Archangels MC: A Reverse Harem Romance (Bad Influence Book 2) Read online

  Fuck!

  If he thinks the girl was raped, then…

  Shit! I don’t even want to think about things like that. I don’t think deep. Hate to give bad things power, but just the idea of someone I loved dearly being assaulted that way makes me want to gag. And if Gabe is toying with the idea, he knows it’s a damned possibility.

  “Like I said, she has some banged up ribs. By the looks of her, she’s lucky she doesn’t have any other bones broken, too. But the assholes didn’t touch her anywhere else, as far as I can tell. At least not this time,” Aurora spells out for Gabriel in the calmest manner she can. Brother just nods in understanding.

  “I’m going to take some bloodwork to the hospital and do some further checks. She’s going to need a lot of care, especially while her fever is as high as it is. She’ll need bed rest, and since you’re offering this one to her, I don’t want her to leave it until you have my okay. I can leave a list of instructions on how to take care of her. You up for helping me out with all of this, darling?” Aurora asks him sweetly, and he follows her out without another word or look back at us.

  “Whoever it was didn’t think she’d live to see another day,” Michael murmurs under his breath. “Maybe Aurora is right and this isn’t club-related. Just some sicko who gets his kicks beating up defenseless women.”

  “We’ll see. And if that’s the case, then it’s a good thing for her to stay hidden here, too. Don’t want the monster who did this to her to know she’s still alive and kicking. She’ll recover, and tell us who we need to pay a visit to on her behalf,” Uri says.

  “You heard the doc, though. Girl is going to need a whole bunch of care. Maybe we could move her to the clubhouse if the hospital is out of the question,” I say, feeling a little overwhelmed.

  “Too many eyes on the clubhouse. She stays here. Away from prying eyes and loose lips,” Uri deadpans.

  “Agreed,” Michael says.

  “I leave you boys to it, then. Text me when Aurora is done so I can send one of the boys to pick her up.”

  “I can take her home,” I offer.

  “Kid, maybe you haven’t been paying attention. The girl isn’t the only one I want to stay locked hidden away in this house. You three better get nice and comfortable up in here with your new guest. Until I tell you otherwise, that is. I’ll send someone for Aurora. You stay put,” Uri says, placing his hand on my shoulder and I welcome the pressure since I feel my whole world tilt on its axis.

  Not a few hours ago, Michael and Gabe were all bent out of shape about being stuffed in a truck and how confined they felt. Me having to spend the next couple of days locked away in my childhood home is just as stifling.

  “Welcome home, Cam. You’re gonna stay a while.”

  Chapter 4

  ?

  There’s too much noise in this house.

  Always so much noise.

  But if I stay quiet, they forget I’m here.

  Like a ghost.

  The other kids even took up calling me Casper. They think they’re teasing me, but I don’t mind. I want to be a ghost. Ghosts can travel through walls and leave locked rooms whenever they feel like it. They don’t have to be stuck in a place they don’t want to be just because they are frightened of the alternative. Ghosts don’t go to bed hungry or get cold when the weather turns. Ghosts don’t need to sleep with their eyes open, looking for any dangers lurking about. Ghosts are free from imposing man-made rules, their judgments, or pitied stares.

  But most importantly, ghosts don’t get sick.

  Ghosts don’t die—because they’re already dead.

  You can’t hurt what’s not there—what’s already gone.

  I wouldn’t mind being a ghost.

  Maybe one day I’ll be able to disappear into thin air like one, but until then, I’ll stay quiet.

  I’ll stay quiet and still in the corner of this noisy house. Practicing being the ghost they accuse me of being.

  Until one day when they look for me, all they’ll find is an empty space, filled with wind.

  Chapter 5

  Gabriel

  It’s been forty-eight hours since this broken bird was found on our front lawn. Forty-eight damned long hours. Aurora has come and gone as much as she can, but her patients at Mercy Ge need her attention, too, leaving us three to care for our guest—me especially. Past experiences have given me vast knowledge on the matter, although the feverish woman before me looks nothing like my mother. I guess I should take comfort in small acts of mercy.

