Twisted Road

One

It was rather ironic that Lazar "Keys" Alexeev had been undercover for three solid months and not one incident had occurred. There had been no leads to find. No criminal activity that he could sniff out, and he was excellent at that. After three months of absolutely nothing, Czar, the president of Torpedo Ink, his motorcycle club, had shut down the mission.

It sure as fuck should have ended there, but like an idiot he'd returned to that little nothing town in the middle of nowhere on the pretense of getting his hair cut. Then he spent time there he shouldn't have because he was breaking every rule Torpedo Ink had. Now he was facing the consequences.

There was nothing like waking up with a blinding headache in a coffin-sized box with holes drilled in it so you knew there was torture coming. Hands behind his back with idiotic cuffs he was out of in about two point three seconds. But the best-or worst-was he was lying on top of another body.

Female for damned sure. He'd know a female body if he were half-dead. His head was pounding like a mother, so it was possible he was close. He'd been close many, many times, and he was still alive. Mistake on their part. Bashing him in the head and throwing him in a box with the intention of torturing him later was just about the fuckup of all fuckups.

He took a breath and let it out slowly, almost afraid of checking out the woman lying beneath him. She was very slight, and that told him who she was. He'd known her for that first three months and had been coming back for an additional two-so five months. She wasn't his type at all. He preferred women with tits and ass and lots of experience. He didn't give a damn if they were married or not. They had taken marriage vows they were willing to break, so what difference did it make to him? Pussy was pussy.

But there was Lyric Johansen. She made no sense to him. None. Zero. Nothing about her made sense. It wasn't that she didn't have a figure-she did, mostly because she had that little tucked-in waist. The rest of her was tiny. Dinky. She wore clothes that completely covered any assets that she had. She was incredibly strong. She climbed boulders and did all kinds of backpacking. Alone. He'd seen her a few times in clothes she wore to boulder and hike, and they showed her shapely legs and toned body. Mostly, she hid from the world in baggy sweaters and far-too-big jeans.

She wore a cap or scarf over her hair. That didn't make sense either. He'd only seen her hair once. Just once. He'd gone to her shop early and had seen her through the window. She had the thickest, reddest hair he'd ever seen. Sheets and sheets of long, straight, glossy red. Not orange. Not blond red but a real, almost ruby red. He doubted anyone, even a brilliant hairstylist like she was, could get that color. It had to be natural. From the first time he saw all that red, he'd wanted to drag down her panties and look to see what she was hiding. But she was everything he didn't want or need.

Now she was lying so still, he couldn't detect the rise and fall of her chest beneath him. He knew that if she was dead, he was going to go on a killing spree to end all killing sprees. He swore under his breath and maneuvered his body in the tight space so his hips were cradled in hers and he could press his ear to her chest.

"You'd better be alive, Wildfire. If you're not, this dumbfuck town is going to be razed to the ground. Wake the hell up."

To his relief, he felt the slight lift of her chest beneath his ear. The relief was ridiculous, completely out of proportion for a man like him. He didn't care about much other than his club and fellow club members. Even then, he was more of a lone wolf than anyone realized, even men he considered brothers and his closest friends.

Women came too easily to him, and his body was always demanding he indulge. And he did. Sometimes several women in a day. He didn't care about them, and they didn't care about him. He was good at what he did, and there was mutual satisfaction-most of the time. Truth he never wanted to admit to himself nagged at him-sometimes he was bored out of his mind. Maybe lately it was more often than he was satisfied.

He didn't understand why he'd come back alone to spend time in the town. Spend time getting a haircut. Going to the country bar that made him grit his teeth at the amateurish music that was often more enthusiastic than on key. But he did know this particular woman was a pain in the ass, and he spent far too much time thinking about her.

"Wake up, baby." He moved again so his face could be directly over hers. It was hot as hell in that box. He didn't like that she'd been out so long.

He could feel the movement of the truck and knew they were on an unpaved road. It was extremely bumpy, throwing the damn wooden coffin all over the back of the truck. That hurt his head and likely would hurt Lyric's if she ever woke the hell up. He was a man known for being calm in all situations. He could explode into action when needed, but he did so thinking clearly and sanely. If Lyric didn't wake up soon and let him know she wasn't in a coma, he wasn't going to be so calm.

He bit at her chin. "Come on, baby, open your eyes."

Why the hell had she come running out of her shop to save him? She didn't show the least good sense. There were five of them, big mothers, armed and showing they were willing to kill him. Hell, they hit his head from behind with what felt like a baseball bat. Once he was on the ground, they kicked and punched him as viciously as he'd ever been attacked-and, sad to admit, it had happened often when he was younger.

The idiotic woman, not more than five feet nothing, had come to his rescue when she saw him being attacked. He remembered the determination on her face, the fire in her eyes. He hadn't considered that she had all that passion stored in her, but he should have known with her fiery hair and the hobbies she chose to pursue. She might appear quiet, but after seeing her play the part of warrior woman, he was more intrigued than ever.

And she'd saved his life. He had no doubt in his mind that the five men attacking him planned to kill him. She'd left the safety of her shop and waded in like an avenging angel, hitting the nearest man with a blow-dryer. A fucking blow-dryer. They'd overpowered her, hit her in the head, and he'd seen her go down before one of them kicked him in the head, and it was lights-out. He had no idea how long he'd been out, but he couldn't map out the road the way he normally would have. He wasn't too worried. Once they made their escape, he would find the way home.

