Riders Of Tyr 4: Absolution
Yazar
Adelina Jaden
Okur
468K
BölĂŒm
38
"I'll wait."
Those were the last words he spoke to her and he damn right meant them.
Dragged into the Riders as an enemy, Magdalene's wild beauty and striking blue eyes ensnared Runner's heart from the start. Bound by a vow to wait for her, Runner remained steadfast even as Magdalene left, haunted by her own fears.
Now, fate brings them together again at a wedding, where Magdalene must confront her past and the man who has loved her unconditionally. As passion rekindles and old wounds surface, will they find the courage to embrace a love worth waiting for?
Chapter 1
Book 4: Absolution
MAGDALENE
Heâs been at it for hours, praying. Iâm praying too. Iâm praying he wonât come again, that heâll get lost in his own ramblings and forget about me. Just for tonight.
Iâm begging for one night of solitude. Iâm curled up under my bunker, rocking back and forth. Not tonight, not tonight, not tonight.
âMAGDALENE!â
My blood turns to ice. Heâs coming. God doesnât exist. Or if He does, He canât hear me from this hole in the ground where Iâve been locked away.
Or maybe Iâm the evil one, tainted like he always tells me, and this is my Hell, my punishment.
âMagdalene!â
Heâs closer now. Thereâs no escaping him in this prison thatâs become my life. I hear his footsteps outside my room and I close my eyes. Tears scorch my cheeks, and I whimper.
The door is flung open and he steps in, backlit, shrouded in darkness. I donât know about God, but the Devil is real and heâs come for me again.
âMagdalene.â
I wake up soaked in sweat, stifling a scream. Itâs pitch black outside, deep into the night. I shake my head, tasting the saltiness of my tears.
Itâs been years since Salome found us, kicked down that damn door like a warrior angel, and beat âFatherâ to death. Years since my brave sister scooped me up in her arms and brought me into the light. Years since I was freed from Hell.
But every night, Iâm back there.
âFuck!â
I grab the water bottle I always keep close and swing my legs onto the floor. Itâs been months since I left Berkeley, and Iâve been on the road ever since, moving from town to town, leaving when things get too intense.
Iâm like the Wandering Jew, the one who mocked Jesus on his way to the cross and was condemned to roam the Earth until the Second Coming. Only in this story, Iâm also the one carrying a cross on my back.
I gulp down the water and head to the bathroom of this cheap motel somewhere in Wisconsin. The light flickers overhead as I splash water on my face.
Nothing can wash away the bitter taste on my lips, the restlessness, the itch. I can stay in and drown in the past, or I can go out, look for trouble, forget, feel alive, feel in control.
I grab my leather jacket and head out. In this dump of a town, thereâs only one place to find troubleâthe bar.
I shove my hands in my jacket pockets and let a smile play on my lips. And in the quiet of the night, I hear it. The ping of the phone Stig gave me.
A text. I grip the phone tightly. Thereâs nothing threatening in the text. Quite the opposite. Itâs from Lysandra.
Sheâs been calling or texting me every day, and even though I donât talk much or respond often, Iâve started to appreciate these interactions. Sheâs persistent, and sheâs not giving up on me.
And even though I try to keep her at armâs length, I canât help but feel grateful for her determination to stay close. I shake my head and open her text.
The wedding is next week. Thereâs a badass bridesmaid dress waiting for you. Iâll be waiting for you, too.
That word. Wait. The last word that man said to me. That dark man, with the eyes that smiled and the calm voice.
I heard the others call him Runner. He told me his name was Jesus. He even made a joke about it. Jesus and Magdalene. Straight out of The Da Vinci Code.
I wish I had smiled. I wish I had done a lot more in those few days we spent together. The days when he would sit with me, patiently, just looking at me, talking to me, waiting for a response.
Those days when I was fighting with myself, in a dark place, giving up on my revenge, blaming myself for everything that happened. And mourning Salome. And he was there through all of it.
He said heâd wait. Thatâs what he said as I walked away, and for a few seconds, I didnât want to make him wait. But I was a mess.
Iâm still a goddamn mess, and he seems like a fixerâa man who takes it upon himself to make things right. But some things can never be made right.
Another chime from my phone.
You remember about the bachelorette party, right? Itâll be fun.
âShit.â I shake my head, thinking that Lysandra and Vik could have timed their wedding for when Iâd be ready to face the world again. And maybe face him again.
âAre you playing, darling?â
I turn to the idiot who just called me âdarling.â Heâs a big guy with a belly thatâs only going to get bigger if he keeps downing beers at this rate.
