My Iron Knight Read online

  “Ah,” Vasiliev gasped again, muttered something strained in his own language then went rigid. “Fuck. That’s… Blyad.”

  Dash grinned against his cheek. “Good, huh?” he murmured, increasing his pace, his own breath coming in short, sharp gasps. His nose and mouth and body were filled with intoxicating sights, sounds and smells as the beautiful man came undone. It was all Dash could do to keep control as he pulled Vasiliev right to the edge. The feel of his fingers in his hair was everything he’d imagined it would be and more.

  He pushed aside the persistent, nagging voice in his head telling him this was all wrong, could only lead to trouble, and kissed the other man, deeply, possessively, swallowing the stifled noises he made as his body rippled with pleasure. Vasiliev tasted of mint and whiskey and desperation.

  “Cassidy,” he panted into his mouth, voice hoarse. “I’m… I… Now…”

  Dash slid along the lithe body, tugged his underwear down and swallowed his cock just as Vasiliev started to come. Vasiliev’s cry was high, almost pained. The hot, salty seed poured into Dash’s mouth and throat. That was all it took to send him catapulting into his own orgasm. He came, white heat rolling through his guts, arms and legs, lighting his skin on fire.

  He breathed deep, swallowing the taste in his mouth and shivering with bliss. When the world stopped rocking and strength returned to his limbs, he raised his head. Vasiliev was gazing at him from under hooded eyelids. His breathing was slowing. His dark hair stuck to his forehead with sweat.

  “Sleep,” Dash whispered.

  “No,” he murmured, his voice thick with sated desire, blinking heavy eyes. “No, this is not right. You must take me back…now.”

  “Neither of us is in any state to ride,” Dash said, brushing the hair back from Vasiliev’s face. “You’re exhausted. Sleep.”

  “I…can’t…” He trailed off and his eyes slid shut.

  Dash got to his feet. He rinsed his hands under the tap then returned to the bunk, easing Vasiliev onto the mattress and pulling the blanket over him.

  Dash zipped up his pants and padded to the door. He eased it open and slid out into the night, locking the cabin behind him. He moved deep into the shadows, out of earshot, and pulled out his phone.

  Three more missed calls and several furious messages from Zara.

  “Dash, you bastard. I’ve been calling. I thought you—”

  “Relax,” Dash cut her off, keeping his voice low, even though his heart was thudding against his ribs. “I’m fine.”

  “Well, that makes one of us,” she said, and Dash heard the creeping panic in her tone.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Fucking chaos, that’s what’s happening. The clubhouse is full of these kids…terrified kids. Some speak English, some Spanish, but the rest…” She took a noisy breath and Dash heard the tumult of voices and banging in the background. “They’re staying put, at least. But, Christ, they’re crying, they’re shouting, kicking and biting whenever anyone gets close. Dash, I—” She stopped and he heard her answer someone’s barked question. “We need you here. Where the fuck are you?”

  Dash hesitated, trying to find ways to explain. “I’m at the cabin…with Vasiliev.”

  “You’re what?”

  “I got him to talk. He admitted that Damaro is selling these kids to whorehouses, labor companies, you name it.”

  “And how, exactly, did you get him to talk?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “For fuck’s sake, Dash. Put a bullet in his head and get back here, already.”

  “I think we can use him.”

  “He’s using you.”

  “I’m not stupid, Zar.”

  “Christ’s sake, brother. Use the brain that’s not in your balls for two seconds.”

  “It’s not—”

  “If you tell me ‘it’s not like that’, I swear, I’ll smack you. I know you, Dash—know what you’re like when your head gets turned. And normally I wouldn’t give a shit. But now is not the time to be led by the cock.”

  Dash scrubbed a hand over his face. He was suddenly exhausted, aching, with a hard hollow in his gut he didn’t know how to interpret. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “The driver died, Dash—the one that bastard shot in the chest. He was basically a kid himself.”

  Dash swore. “Is anyone else hurt?”

  “The kids are mostly just scared. Harley’s patching up a couple of ours, but it’s mostly bullet burns.”

  “You need to get those kids out of there. The clubhouse is gonna be the first place she looks when she realizes this has gone sideways.”

