eyes squint as I watched my would-be-rapist get dragged out the door before I could force my eyes to focus on Connor again.

  Officer Collings.

  Of the NBPD.

  "Helen, what are you doing here?" he asked as he tucked away the flashlight and gun, eyes on me the whole time as I lowered down onto the bed with shaky legs, the adrenaline seeping away, leaving just a mix of fear and confusion in its wake.

  "What?" I asked, shaking my head.

  "When my father told me about... about what happened, I thought you had finally done it. Gotten away. But here you are. Five towns over."

  "I... I stopped for gas. And I... got a room," I hedged, not sure why I wasn't telling the whole truth. "I just... decided to stay. It was safe."

  After a jury of his peers decided the murdering son of a murdering son of a bitch belonged behind bars for a lifetime.

  This place was just as safe as any.

  "Helen," he said a second later, voice doing the cop-thing. All firm and persuasive at once. "I have to ask. You're not dressed..."

  "He didn't rape me," I cut him off, watching as he shocked back at the words. I wondered then if it was because he was still green to the force. Or because it was me. "He was trying. I stopped him. I have a right to protect myself," I added to the silence following my words, heavy with what felt like judgment, like condemnation.

  "Yes, you do," he agreed, ducking his chin a little to catch my gaze. "You, every woman, has a right to defend herself against that."

  "Then why are you looking at me like those bracelets belong around my wrists instead of his?"

  "I'm worried about you," he admitted, sitting off the end of the bed. "After what happened with your father. And brother. After... you know. And now you knocked a man unconscious. I'm just worried about where your head is at."

  "My head is at the place where it decided not getting raped by that fuck out there was worth the headache he is going to have when he wakes up. That is where my head is at, Collings."

  "Don't do that," he said, rubbing his hand across his chest. Like my words hurt. Like they were still capable of doing so.

  I should have felt guilty about that.

  Hurting this man who had been so good to me, who had saved me throu
gh his father, who had cared for me when no one else had.

  But I wasn't the girl in the pink and green stripes anymore, the girl in the mustard skirt, the girl who cowered and forced smiles she didn't feel.

  I didn't feel bad for my words having barbs, that they snagged him for getting close.

  "Don't do what?" I asked instead of acknowledging the motion he made to his heart.

  "Talk to me like I'm just some badge."

  "But you are a badge," I objected, jerking my chin to his chest.

  "But not just a badge. You know that, Helen. Don't look at me like I'm your enemy. I have done nothing but try to protect you."

  "I never thank...."

  "Helen!" Charlie's voice roared from outside, the sounds of a struggle undeniable, loud to my ears as a mix of worry and relief flooded my already overflowing system.

  "Oh," Conor said, the sound sighing out of him, his head nodding with understanding. "I get it now."

  "Get what?" I asked, watching as he moved to stand.

  "The disdain for me," he said, making a small part of my heart sink.

  "I have no disdain for you," I objected.

  "We know about Charlie," he told me, making my stomach sink.

  "Know what about Charlie?"

  "You know," he said, giving me a disapproving head shake. "I thought you'd have had enough of this life but..."

  He didn't get to finish his sentence because Charlie was barreling through the door, face a little roughed up. Either from the job. Or the scuffle with the cop outside. Or both.

  His blue eyes were frantic, his body tight.

  His eyes went to me, taking in my near-nakedness.

  "No," he said, the word low, whispered, but savage.

  His hands were balling into fists even as he turned back to the door.

  "Don't," Connor demanded, moving to block the way, making Charlie shock back a bit. "I get the impulse, but don't. She stopped him," he added, voice a little less firm. "Nothing happened."

  "Nothing happened?" Charlie hissed. "Did you see her face? Her neck? Her wrist?"

  "I did. And I think she needs more from you than just to notice it."

  The inflection was there.

  And Charlie's body softened as the rage was replaced with something else.