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Beast (Savages and Saints #4)
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London is everything I should stay away from. Sweet, perfect, and my best friend’s girl. She’s also pregnant with his kid. A kid who will never know its dad — because of me.
She spends her life fixing things … and I spend mine breaking them.
The woman has this whole messed up theory that she can heal me, but I’m not just damaged, I’m irreparably broken. And my love for her won’t just burn her this time, it could destroy us both.
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beast: a contemptible person. something formidably difficult to control or deal with.
Pain, unlike anything I’ve ever experienced rips through me. Shredding me from the inside.
What have I done?
Broken, I fall, gasping for breath. Night consumes me, birthing some ugly darkness in the deepest part of my soul. A beast that consumes everything I am, everything I was.
A destroyer created from my own sins.
Guilt twists in my gut, distorting truth.
What is truth?
It may be the greatest deceiver of all. Because in the darkness even our own minds deceive us.
Numb. Shattered. Alone. I finally emerge from the darkness, no longer the boy I was, and never to be the man I could’ve become.
Because from this day forward, I am the beast.
“Abbott?” A soft voice filters through my tormented dreams, drawing me back to my even more fucked up reality. “Abbott wake up.”
God, that voice, as sweet and pure as the woman who it belongs to, but it’s also a reminder of everything I’ve done, every shitty thing I’ve thought about doing. Because the truth is, it all revolves around her.
Every. Damn. Thing.
“Come on, Abbott.” Knuckles rasp on my bedroom door before I hear the handle turn, and a stream of light pours into the dark room.
I blink and meet a pair of wide hazel eyes that are filled with more concern than I deserve.
“God, your face.” London hovers in the doorway.
“I’m fine.” My last fight left me with a nasty black eye and a busted up lip, but that’s not where her gaze stays as I sit up and the blanket drops to my waist.
She sucks in a small breath and pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, those multi-colored eyes becoming hooded as they fall to my chest, to my abs, to my morning wood that’s only slightly hidden by the thin cotton sheet.
“I…uh…” Her cheeks turn red before her attention is drawn to something else.
The warm body that shifts beside me reminds me that I didn’t come home alone last night.
Something flickers in London’s expression, disappointment or maybe disgust, but it’s better than the flash of lust I’d seen there a moment before. Because London McClain is and will always be off limits. But that doesn’t stop my cock from reacting to her every damn time she walks into a room.
Even if she wasn’t my best friend’s girl, she’s also seven months pregnant with his kid.
A kid who will grow up without a father because of me.
“Who’s she?” the blonde mumbles, glaring at London as she twists to her side, exposing her perfect, yet undeniably fake, double Ds.
London rolls her eyes, and I see her jaw clench when her gaze scans the bedside table. An empty bottle of whiskey sits beside a small bag of weed and the newly refilled bottle of Percocet. And I can see the nurse in her ready to give me a lecture, but she snaps her mouth shut and just shakes her head.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my head aching with the movement.
Shit, I drank too much last night.
“Time to go,” I say to the woman in my bed, a chick whose name I can’t even remember.
Yeah, I’m that type of asshole.
“But it’s still dark out,” she pouts, the slur of her words confirming that she’s about as sober as I am. Then her voice turns to a purr, “We could still have some fun. Your friend can join us.” Her fingers slide under the sheets and I grab her wrist before her hand reaches its target.
“No,” I growl out, probably a little more forcefully than necessary.
London is about as likely to jump into my bed as the Pope himself. Not that I have any fantasies about the old dude, but it’s safer to think about him than London’s curvy little body pressed against mine.
Even pregnant London is sexy, but it’s more than just her body that I crave – like the selfish bastard I am, I want everything.
But I gave up that right years ago.
I reach for the pill bottle and pop it open, then toss two tablets in my mouth, downing them with a swig of whiskey. The pills are supposed to be for the pain in my shoulder, an ache from where I took a bullet six months ago. Scar tissue and nerve damage that will probably never go away.
London is still hovering in the doorway, frowning at me, fidgeting with the keys in her hand. Kyle gave her a set of her own a few months after they started dating. I’ve never thought about asking for them back. I know she comes here sometimes, sleeps in his old room, just to feel close to him.
How fucking twisted am I that I want her here? That I crave her presence more than my next breath.