Dark Souls MC
Author
Emily Dash
Reads
18.1K
Chapters
33
Ellie and Colt grow up side by side, building a family out of shared scars, loud engines, and fierce loyalty. As best friends inside a tight-knit motorcycle club, they know every look, every habit, and every risk. One reckless night changes the rhythm of everything, turning familiar comfort into electric tension. Ellie balances longing with fear of losing the only home she trusts, while Colt wrestles with guilt, desire, and distractions he never planned for. Club rules press in, danger rides close, and emotions run hotter than chrome in summer. When love shifts lanes, can friendship survive the ride?
Chapter 1: Fucked Up
ELLIE
“Get your fucking shit together,” I mutter to myself as I unlock my efficiency apartment door. Dropping my huge tote of notebooks, I practically dive for the bathroom, the door slamming shut behind me with a hollow snap.
The shower knobs squeak as I start the water. My boots thump against the wall when I kick them off while I quickly shed my clothes. I think I hear my bedroom door open, but I can’t be sure. Instead of checking, I pull off my rings and necklace before stepping under the scalding spray.
Once the hot water hits me, my face goes ugly, and tears gush, mixing with the shower spray. I curl into myself, covering my face with my hands, and stifle a sob.
David’s words rear up like they’ve been waiting for a crack in my defenses.
“You’re just so…I don’t know, cold? I mean, all the other girls I’ve ever done that to get off every time.”
“I just wish you had more enthusiasm when my dick is in your mouth, that’s all.”
“Look, it’s probably just me being weird, okay? I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it eventually.”
“I’m not saying I hate it! I’m just saying you could be more open to trying other things, that’s all.”
That’s all. He ended almost every criticism with “that’s all,” and I had sat there like some stupid fucking kicked puppy, almost hyperventilating, thinking I had fucked everything up.
The anxiety of being left by David was an uncomfortable weight on my chest. I’m apparently terrible at sex or any type of sexual activity, at least according to David. So, on top of feeling inadequate emotionally, I felt the sting of knowing I was obviously shitty at making someone else physically feel good too.
It’s not logical. It never fucking is. If I were being logical, then I’d realize that David isn’t the prize catch he likes to think he is. Wasn’t I seriously considering breaking up with him only a week ago? But now that the tables are turned, I’m the one on the back foot, wondering what the fuck my problem is.
So what are the facts as I know them?
David is in my league. He’s attractive, but not like Colt or Brick are attractive. He’s employed at a tech firm, makes decent money, and for the last several months, I thought things were going great between us.
Until tonight. Until we were on his couch, and I was trying to go down on him when he stopped me.
He stopped me mid-bob, put his still-hard dick back in his pants, pulled me up to sit on the couch, and then proceeded to explain why he wasn’t getting into it. What he felt I could have done better, and then he brought up other stuff we’d done and how he didn’t think those times were all that great either.
When he went down on me, he could tell I was faking my orgasm. He wasn’t trying to brag, but he always got great compliments on his ability to get women off with his mouth.
Okay, so he didn’t get me off without an assist. I usually had to help him out, but I had precisely two other sexual partners, and neither of them ever complained when I did that. In fact, Seth said he thought it was hot.
I lean against the tile wall, and my knees go shaky, so I slide down until I’m sitting under the spray.
Then the cherry on my shit cream cone of a day was when he brought up the anal thing again.
Ugh. Just no.
David pressed that I’d enjoy it if I let him “ease me into it.” He had special lube, and he’d work me up “so good I’d be begging for it” in no time. At that point, I was pretty much struck mute. I couldn’t handle it. My hands were shaking. I knew no blood was in my face anymore, and I felt like I might vomit.
So, I did what I do best. I ran. I got the motherfucking hell out of there.
Initially, in the car, I was in a state of shock, which morphed into righteous anger.
How fucking dare he?
I managed to hold on to that for all of five minutes, after which I slipped down into total mortification and insecurity.
Am I really that bad? Am I doing something wrong? Do I masturbate too much? I mean, I live with hot bikers. I see them every day, and while their personalities left a lot to be desired, the eye candy is enough to drive any woman’s libido into overdrive.
Of course, I relieved the pressure when it got too high. It’s not like I had time for relationships or the balls to pick up random guys and bring them back here for one-night stands. Not to mention, if I tried, Colt would have an aneurysm.
And that was the real crux of my issue.
Coltrain Shepherd. My foster care nemesis turned best friend.
Colt, who stood just over six feet tall and had luscious, dark auburn hair that he wore shaggy, displaying the best set of curls I’d die to have on my own head; long, thick eyelashes—that honestly were not fucking fair either—and bright brown eyes that put you at ease.
Over the last seven years, he’d joined the Army, served five years, the last three as Special Forces, and somehow, the Army had turned him from a scarecrow into a bulky stack of muscled hotness.
He knows all my secrets. When you bond in foster care, it sticks with you. When he left for the Army, I’d stayed in touch weekly. I wrote him in basic and then again when he was in AIT. I wrote to him when they sent him to Germany, then when he was deployed to Afghanistan. All three tours. He called me every chance he got.
Colt is the reason I was able to afford community college. He helped me pay tuition to get my degree. When he was stationed at Carson before he got out, he had driven his big Ford F250 to Illinois and helped me move my shit back with him.
When he joined Dark Souls, he talked me up to Brick about being their accountant, which didn’t take much convincing. All those care packages I sent with snacks and hygiene products had been shared. Brick, Colt, Nash, and Rooster had all been in Afghanistan together.
They were like brothers; I was the little sister who never let them down with a single care package request. Snickers? You got it. Five-pound bags of Skittles? They’re there. Special aluminum-free deodorant? Done. I went so far as to track down obscure snacks online for those particular “I fucking miss home so bad” cravings.
It’s all because of Colt that I’m even here, living in a kick-ass apartment with mountain views, doing a job I love.
Oh, and I’ve been in love with him since I was eighteen. There’s that too.
I mean, most of the time, when he’s not being a shit, I love him. When he is being a shit, I seriously think about it because he can be fucking annoying.
Ugh, and I know he’s out there right now. I know he’s in my room, waiting for me to come out because it was weird that I just kept rushing up the stairs and didn’t say anything to him when I got here.
He has this odd sense and can just tell when something is wrong. It doesn’t matter if I’m in the same room or an ocean away. Long-distance calls to Germany weren’t cheap, but he always knew when I was lying and said I was okay. He could always suss out when I was depressed or stressed.
The bottom line was, for the last seven years, it had been me and Colt against the world. He was my constant. My best friend. And he had zero interest in me in any other way. I was the little sister he never had. I was his “chosen” family.
That meant a lot to me when he would say it. It really did. But sometimes, it made me feel two inches tall because all I wanted was for him to look at me, really look at me, and see that I loved him more than that. That I was as desirable as some skanky sweet butt at a party.
Then, as soon as I had those thoughts, I’d shove them deep, deep down because how fucking selfish was that? I love Colt. I learned early on that no one you know, in any position in your life, is guaranteed to stick by you. No one. Not even family.
Colt is my one exception.
Before I make things worse on myself and he tries to barge into the bathroom, I wrap up my shower pity fest. I wash quickly and try to discreetly blow my nose without him hearing through the door, but I’m pretty sure I fail.
I turn the water cold in the last few seconds, dancing under the icy spray but holding my face under it all the same in an attempt to combat the redness and swelling my crying has caused.
When I’m out and wrapped in my robe, I realize in my mad dash that I didn’t grab a pair of pajamas or underwear, so I just shake my head and grab my brush before opening the bathroom door to see Colt sitting on the edge of my bed.
And he does not look happy.
