“Jack good with you, Kel?” Kassie asks.
“Absolutely,” I smile at Dani.
The voluptuous brunette is just about to grab a bottle from the bar when the sound of roaring engines cuts through the rock music piping out of the dusty juke box. The six of us trade glances as the sounds grows louder, closer. I open my mouth to ask about the noise, but the back door bursts open, interrupting my thoughts.
The men of Dante’s Nine charge across the bar, barely giving us a second look. Their faces are set and ferocious as they pass. John Baxter, the silver fox, is out in front. Declan and the wiry VP Chuck follow closely behind. Ollie, Saul, and Kip are flanked by the massive Frank and Teddy. And there, scurrying behind the lot of them, is a baby faced boy with messy brown curls and wide eyes. That must be the prospect. He is young, and very pretty. Almost in a girlish way. I raise a hand to them in greeting, but they hurry by us before I can utter a word.
“Shit,” Kassie mutters, flying to the front window of the bar. The roaring sound is engulfing us, now, and the glare of a dozen headlights blinds us from outside. “This can’t be good for us.”
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“I’m not sure,” she mutters, eyes locked on her men as they line up outside, “But I know it’s bad.”
I peer through the window as six foreign Harley’s roar into the parking lot, spraying gravel every which way. They descend like mechanical Valkyries, and my knees go weak. I can’t make out much in the glare of the harsh light, but I can see how tense the men of Dante’s Nine have become. Are we in danger, here? Are they about to open fire? And why am I excited by that idea instead of pissing my pants?
“Shit,” Dani says, joining us at the window with the three mamas, “It’s them.”
“Who?” I ask, impatient with my ignorance.
“The club I was telling you about,” Kassie says quickly, “Our allies who were there when Sam died?”
“You mean...the guys that Declan suspects—”
“Yes,” she hisses, cutting me off, “Exactly.”
I turn back to the action out front as the strangers’ headlights cut out. Peeking through the dimly lit night, I watch as six men climb down off their Harley’s. They’re all big guys, but two in particular stand out as they approach Dante’s Nine. The first, and older man with blonde hair gone white, steps up to John Baxter without fear. His eyes are so dark that they’re nearly black. The effect is eerie as hell. There’s a patch on his cut that reads, “President”, but you can tell that he’s in charge just by his stride. He’s as thickset as an ancient tree, and just as immovable by my guess. But my attention is dragged away from him when the second massive figure steps out of the shadows and into the light of the Forty-Five Club.
Time grinds to a dead stop as I take in the staggering man before me. My heart takes a running leap and slams hard against my ribcage at the sight of him. He towers over the assembled bikers, standing well over six feet. His broad, rippling body is totally jacked with muscle, and not the kind that’s been built in a gym. This is a body that can do some serious damage. The white tee he wears beneath his cut can barely contain his hard pecs, each perfect ab lined up along his torso. His body is perfectly balanced, not an ounce of muscle out of place. The man is a powerhouse, an unshakeable brick wall. And that’s to say nothing of his face.
His long dark hair is pulled back in a low ponytail. His full black beard, more like mane than anything else, makes his hazel eyes glow golden. He looks like some kind of exotic, wild cat—a lion crossed with the likes of Zeus. His strong brow is furrowed, his eyes alight with cold, merciless anger. And yet for all that, or maybe because of it, I can’t take my eyes off of him. He’s the most captivating, gorgeous, dangerous man I’ve ever set eyes on. The last thing I want to do is look away.
I scan his cut, and my eyes alight on the patches adorning his chest. The first one that catches my eye reads “Vice President”. But he crosses his thick, inked arms before I can spot anything else. I have to keep myself from gasping as his biceps flex mightily. I want to crash through his window and barrel straight into those arms. What the hell is wrong with me?
We can’t hear what the guys are saying through the thick glass, but anyone with eyes could see that an altercation is brewing. Words fly, fingers jab, teeth are gritted. All in all, it looks bad. Really bad.
“Fuck,” Kassie growls, “What’s happened now?”
Declan steps out between the two rows of men, holding up his hands in a gesture of containment. Kassie’s man is trying to do some damage control—that much is clear—but no one is having it. The golden-eyed god steps right up to Declan, asserting his few extra inches of height. I thought for sure that Declan Tiberi was the most physically impressive man I’d ever set eyes on, but I officially stand corrected. It’s strange to see a man as imposing as Declan be outdone. This dark-haired stranger is doing a number on me. How can I be so drawn, so devilishly intrigued by someone after once glance?
Before I can finish feasting my eyes, the gritty, beautiful man turns his back and begins to march away. But before he can slip back into the shadows, my gaze lands square between his shoulder blades, zeroing in on the back of his cut. I have to know what MC these guys are hailing from.
The air rushes out of my lungs as my eyes fix on a very familiar sight, an image I never thought I’d see again once I’d left my hometown. Emblazoned on the back of his cut is a swirling, skeletal form, its long fingers outstretched, beckoning me. I’d know that sight anywhere. My very bones remember its draw, back from when I was a teenager.
“The Devil’s Wraiths,” I breathe, as the strangers disappear back into the blackness from whence they came.
Kassie whips around to face me.
“How the hell do you know what they’re called?” she asks.
I stare back at her, my mind reeling. Seeing that sigil again was like spotting a ghost at the foot of my bed, and no wonder. It’s a specter from my past, a reminder of a time when my life came to a crossroads, and could have gone in a completely different direction. Of all the MCs operating in this country, the very one that I almost devoted myself to as a kid has resurfaced in my life once more. The Devil’s Wraiths just happens to be the club that Dante’s Nine are having trouble with while I’m here? It’s too much of a coincidence to be ignored.