  “And where, exactly, are we supposed to take them?”

  Dash thought hard, rubbing his head. “The Sunset Motel. Greta owes me a favor.”

  “She owes you feeding and housing a dozen trafficked kids?”

  “She’ll help. Trust me. I helped her get her daughter out here from Poland.”

  Zara hesitated. “And what happens if we get caught taking them over there, huh?”

  “Don’t get caught.”

  Zara swore under her breath.

  “Get them to the motel. They’ll be safe and out from under your feet. And Greta’s got Asian and European staff. Hopefully they can talk to them, explain we’re here to help.”

  “Are we?”

  “What do you wanna do? Hand them back to Damaro? Or the cops, who she’s got under her thumb? They’re kids…”

  “I just want to understand what’s happening.”

  “We’re gonna bring this bitch down, that’s what’s happening. Do as I say. I’ll be back at first light.”

  “You better be.”

  Dash returned to the cabin. Vasiliev lay, unmoving, on the bunk, his chest rising and falling in the gentle rhythm of sleep. One long-fingered hand lay on his stomach, moving with his breath. His skin under the dirt and blood had more color, and Dash dared to believe he might survive the night. He promptly stomped on the emotion that blossomed in his chest and retrieved the bottle of Jack. He slumped in the armchair in the corner, drank and watched Vasiliev sleep, his mind racing.

  “Put a bullet in his head…”

  He took a deep breath then let it out again slowly. He knew what he should be feeling, what he should be doing. But all he could think about was how beautiful Nikita Vasiliev looked as he slept with the snideness and deceit eased from his face. The humanity that he had glimpsed tonight behind the icy curtain of his eyes.

  Dash’s adrenaline leeched away. His muscles relaxed. Then, finally, his own eyes closed.

  * * * *

  He woke with a stiff neck and aching limbs but also with contentment wrapped around him like a blanket. He blinked his eyes open, peering around the dusty cabin, now lit by slices of golden sunshine stealing in around the shutters. He frowned, momentarily confused. Then it all came flooding back.

  He waited for the guilt, the anger and the fear to follow, but none of them came.

  It was only then he realized he was alone, that the key was missing from around his neck and the door stood open.

  He swore and rushed out into the morning, already hot from the rising sun. Everything was still and silent without even a breath of wind to rustle the leaves. He swore again, louder, and made for the road.

  Even before he reached Vasiliev’s wrecked bike, he knew what he would find.

  Guinevere was gone.

  “You bastard,” he yelled into the trees, his voice falling dead in the silence between the trunks. He kicked the totaled Kalashnikov then pulled out his phone.

  * * * *

  Zara was stonily silent for the whole drive back to the club. Dash was more than happy not to break it. She’d picked him up in Butch’s rusty old Buick, linked to a lot of Dash’s worst memories. Most of them were from times he’d been driven home in disgrace, often from this very park, and he knew it was at least partially punishment.

  “Where is everyone?” Dash asked when he finally entered the clubhouse, empty but for Reaper and Lance propping up the bar.

  “Harley and Kitty went with the kids,” Zara said, moving behind the bar and pouring two shots of whiskey. She looked tired, Dash realized, the lines at her eyes and mouth etched deeper than usual. “The rest are sleeping off injuries or out stalking High Oaks.”

  “I didn’t order that.”

  “They weren’t just gonna sit on their asses,” Reaper growled, leveling a bleary-eyed glare at Dash as he shot back another measure of Jack.

  “I’m not planning on us to sit on our asses.”

  “So what are you planning?” Reaper stood, knocking his barstool to the ground. “Pussyfooting around, sucking the enemy’s dick while they run about like they own the place?”

  “Reap—” Zara started but the grizzled old man squared up to Dash.

  “Maybe you like being fucked in the ass, pretty boy,” he slurred, jabbing a finger in Dash’s chest, “but the rest of us aren’t about to just bend over to these—” His words dissolved into a howl as Dash grabbed Reaper’s finger and bent it back, pushing to the point of breaking. The biker tried to twist out of Dash’s hold, but he held on, yanking the old man close so they were nose-to-nose.

