Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
But Prophet, or my other friends, won’t despise me for things they know nothing about, and since Clyde’s in the same boat as me... maybe a mutual destruction agreement could be on the table? I don’t need to like him to fuck him. I just have to meet him in person and ask.
“So what, you think we should run with our tails between our legs and show everyone we’re scared of the Butchers?” I ask, challenging Prophet with my gaze.
My motives may be wrong, but my reasoning isn’t.
Prophet groans and pushes back his hair. “We’re not scared, it would just be better to lay low a little longer.” He doesn’t believe it himself. He knows it would seem weak if we didn’t go. I need to twist that knife in harder.
“Let’s stop policing whether they cross our land too. Why prod the big bad Hell’s Butchers when we can just stay hidden in the woods? Maybe we should ask them for a fishing permit too? Just in case they have an objection.”
Prophet glares at me, but the message hits home. We can’t back down. Especially not when Clyde is up and running. And willing… potentially.
“Fine. I see how you’ll be voting. Better bring your steel-capped boots then.”
My prez isn’t happy, but fuck it. All I can think of is how Clyde’s pale blue eyes bore into me right before the roof caved in on us. He saw me, and thought to himself I would. That alone makes me so horny I can’t think straight, and I’m glad I’m in sweatpants. I don’t care that he broke my finger, spat at me, or set a damn bomb in our warehouse. I want him.
It can be our secret. I need to make him see that.
“Road! Prophet!” Rooster is yelling as he runs toward my cabin, his ginger mohawk flapping from side to side. “Molly’s giving birth!”
And just like that, we both get up to go and provide his sister with whatever she might need.
Chapter 4
Clyde
“And he stabbed you here?” A warm, slender hand dives under my T-shirt. I try not to stiffen, because this is the pretty girl Uncle Grizzly wanted me to meet, and I don’t want to offend him. Her touch is featherlight, fingers smooth, bony, and decorated with long red talons that now tickle the scar Roadkill left on me the night I can’t forget no matter how much booze I pour down my gullet.
It’s healed well, and while the flesh remains uneven to the touch, it’s the kind of injury I would have long forgotten if it wasn’t for who left it on me, and in what circumstances. I have dreams about the moment Road shoved his knife deep into my side, and in the reality conjured by my fucked-up mind, the smoke surrounding us is fragrant rather than choking. He’s watching me, wide-eyed, as the blade penetrates me over and over, sending electric sensations into my phantom body. It all ends in a gush of blood, and then I wake up in sweaty sheets, my cock hard as if I got off on the idea of this mongrel killing me.
I’m fucked up and no one can know this. I don’t even know if I’m gay, or faulty like a bike with missing parts. But if I’m broken somehow, I don’t know how to fix myself.
A warm breeze carrying the scent of the nearby woods weaves itself into my hair. The rally’s being held in a pasture owned by a relative of one of the men present. The people are mingling a bit, but each club generally keeps to its own bonfire. It’s unfortunate how often my gaze strays, seeking the hateful faces of the Vultures, because I should be paying attention to the touch ghosting over my skin.
The girl running her fingers over my abs is pretty, I can see that. My logical mind can go there. It’s not like I’m repulsed by her. But I don’t want her in the way all the men around me do, and trying to deny that would be useless.
For many years, I was able to drift, detached from myself thanks to my good friend Johnnie Walker and keeping busy with the club. And then that motherfucker pulls that long-buried lust out of me with his bare hands, eviscerates me, stabs his claws into me, and doesn’t even have the decency to end me.
If I never see him again, it’s too soon.
Too bad I get my share of dreams about him.
I’m getting too hot standing by the bonfire, and I want people to see me indulging a woman’s touch, so I fake a smile and pull my T-shirt off. Working out and rehab have been my saving grace. Might as well show it off. No one needs to know that some days I need to exhaust myself to the edge of passing out just to stop thinking about him and the things I would let him do if I knew for certain that there would be no consequences.