  Too many memories have been plaguing me as it is, with her appearance in our household. I feel Michael’s worried glances bounce behind my back, and Cam can’t shut up about how he’s here if I want to talk about how I’m ‘feeling’ with all of this going down. Both of them should just quit it already—the worrying about me, that is. We have bigger issues to deal with. This injured angel, for one.

  Uri doesn’t think it’s club related, at least. Feelers have gone out, and none came back with word about a beef with the club, or retaliation of any kind. So Aurora had nailed it on the head. Girl found us by coincidence, and in the nick of time, too. Her own angel was looking after her the night she showed up, bringing us to her aid. I keep thinking about what if we had stayed in the clubhouse a little longer like Cam wanted, or what if we hadn’t come home at all that night from our run. She would have been dead by the time we got here. I’ve been afflicted with the what-ifs, a familiar symptom I had while growing up. What if he had come home that night? What if I hadn’t thrown away all the booze in the house? What if I hadn’t fallen asleep due to my own wounds? What if? My mother’s guardian wasn’t strong, but this woman’s is.

  “Hey,” I hear behind me. I don’t have to turn around to know it’s Michael checking up on me again. Of course, he uses the disguise that he’s checking up on the girl, which I’m sure is also true, but I know I’m the one who’s really putting that boulder on his shoulders.

  “Need me to take over for you?” he asks, leaning on the door frame. I recline in my seat and place my entwined hands on the back of my head, giving it a little shake.

  “You sure? She’s been quiet tonight,” he states, kneeling beside her bed. Now that the girl is cleaned up, you can tell she’s not half bad to look at, once you take away the busted lip and the ugly-ass shiner she’s got on one eye.

  “Fever’s breaking,” I tell him, and I thank God for it. Damn thing has had the little bird hallucinating like crazy, talking about spirits or ghosts and whatnot. Even thought she was meeting the Dark Angel himself for a spell.

  “Ah,” Michael replies, brushing her chocolate brown hair away from her face. Little bird hasn’t said a thing yet, but we are all curious as to what her voice will sound like. Michael continues to brush her hair, looking at the bluish marks on her arms and legs. Aurora cleaned her up as best she could, replacing her dirty ripped clothes with one of my t-shirts, which, on her, covered her body up more than that skimpy garment. But my t-shirt still only comes a little bit below her thighs, revealing the toned legs of a runner.

  You tried to run, didn’t you, little bird? But they still caught you.

  Evil always catches the innocent. You can run. You can hide. But it ends up grabbing you from behind when you least expect it. That’s why you have to flip the book on it before it has a chance to sink its teeth into you. Lose your innocence quickly. Lose misguided notions of being good. Turn yourself into something hard and mean. Something that even Evil will fear. That’s when you’re safe.

  I didn’t run from Evil, little bird. In the end, I made Evil run from me.

  Michael takes her hand into his and gently brushes her fingers with his own. It’s probably the first real touch of kindness that anyone has shown her in a long time. Aside from keeping her temperature down, and tending to her wounds as per Aurora’s instructions, I haven’t given her that. I’ve given her all my attention. My time, my every waking hour, but not gentle kindness like Michael is able to offer so instinctiv
ely.

  That would be asking for too much. I hardly show affection to Cam and Michael, and I love the bastards. I know she needs it, though. Give her something to fight for, show her there is still good in the world. That there are still people who are able to show compassion and affection without second intentions influencing their actions. But that is just showing too much vulnerability. Offering a red carpet for feet to stampede all over you. Even if hers are dainty little things which could hardly do any harm. Still, I’m not giving anyone that type of power over me, even if it is for the sake of kindness.