  “Speak to me like that again and there won’t be anything left to call you a man.” He shoved Reaper back. He stumbled against the bar then slid to the floor. Lance glanced warily between them both.

  “He’s drunk,” Zara said, casting a disdainful look at the original.

  “He’s been drunk for years,” Dash said, swallowing the drink Zara had poured. “Lance, get him out of here.”

  Lance’s jaw worked but he took in the look on Dash’s face, bent and helped Reaper to his feet. They shambled, muttering, from the room.

  “He’s full of piss and vinegar,” Zara said quietly, “but he’s not the only one asking questions.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  Zara’s eye widened at the venom in his tone. “I didn’t tell them anything about your little sleepover, if that’s what you’re implying. But I probably didn’t have to.”

  Dash poured the last of the whiskey into a glass and downed it, willing the hot burn to still his swirling thoughts. Zara opened her mouth to say something more as Dash lowered the glass when the roaring of engines sounded outside.

  Dash hurried to the window. Three black cars with tinted windows were pulling into the lot, along with a Jeep and a truck. Before he could process what was happening, out poured dozens of men in flack vests and helmets, carrying machine guns. They moved with military precision, fanning out to surround the clubhouse in less than a minute.

  Zara appeared at his shoulder. Her mouth opened.

  “Get back,” he said, pulling her away from the window and drawing his gun. Zara raised her own weapon and aimed for the door.

  “What’s going on?”

  Samson and Vince appeared, bloody bandaging taped to their arms and necks, scanning the room with narrowed eyes.

  “Get away from the windows,” Dash ordered. They were instantly on the alert, pulling weapons and moving to flank Dash and Zara.

  “What is it?” Vince murmured.

  “We’re surrounded,” Zara muttered.

  The originals swore under their breaths.

  A silence thicker than the humidity filled the room. Dash could hear the hum of the drinks’ fridge, the pop and click of the cooling engines outside and the heavy breathing of bikers at his back.

  Just as he thought he might go mad waiting, someone knocked on the clubhouse door. Dash’s skin prickled. The others went very still.

  The door opened and in stepped Vasiliev.

  He was clean and dressed in new clothes, his hair still damp and brushed back from his smooth forehead. But a pair of oversized sunglasses did little to obscure his black eye and the wash of bruising rippling down from the steri-stripped cut in his forehead. His smile was thin, and he moved stiffly, leaning heavily on an ornate, silver-handled cane.

  “Mr. Cassidy,” he said, voice smooth despite his battered appearance, “how nice to see you again.”

  “What are you doing here?” Dash grated, a confused mix of anger and hurt at the Russian’s impersonal tone swirling in his gut.

  “Ms. Damaro asked that I come to thank you for your hospitality,” he said smoothly. “And offer her own in return.”

  “Get fucked, asshole,” Zara said at his shoulder.

  Vasiliev raised his eyebrows. “I must say I’m hurt—and a little surprised. I thought you were longing to meet my employer.”

  “The only way I want to meet your employer,” Zara said, “is in a dark alley with no witnesses.”

  “Well, I’m afraid that is beyond my power to arrange,” Vasiliev said with a good imitation of genuine regret. “But I would strongly urge you to accept this invitation while it still stands.”

  “And if we don’t?” Dash muttered.

  Vasiliev gestured to the window where the armed men were ready with their weapons trained on the clubhouse. “I think you know the outcome of that.”

  Dash looked at his grim-faced sister then back at Vasiliev. He tried desperately to read what little of his face he could see but failed.

  He holstered his weapon. “Fine. I’ll come.”

  “Dash—” Zara grated.

  “We’ve got no choice.”

  “The invitation extends to both of you, Miss Cassidy,” Vasiliev said, opening the door. “Or don’t you want to see your son?”

  Zara stiffened, then holstered her gun. “You’ll die before this is over,” she said as she drew level with Vasiliev. “That’s a promise.”

  Vasiliev inclined his head, unruffled, as Zara stalked out then turned his attention back to Dash. “Mr. Cassidy?”