âSure. Two hundred bucks says nine and eleven go in that pocket.â I point at a pocket hole.
The man and his friends laugh heartily and shake their heads. There are two things Iâm good at in this life. I can fight because that bastard of a father taught me how before⊠No. And I can play pool.
My therapist discovered that. Something about it calms me. I used to play for hours. Fighting and pool. Those are my skills. And if these jerks keep laughing in my face like that, theyâre going to learn about the former rather than the latter.
âOkay, baby doll.â He pulls out the money. âYouâre on.â
Baby fucking doll! I might just smash this guyâs skull anyway. I grip my cue stick and lean over the table.
I sense the man shifting his position to get a better look at my ass, and I seethe. I canât help but think that the men who invented this game must have envisioned a woman leaning over a table with a long stick in her hand.
What they didnât consider is that a woman with a stick in her hand is going to kick some balls. Literally. I focus and flash a menacing smile.
I strike the cue ball and watch as it makes the impossible sequence of hits, sending the nine and eleven balls straight into the pocket.
âIâll be damned!â
âThank you.â I take the money. âShould we end this game, or are you in the mood to lose more?â
The guyâs clearly wasted, and heâs got a couple of buddies with him. Iâm stuck in the middle of nowhere, in his town, on his turf.
His fantasy was to shoot some pool, cop a feel, and then haul me off to his pathetic truck or whatever and have his way with me. But reality had a different scriptâhim losing five hundred bucks, getting humiliated in front of his friends and the whole town, and me giving him zero indication that Iâd be interested in a roll in the hay.
âYou fucking bitch!â
His outburst is right on schedule. I struggle to keep my grin in check as I watch his anger flare up.
âFools give full vent to their rage, but the wise bring calm in the end.â The quote slips out unbidden.
âDid youâŠ? Did you just call me a fool, bitch?â
âSolomon did,â I reply, arching an eyebrow.
He looks puzzled, but itâs fleeting. He remembers his original intent and lunges at me. At last.
âGive me my money, you cheating bitch!â
He raises his fist to strike, but heâs too fat, too drunk, too slow. Itâs almost as if heâs right: Iâm cheating. But Iâm not here to play by the rules. Iâm here to play.
Too bad this jerk doesnât know how to lose gracefully.
I duck under his swing and pivot left, landing a solid punch to his neck. He stumbles backward, gasping for breath. I shoot a warning glance at his friends, but they seem to share his lack of intelligence, and one of them charges at me.
I snatch up a pool cue and spin, connecting with his jaw.
The other patrons of this fine establishment continue to nurse their beers. I guess in this backwater town, bar fights are prime entertainment. Theyâre getting a free show.
A show that not too long ago, wealthy jerks would pay good money to see.
The memory of Jack and his tournament makes me clench my jaw. That bastard. That sick, manipulative son of a bitch. That lying asshole.
Men. Theyâre all the same, always taking, always taking. Thatâs all the men in my life have ever done.
Not him, the thought intrudes, but I shove it aside.
I sense movement and react in time to grab a manâs arm, twisting it at an angle that results in a sickening crack. I toss him to the floor and turn my attention to the next contender.
âNo, no.â He raises his hands in surrender. âItâs cool, you won fair and square.â
âThe bike outside. The Harley,â I say, my gaze sweeping over everyone in the bar.
They all look to the fat man still on his knees, struggling to breathe. Of course, I think, nodding. I stride over to him, picking up a pool cue from a nearby table.
He looks up at me, terror in his eyes, and shakes his head.
âIs it me or did we bet two hundred bucks and the bike on that last call shot?â
He hesitates. I can see the wheels turning in his head. I twirl the cue in my hands, helping jog his memory.
And there it is! The light of recognition.
âUhmâŠyeah, we did.â
âKeys,â I demand.
He fumbles in his pockets and hands me a set of keys with a key chain that reads Pussy Wrecker. I grip the keys tightly and scoff in his face. More like wrecked by a pussy.
I toss the cue onto the table, leaving a few bucks for my beer, and head for the door.
âMy keys,â he whimpers. âI got my houseâs keys on that.â
I glance over my shoulder, pinning him with my gaze.
âGood. Report the bike stolen and Iâll just have to pay you a visit.â
He shrinks back at my words, and I look at the rest of the bar. They all seem hesitant to stand up for the loser. Smart.
I push open the door and head for the bike. A nineties Fat Boy for a fucking fat boy. How fitting. I climb on and insert the keys into the ignition.
Before I ride off, I pull out my phone and text back to Lysandraâ
Iâll be there.