He needed to ascertain just how injured she was. He didn't understand why they'd hit her so damned hard. She'd gone flying. They were going to pay for that. He was used to the members of Torpedo Ink having his back. They'd been doing so since they were all little kids raised in that hellhole in Russia, but other than those men and women, no one had ever stood up for him. It was unexpected. And puzzling. Worse, it fucked with his brain when he needed to be clearheaded and thinking about survival. His own survival, not some dinky woman whose fault it was he was there in the first place.

"Wake up, Lyric." He poured command into his voice. He was good at that. Very few dared to defy him, men or women. Deliberately, he feathered his lips across hers in a whispering, light rub, catching her faint breath in his mouth. For some reason, his entire body tightened. Hardened. Demanded.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Now he was so hard up he was going after a woman who was half-dead? In a coffin? A flimsy one, but still, a coffin. And Lyric, of all women. He tried to remember when he'd been with a woman last. It couldn't have been more than a few hours earlier, yet he was as hard as a rock at the first touch of her full, pouty mouth.

Pouty. He despised that kind of woman. Manipulative. Emotional. Whiny. Okay, he hadn't heard Lyric ever be any of those things, but those full, pouty lips gave her away. He had fantasized far too often about those lips wrapped around his cock. Which was insane. He was far too experienced to think she'd know what she was doing. He'd have to give her instructions. Tedious. But if he was being truthful with himself, he'd dreamt of her until he'd left Caspar, his hometown, and taken the ride to her nowhere burg, all the while telling himself she wasn't the kind of woman he would ever go for.

For one thing, it was obvious she was innocent. He wasn't about to waste his time on some untutored pussy that he'd have to expend energy trying to teach. Worse, she'd fall apart after and expect him to stick around. Innocents were off the table. He didn't have much of a code when it came to sex, but that was sacred. He'd never once broken that rule, nor was he ever tempted to-unless it was now. With her. And he had no idea why. She was worse than a pain in the ass.

Damn it. Why wasn't she waking up? The asshole who'd hit her from behind had used some weapon Keys hadn't seen from his position on the ground, but probably a baseball bat, just like the one used on him. He'd hit her hard. Keys smelled blood. "Come on, woman, wake the hell up."

Keys was born in hell and lived there for years, but he had been given gifts that he'd taken the time to develop. He could play any instrument and had an ear for perfectly pitched music. Truth be told, that was what landed him here. Lyric laughed often with her customers and with him. Her laughter was sweet most of the time, but when she laughed at-or with-him, she had the absolutely purest notes he'd ever heard. He found himself wanting that laughter just for himself-and she gave it to him.

He had a major affinity for wood. Any wood. He touched it and read its history. He worked with wood, building beautiful things. Just touching wood could bring peace to him, just as his musical instruments did. This coffin . . . not so peaceful.

He and Lyric weren't the only ones who had been inside that box, but the others weren't alive anymore. They'd been tortured and then died in the makeshift coffin. The wood itself was on the flimsy side. Whoever had constructed the box had done so with haste and no pride in their work. That was good for him.

"All right, baby, I'm telling you to wake the hell up." Because he wasn't a man who felt fear. He'd lived through too much. He was a trained assassin and had been since he was a child. He had nothing to live for, therefore he didn't fear death. But he did fear for her. The pain-in-his-ass woman who he couldn't stay away from when there was absolutely no sane reason to keep her in his life.

"Your fault we're in this predicament, darlin', so open your eyes." He dipped his head and locked his teeth on her full lower lip. That damned lip he'd spent far too much time fantasizing about. He bit down and tugged gently before feathering his lips over hers again, just to catch her breath in his mouth.

She groaned. Tried to turn her head, but he wanted to see her eyes. Assess the damage.

"Look at me, Wildfire. Open your eyes and look at me."

"Not yet. I can't feel my arms. At all. I'm afraid to look."

"Open your eyes. You were hit in the head, and you've been out for a while. I need to know how hurt you are."

"Suffice it to say my head exploded and my brains have leaked out." She murmured the words, a whisper of sound that sent a ripple of heat through him. That voice. When she was unguarded, like now, her tone played over his every nerve ending.

"Good to know you'll rely on my judgment since you're admitting you have no brain at the moment."

Her lips did that now-familiar moue he found himself looking for when he was with her. That dimple that made him want to trace it with his tongue. Lately, that had been often-too often. He'd broken every rule his club had to visit her, and he still didn't have a clue why.

"Why are you on top of me? I can barely breathe. Get off. I can't breathe, and I can't feel my arms. They're trapped under me. With your weight on top of me, I can't move them." Her eyes remained tightly closed, as if she knew better than to examine the world around her.

"You can breathe, and you're unable to move your arms because they've gone to sleep."

The coffin slid to the left and then pitched to the right, hitting the side of the truck's bed, shaking them both up. The road was even rougher than before. And steep. He felt her breath catch in her throat.

"That hurt you?" He detested that he couldn't examine the wound on the back of her head.

"My head really does feel like it exploded. And I'm hot. I hate that my arms are trapped, and you have to get off of me." She whispered it to him like she was embarrassed. "I know this sounds silly, but I have horrible claustrophobia. I don't like the feeling that I can't move."

That wasn't great news. "I'll get us out of here."

"Where are we?"

"At the moment we're prisoners, and we're being hauled up a mountain, presumably into the forest, where I believe our captors think they're going to have fun torturing us."

She squeezed her eyes shut tighter. "I can't say as I'm looking forward to that."