  “Keep a close watch,” Dash muttered to Samson and Vince who were still standing with their weapons trained on Vasiliev. “We’ll be back.”

  Vasiliev led Dash to one car while a cluster of armed men led Zara to another.

  “If you lay one finger on my sister,” Dash warned in a low voice as he climbed into the back of the sedan.

  “She will not be harmed, so long as she doesn’t try to harm anyone herself,” Vasiliev murmured as he shifted about on the seat.

  “Hurts, huh?” Dash said quietly as the car pulled out of the yard.

  “It’s not the first time.”

  Dash was silent. Vasiliev stared straight ahead, his eyes hidden behind his shades, his body rigid, hands in his lap.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Vasiliev didn’t answer. Dash checked that the driver was focused on the road and leaned in to lower his voice. “You don’t fool me. You don’t want her to set up this operation any more than we do.”

  “I suggest you watch yourself, Mr. Cassidy,” Vasiliev murmured, barely moving his mouth.

  Dash leaned closer. “Don’t pretend you don’t feel anything,” he whispered.

  Vasiliev looked at him. Dash only had the vaguest impression of the long-lashed eyes behind the tinted glass. Then he looked away again. “That is irrelevant.”

  “Is it?”

  Vasiliev didn’t answer.

  The convoy was soon heading out of Salvation onto the highway. Cold silence swilled in the conditioned air between them. Soon they took the turn into High Oaks. The guards at the gate peered into the car, talked into their walkie-talkies and opened the gates.

  The complex was large and sprawling, all manicured, sprinkler-maintained lawns, tree-lined boulevards, new, whitewashed buildings housing a spa, a golf club, luxury hotel and sports center, not to mention the scattering of boutique cottages and gated housing complexes. Dash’s skin crawled to think of the money that Alb had told him had been sunk in its construction instead of being invested into the county hospital, the schools, the high-street businesses.

  “Nice place your boss has got,” he muttered as the car slowed outside a three-story mansion with a columned entrance and glass front doors. “Whose palm did she have to grease to get the run of this place? The mayor? A senator?”

  “The governor, actually,” Vasiliev replied. “He and Ms. Damaro have a long-standing relationship.”

  “Am I supposed to be impressed?”

  “No,” Vasiliev said as the car stopped, and he opened the door. “Just aware.”

  “And where do you sleep?” Dash muttered. “At the foot of her bed?”

  Vasiliev shot him a look out the corner of his eye. “Why? Thinking of a house call, Cassidy?” Dash glared. Vasiliev looked away. “I have a house in the grounds, as it happens. But, trust me… Ms. Damaro’s security is top of the line. I would strongly advise you keep that in mind.”

  Dash and Zara were herded through the entrance then along a tiled hall, deliciously cool, though the shining, glass-and-marble surroundings made Dash all the more aware of his dirty, slept-in clothing. But he held his head high, noted Zara was doing the same and stepped through a set of double doors held open by more goons and into a sumptuous sitting area.

  A woman in her late forties stood from a deep-cushioned charcoal suede couch as they entered. She was clad in an immaculate cream pant suit, a simple gold chain at her neck her only adornment. Her platinum-white hair was cut in a sharp bob at her jaw. She was trim, athletic-lean and her manicured hands were interwoven in front of her. Her face at first glance appeared warm, smiling, her lips painted the palest blush pink. But her eyes, so dark a brown they were almost black, were as cold as the show-home decor around her.

  “Zara and Darius Cassidy,” she said, her smile widening as two suited men positioned themselves between them and the door. “It’s so wonderful to finally meet you in person.”

  “Cut the crap, lady,” Dash said. “First thing’s first. Where’s Brett?”

  Damaro’s lip twitched. “Vasiliev said you were direct. And in fairness, his judgment is rarely wrong.”

  Dash glared at the Russian who now stood behind the couch, one hand on the cane, the other in his pocket. He’d taken his sunglasses off. One eye was swollen and black, and that side of his face was a mass of red and purple. But the keenness in his piercing blue gaze was sharp as ever.

  Dash was suddenly almost overwhelmed by the remembered taste of his mouth, the smell of his skin, the noises he made as he’d come in Dash’s mouth.