Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 156796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 523(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 784(@200wpm)___ 627(@250wpm)___ 523(@300wpm)
With Cade as midwife.
As the story went, it was one of the biggest in Amber.
Not just because it was about one of the town’s most eligible and dangerous bachelors being taken off the market.
But because the most dangerous outlaw motorcycle club was rumored to almost completely take ‘outlaw’ out of their identity after the events that almost got this pretty woman killed.
And because it had changed the dangerous and ruthless man in question.
His entire form softened when he glanced from me and Gage to his wife. “Baby, that’s not a bet I’m complaining about winnin’, considering what I owe you.”
Had I not been claimed—wait, did I think claimed?—by the man dragging me through the room, the erotic promise in Cade’s words would’ve made me swoon, even though it was directed at another woman, the only woman he saw and would ever see by the looks of it.
But I was already claimed. And I was too busy trying to keep my thoughts in order and my breathing steady.
Gage didn’t slow his stride, flying through the room so I could only see the pretty woman wink at me before we were out of the large hall and heading down a slightly dark hallway.
“If you’re taking me in here to murder me, you’ve got too many witnesses,” I snapped, covering my unease at the fact that he was taking me somewhere without witnesses. And I wasn’t scared about him murdering me.
I was scared about what I would do when I didn’t have people around me to remind me not to jump him and let him awaken every single one of my forbidden desires.
“If I’m killin’ someone, I don’t give a fuck about witnesses,” he replied, voice cold, calm, and more unnerving than if he would’ve yelled. “What I do give a fuck about is having witnesses to what I’m going to do to you.”
My stomach dipped once more, and I would’ve stumbled or maybe collapsed altogether with the combination of the dark erotic promise in his words and the pain ricocheting through my body.
But I didn’t stumble because his grip tightened, keeping me upright. Then we were inside a room, the door slamming behind us, and his grip missing from my arm. I felt the loss in a way that didn’t make sense for a man whose presence I’d been in all of two times, and for someone whose name I’d only just learned.
He paced the room.
I looked around it while he did so, mostly because I didn’t know what the heck else to do and I needed to somehow calm my rapid heartbeat and breathing. So I did what I normally did when things started to spiral for me. When the past tried to wrench its way into the present.
I catalogued everything in the here and now.
Everything tangible, everything real, everything solid.
It was a bedroom. I guessed the large clubhouse had a lot of rooms like it, for the members who either didn’t have their own homes or needed somewhere to crash after one of their famous parties… or to do something other than sleep.
I pushed away those thoughts, or I tried to, but it was hard to do with the man my body responded to in such a strong and terrifying way. Especially with the fury rippling from him. The brutal fury that didn’t scare me like it should have.
It excited me.
I gritted my teeth and made myself look at the room.
There was a bed directly in front me. It was a small double, and surprisingly wasn’t ruffled and unmade. It was tidied, military corners, dark comforter, nothing fancy but still of good quality. There was a bedside table only on one side. It had a lamp, a battered paperback—that surprised me too, especially when I glimpsed the cover, The Road by Cormac McCarthy. To the right of the bed was a closed door that I guessed led to the bathroom.
On the left of me was a large dresser with nothing atop it but a large collection of books spanning the length of the wooden surface, held upright by two bookends shaped like guns.
Other than that, the room was empty. Devoid of personality.
Well, it would’ve been if not for the bearded biker pacing the room. With him in it, the walls seemed to pulsate, trying to contain his presence.
And my usual routine of stilling those treacherous memories and calming my thoughts didn’t work. Calm didn’t work with this man around. He killed calm and birthed chaos.
I found myself not wanting to be calm. He was teasing out a part of me that I’d hidden from the world and, more importantly, myself.
The desire to be wild.
“You’re callin’ off the cop,” he hissed, turning to stop and glare at me, as if he sensed that I was going to step forward, say something. Scream. Maybe try and get him to make good on those promises he’d structured as threats.