  She stirs for a bit, and my breath catches in my throat when I see her lashes start to butterfly open. In lazy little steps at first, as if she’s still in a haze of some sort, but the moment her eyes fix on Michael, her brown orbs maintain their focus. I lean forward on my seat, pissed I’m in the corner of the room and don’t have a closer view of her eyes, or the one good eye that seems to study Michael up and down. She licks her lips, and Michael quickly gets up from his kneeling position to grab the glass of water that is on the bedside table. I’ve been making her drink it every hour on the dot, but an unconscious little bird can only take so much.

  Michael helps her lean up from the bed and places his hand on the nape of her neck for support, while she takes her first sip. That’s when she sees me, and her brow furrows. My skin heats up with her blatant stare since she doesn’t seem scared or frightened, but curious about my presence in the room. She keeps staring at me the whole time, and even after she is done with the water and Michael lays her back on the bed, her eyes are still locked with mine. An organ I forgot existed in me starts beating wildly inside my chest, making it hard to hear, but I still catch her question, even though I’m not the one who answers it.

  “Am I dead?” she asks in a deep, husky voice, a voice I would have never paired with the broken little-bird.

  “No,” Michael replies, resisting the small tug of a smile to take form on his lips.

  “You sure?” she asks again, still staring at me as if she’ll only believe she’s alive if I confirm it. So I nod, telling her she is in fact very much alive.

  “Okay,” she answers, closing her eyes once again, apparently satisfied with her answers.

  Michael looks over at me with a smirk on his face, pleased with the girl’s little lucid episode. Me, not so much.

  “I’m getting some air,” I tell him, getting out of my seat.

  “I thought you said you didn’t want me to take over?” Michael asks, unable to mask his surprise about my sudden need to leave the room after our first exchange of words with our guest.

  “Now I do,” I tell him, and I leave without looking back to see his perplexed glare. The minute I step foot out of the house, I light up a cigarette, hoping the nicotine will poison away the feelings the little bird’s voice stirred in me.

  Get a grip, Gabe.

  She spoke two sentences. Two measly sentences, but her voice traveled through me like tidal waves, slapping each pronounced word on my cheeks, forcing me to wake up and see the imminent danger I was about to face. This meek, broken thing might be more powerful than I gave her credit for. I knew she had will. That was a given by the way she did everything she could to survive this long. I knew the heavens were protecting her; that’s the only plausible reason why she’s still breathing and not ten feet under. So she was strong. She had fight in her. I just assumed she couldn’t put up a fight with me. But one velvet word from her bruised mouth and her fever traveled away from her body to land on mine, each limb aching to ignite again just with the sound of her voice. My mind is a pool of conflicted thoughts, and I try to beat each one to the ground with a reality check.

  She’s just messing with your head because she reminds you of the woman you loved most and couldn’t save.

  That’s it. That’s all. Nothing else.

  But if she’s coming round, Cam and Michael can take it from here. She’ll want to talk, and I’m not much for conversation. She can talk to them. She doesn’t need me, not anymore. Soon she’ll be able to tell us what happened to her and she’ll be on her way. No need to be in close proximity to that voice again. I don’t need to hear it, or God forbid, have it call out my name. My cock stirs at the thought, and I inhale another puff of my cigarette, pinching the bridge of my nose.

  Shit.

  Girl needs to go.

  For her sake and mine.

  Little bird, get better soon. Because I need you to fly again.

  Chapter 6

  ?

  This house is so quiet.

  Always too quiet.

  I thought it would be better than being a ghost in a noisy house, but it’s harder to be invisible in a quiet one.

  He hears every move I make.

  He knows my every thought even before I have it.

  He lies like the best of them.

  I suspected as much.

  I wasn’t fooled by it, or surprised, even. I just didn’t expect this much of a torment.

  He wanted something pretty and quiet. Obedient, he said. He thought I fit the bill.

  Why wouldn’t he? I have hidden all my life. Made myself small so others could take the majority of the attention, and leave me safe and untouched in my corner.

  He thought I was small.

  I’m not.

  It’s just who I pretend to be. I pretended to be a ghost because that’s how I survived. And when I caught his attention, I grabbed onto it for survival, too. But I fear I’ve made a grave error in judgment.

