Warlord (Anathema Book 1) by Lana Grayson

the dark wisp of my skirt drifting
over my skin.
    I’d have been
insulted if I hadn’t done the same to him.
    I knew many
hardened men. Most of Anathema, especially the younger generation with time
served, kept themselves in peak physical form. Thorne was no exception. A black
tee shirt bulged over the muscles under the material. The leather cut strapped
over his barrel chest, almost as if the vest restrained the power simmering
beneath the patches. Like my brothers, his cut shared the emblem of the scarred
demon, the sprawled lettering of Anathema, and the charter’s location.
    But only one man
wore the label declaring his legacy as president.
    And he happened
to be the most attractive man I ever saw.
    Except he was
the one who dealt with my freedom in the shadows of a heretical “church,”
bargaining my safety in deals God couldn’t imagine and the Devil feared to
claim.
    Darkness
shrouded Thorne. From the pitch of his leather to the blackness of his hair
framing an expression that belonged only in the underworld of the night. He
nodded toward my brothers.
    “Any problems?” He
spoke intentionally soft, though the words still roared through my head like
the revving of a chasing engine.
    “No,” Keep said.
    “Were you
followed?”
    Brew shook his
head. He didn’t say a thing. Either a form of respect or an untasted threat.
    “Good.” Thorne
nodded to the door. “Leave us.”
    My brothers
hesitated as long as they dared, but even Keep’s tensed muscles and Brew’s
gruff exhale presumed too much within Thorne’s presence. They gave me three
seconds—enough time for my gasped breath and an infinity of crashing
heartbeats—as their apology. I didn’t know if they were cowards for leaving me
or if they were smart to turn away so quickly. Thorne’s wrath was a worse
consequence than the violation of their little sister.
    Keep nudged me
as he turned away. I ignored the touch. Thorne noticed.
    “Close the door
after you,” he said.
    Brew swore, but
Keep pushed him into the hall. The door scraped shut. The latch clicked.
    I stilled. My
chest weighed heavy with silenced songs and muted fear. I stared at Thorne, but
I imagined more than just the man before me.
    In Thorne, I saw
the rushing pavement barreling toward my head.
    The trail of
smoke coiling from a recoiling gun.
    A prince donning
leathers and denim instead of a cape, searching for the princess who left her
helmet at the patch-over gala.
    A monster.
    A devil.
    A man who made
my heart pound in terror and crash against my chest with the secrets I sang
only in songs.
    “Sit.”
    It wasn’t a
request. He didn’t stand or pull the chair out. He didn’t wave a friendly hand.
Didn’t smile.
    My refusal
tasted so good on my tongue I decided to keep it clenched between my teeth. Better
to let Thorne think he intimidated me than reveal the desperation simmering in
my silence.
    I slid across
from him. Close enough to study the worn scratches on his vest, to sense the
strength resting within his stretched-taut shirt, and to savor the baritone of
his voice harmonizing in my thoughts.
    The quiet broke
me. I didn’t have the courage to stare him down, but I had more pride than to
lower my head and allow his appraisal. The breathy whisper was not the pitch I
wanted, but, cast upon his altar, it was fortunate I didn’t simply scream.
    “What do you
expect from me?”
    Thorne’s gaze
shifted over my body. “What are you offering?”
    I swallowed. “Nothing.”
    “What a
bargain.”
    “You wanted me
here. I’m here.”
    “Your brothers
were very prompt.”
    I savored a
particularly harsh remark and tucked it deep within my chest. “They kicked my
door in, packed my bags, and dragged me here.”
    The twitching of
his lip was a remnant of a smile that might have once been attractive—before
the prison term and the violence, the responsibilities of the club and the
retaliation that consumed his every desecrated breath.
    “They always
were