Home > Scarred By Pain (Royal Bastards MC : New Orleans, LA #2)

Scarred By Pain (Royal Bastards MC : New Orleans, LA #2)
Author: Crimson Syn

Prologue

 

 

Knuckles

 

 

The moonlight shone down on the marble tombstones as I wandered through the dark cemetery path. The tree branches loomed above me, casting eerie shadows against the light reflected above. My boots crunched on the dried leaves that layered the gravel. I could smell the stench of blood and corpses in the distance. That faint scent of death that seemed to permeate my memories and add to the darkness. A distinct smell that pervaded my very soul.

I came across the first tombstone, the name strewn across it gave me pause. The sight of my best burial ground brought back flashes of screams and desperation. A heavy blast of tear gas engulfed my senses and kept me frozen in my stead. I reared back the emotions that threatened to consume me. The feeling of dread slowly crawling up my spine as I knew what lay up ahead for me.

I continued along the path, pausing at the next tomb. Another friend, his name resounding in my head while the memory of his blood splattering in my face remained so vivid. The bullet had travelled through my brother’s head but missed mine. Sending spiraling into another memory of anguish and horror. The horror that I had lost it all.

The next tomb made me drop to my knees.

The name imprinted across it was my own.

Taron Brown: 1979-2020.

The memory of being stabbed in the chest hit me with a searing pain that caused me to double over. It was an unprecedented attack, one that left me staggering into a reality I didn’t want. When I looked down, a knife jutted out of my chest and chains were shackled to my wrists. The man before me had a sneer on his face that I would never forget. A nasty vengeful act that matched his evil ego.

Grabbing the back of my head, he held me still. I'll never forget the last words he said to me as he twisted the knife, taking the breath out of me as my life slowly started to fade away at his hands.

"This is for my people.”

I felt as the knife entered my body. One agonizing stroke as my eyes met his. There was no childhood to recall, no sweet memories to hold onto, just the cold hand of death reaching out to take my breath away. My soul was already promised to the devil, but I wasn't ready to go yet.

Before my eyes were the bodies of my brothers, piling up high as the flames consumed their pleas.

I screamed out my torment and the echo if it jerked me awake in bed. I wasn't fully lucid, grabbing the gun I kept under the mattress, I waved it erratically in the darkness. My breathing was labored as I got up, my PTSD slowly settling in as I walked the clubhouse, checking every room, looking into every dark corner, until I finally wound up at the bar. I set the gun down on the counter and focused on my hand, which was shaking as I placed it over the weapon. Having the gun nearby was my security blanket. I sat there for a second, in the dark, wondering what the fuck I was doing, while at the same time trying to control the panic that had risen in me.

This was my normal. Barely any sleep, and paranoid as fuck. Memories from my past haunted me. Death surrounded me. And everyone I touched wound up hurt or six feet under. Anyone I loved was either dead or had at some point in time, walked away from me. I couldn't blame them. I was a cold and cruel son of a bitch. The stronger you pushed the more I pushed you away. My heart had a cage of steel around it. It had seen too much bloodshed, witnessed too much hate, and my shaking hands had been a part of that.

It was best they stayed away. I wasn't the easiest man to be around anyway. The only one who ever truly understood that was Jameson. He was the only friend I had left. The only one who had seen through my bullshit. Being his Sergeant at Arms put me in the position to watch his back, and I'd give my life for my brother, no questions asked.

He was the reason I was still alive. The reason I wasn't in that black hole of a cell where I'd been left to rot. If it weren't for him, I would have hung myself a long time ago.

I know.

Morbid, right?

But true.

I pressed my hand to my bare chest, fisting the dog tags that hung from my neck. A grim reminder of who I was. Of where I came from. There was no retribution to be had. Just bearing the weight of every brother who I had lost along the way. Every family member. Every friend. My father came to mind and I hung my head as a tear escaped me.

He’d been strong willed, and he was as stubborn as I was. But he was good to me. He was the only one who had never turned his back on me. And I missed him.

God, how I missed him.

Flashes of the dead swept through my memories and for some reason I feared letting them go. Blaming myself for their demise. It was my fault. It should have been me, not them. I pressed the palm of my hand against the scar that ran along the middle of my chest. I could still feel the deep sting of the steel. Scars existed to remind you of how strong you were, mine, they only reminded me of all the pain. That’s what the Special Forces did to a man. If you fuck up, you numb that pain or use it, and you keep going. Keep on surviving. I just didn’t know how much further I was willing to go.

 

 

1

 

 

Dyanara

 

 

I stared up at Diego, his rigid cock in my mouth. “Ah, preciosa, you do it so good to me. When will you give me a taste of that pussy?”

I sucked harder, flinching as he gripped my hair, shoving his cock down my throat. This was the deal I had struck. A silent contract made with Diego Salazar, my brother’s second in command, that if I sucked his dick, he’d let me out of my confinement twice a week.

My body was the only thing I could bargain with. That was something I learned quickly being around the clubhouse. It was something that man had taught me on that dreaded night. Men wanted things they couldn’t have. And although I found myself forced to do this, I wasn’t giving them everything, just my mouth. I could live with giving them just that. But my pussy was saved for the man I who truly loved and respected, If there ever was such a man. If only my dreams would come true, and he’d come and save me.

“One day, te voy a dar esta verga-aaahh!”

He grunted as I sucked harder, knowing he liked his balls squeezed which would trigger him to shoot off quickly, and that’s exactly what he did. Dripping his seed down my chin and onto my very expensive blouse. Another outfit ruined, but it was worth it. I stood up, dragging semen off the silk as he tucked himself away.

I moved to open my door, but he stood in the way. “Just let me have you once, preciosa.”

“I already told you, no. This is all you get.”

“Men want pussy, nena. Come on. Let me at least lick a little. Get the edge off.”

I brushed him off as he tried wrapping his hand around my waist. “I said, no!”

He yanked at my arm, strong enough that I grimaced from the pain. “What will your brother say if he knew you had my dick in your mouth?”

I looked at him then, and I let my blood run cold. “He’d probably call me a whore, and then he’d cut your miniscule dick off. It’s your choice.”

“Puta desgraciada!”

He shoved me away, hard enough that I stumbled back and fell to the floor. I looked up at him, still smiling. “Are you willing to give up my pretty mouth on your cock, Diego? Or better yet, are you willing to give up your life.”

“You fucking...”

He came at me and I stopped him with my hands on his thighs, my cheek pressed to his crotch. He was hard again and I was going to take advantage of that. Because he wasn’t going to have that upper hand. Gripping him, I showed him exactly why he wouldn’t give up my hot dirty mouth. And it had nothing to do with my brother, and everything to do with the fact that he was the only one in this god-fearing place who was allowed to touch me. He was the only one allowed to defile me.

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