Savage stood up slowly, still blending in with the shadows. Reaper and he had perfected that art when they were children, all the better to stalk and kill the ones holding them prisoner. Now, standing, Savage could better see Seychelle’s progress as she made her way to the bar. Anya waved her to the bar stool that Bannister, a regular, had vacated in order for her to have a seat. She was short, and her feet didn’t quite hit the floor when she slid onto it. Zyah, Player’s wife, sat on the other side of Seychelle.
The band members, Keys, Master, Maestro and Player, exchanged relieved smiles and then swung into one of their very popular songs. Each of them, in his own way, was a genius when it came to music and playing instruments. They were good—very good—far better than most bands, and it showed. They knew, as much as Seychelle was auditioning to see if she fit with them, they were auditioning for her. If she didn’t like their music, they had little chance, especially since she was sitting on the fence because of Savage.
He had eyes only for her. On her face, just below her left cheekbone, there was a small scar. Over her left eye, bisecting her eyebrow, there was another one. Those belonged to him. They were so small, no one would notice them, but to him, they stood out and said something about her and the kind of woman she was. She’d gotten those scars saving his life.
He knew how to help her now that he understood how her gift worked, but stopping her from healing others when she couldn’t control the compulsion was going to be difficult until she was on board with it. Savage wasn’t the kind of man anyone said no to, least of all his woman. Still, he knew there had to be a balance—he had to give to her just as much as she was giving him. She hadn’t run screaming from him. She had the courage necessary to face him, to show up at the bar even though she was terrified of the choice she was making.
First her foot moved to the beat of the music, and then her head. She couldn’t help herself. She had that perfect pitch, and the music was alive in her. He could see her face light up, her hands patting out the rhythm on her thighs as she danced sitting right there on the bar stool. He doubted if she was aware of it, but it was sexy as all get-out.
There were eyes on her. Too many. He didn’t like it. “Fuck.” He whispered the word aloud. “We should have provided an armed escort.”
“You give her a choice? Did you try to save this girl?” Reaper asked, watching her.
Yeah, he’d tried to save her, but how hard? He didn’t know. But now he had an excuse, now there was her gift and what it was doing to her.
Savage shrugged. “I gave her a choice, Reaper. I told her this was my territory. Her house was hers. She threw me out. If she came here, she was mine. That was the deal. She came.”
He felt his brother’s eyes on him. Weighing him. He didn’t like that. Reaper saw things others didn’t, but the scrutiny didn’t matter. Savage was there to further his claim on his woman, and no one could get in his way. She made the choice. That was their code.
“You absolutely certain she’s the one?” Reaper asked, his voice gruff.
Savage’s fucking chest hurt so bad, the pressure was enormous. Just looking at her made him happy. He pressed his hand over his aching heart just to reassure his brother without words.
Reaper nodded slowly. “You need help?”
Did he? Savage was certain he was borderline crazy. His only hope was the woman sitting on the bar stool, who hadn’t once, not one single time, looked around the bar in order to try to spot him. He was going to have a word or two about that tonight, when they were lying together on her bed. Just the thought of being in her bed, of wrapping his arm around her hips, his head on her belly, hearing her voice in the darkness enfolding him in silk and velvet, was almost more than he could take.
His head hurt like a son of a bitch. It had for days—weeks. He had no idea what she did to bring him peace, but whenever he was alone with her, he felt different. Calm. Settled. Happy. Hell, just looking at her made him feel that way.
The song ended to the sound of applause. A few bikers raised their beer bottles. Seychelle slipped off the bar stool when Maestro beckoned for her to take the microphone. She was graceful when she walked. Her ass swayed invitingly. Her generous tits pushed at the very modest dark navy tank she wore. She hadn’t dressed up for him. She wasn’t wearing makeup on her skin. That smooth, soft skin on her face was all her. She’d enhanced her eyes, giving them a smoky effect, the same as the day he’d met her. He remembered that.
The band swung into a song after a brief consultation with her, and she began to sing. At first her voice was low, blending in with the soft beginning, and then the music and her voice began to swell, filling the bar with the promise of love. There was joy and laughter and then sorrow. Every emotion was felt through her incredible voice.