  I knew my days were numbered at the home, but this prison feels far worse than the one before.

  Shy smiles and pretty dresses please him, but not as much as my blood on the floor does.

  I think I made a terrible mistake, and sooner or later, he’ll make a real ghost out of me.

  Chapter 7

  ?

  The light coming through the window is making it hard to keep my eyes shut like I want them to be. I try to move to the side, so its warmth finds the back of my head instead of my face, but I sigh out in pain with the effort. My frustrated huff echoes across the room.

  “You shouldn’t move. You’ll only end up hurting if you do,” a firm and steady female voice announces from a close distance.

  “Can you please close the curtains? The light isn’t helping,” I state gruffly, not prepared to make eye contact with my host.

  My whole mouth feels like I just swallowed a bunch of nails. I’ve always had a deep voice, but it’s coming out huskier than usual. I still have my eyes closed, but I feel movement in the room. Not a few seconds go by before the light is completely erased, and the room around me is in shadows. Relief runs through me when I finally sense I can open both eyes to check my surroundings without being blinded by the bright light. One of them is still sore, but at least I can open it to its full extent.

  First thing I encounter is that my room is far too bare. Pale yellow walls with one large window to the side, thankfully covered now with dark green flowery curtains. The bed I’m lying on faces an open door, and right beside it, there is a simple cabinet with an old-fashioned mirror on top. The room smells of mothballs and whiskey, a very odd combination. The duvet covering the bed, offering me heat and comfort, looks like something a grandmother would pick as her bedding of choice.

  But the woman staring at me with deep blue eyes is anything but grandmotherly. She’s wearing tight fitted black jeans and a purple sleeveless turtleneck. Her bare left arm is covered in color. She’s too far for me to define each tattoo, but the bold ink tells me enough. This room, and maybe even this house, does not belong to the woman next to me. Yet here she is, sitting back comfortably on a wooden stool, looking at me with inquisitive steel eyes.

  “Hi,” I say, not really sure what etiquette to use with the stranger before me.

  “Hi yourself,” she replies, and there is a trace of a smile on her lips begging to come out with my greeting, even though she schools her features to look aloof. There are a number of que
stions I want to ask, too many to count. But the urgency to express my gratitude to this woman precedes any interrogation I may have—a feeling which is as foreign to me as this room itself.

  “Thank you,” I tell her in a hushed tone. The two words seem out of sorts coming from me. As if they don’t belong, or have been hardly ever used before and I don’t know why it’s important for me to say them to her at all, but the need to do so is there even if it twists and strangles something ugly inside of me.

  She crosses her arms in front of her and continues to watch me intensely. I don’t like it. Neither her blatant stare nor the careful, impassive expression on her face.

  “Can I get some water?” I ask, trying to deflect her hard inquisitive gaze. She gets up and walks closer to my bedside. I don’t move, and continue to look at the open doorway. I hear her pour liquid into a glass and then her warm hands are on my neck, pulling me up enough to take in the cool liquid. Once it hits my lips, I establish just how thirsty I truly am and try to gulp enough of the clear water down my parched throat.

  “Careful. Not too much. I don’t want you making yourself sick,” she says, and this time her voice has a bit of warmth to it, not as distant as she was a second ago. I drink all she allows and fall back on the pillows once I’m finished.

  “You got a name?” she asks, placing the glass back on the nightstand. I feel my lips thin with her query, and my eyes seek a distraction, so I don’t have to focus on her questions—as I’m not sure I have the answers to, or want to supply her with for that matter.

  “You remember what happened to you?” she goes on, and I continue to make an itinerary of the things that clash in this room with the dark-haired woman to distract myself from her imposing glare.

  “How about how you got here? Can you tell me that much?” I look at the ceiling, and I am confronted by yet another outdated piece of furniture. A lamp fixture taken out of an 80s brochure, I’m sure. Yep, it’s official, this house hasn’t seen care in a while, and is in desperate need of a remodel.