PROLOGUE
CALLUP, IDAHO
PRESENT DAY
PAINTER
“Fuckin’ hell,” Horse said, looking out across the crowded clubhouse. I paused, beer halfway to my mouth, turning to follow his gaze. “Painter, brother, you gotta stay calm—”
That’s when I saw her.
Melanie Tucker.
No.
This wasn’t happening. Maybe I was hallucinating, because I couldn’t imagine a reality where she’d actually be this goddamn stupid. I dropped my beer bottle, glass shattering as I stalked across the room. Everything narrowed, my vision fading to red.
“Hold on, son,” Picnic growled. I respected the hell out of him, loved him like a father . . . but there wasn’t a damned thing the Reapers MC president could’ve said to slow me down in that instant. That’s because the mother of my child stood in the clubhouse doorway, eyes wide and scared. She knew she’d fucked up.
Standing next to her was a man. A biker. Hangaround? He’d wrapped his arm around her like she belonged to him.
Yeah. He put his hands on my Melanie.
Except she wasn’t mine and hadn’t been in a long time. Her choice, so fuck her very much. But that freedom she’d wanted so badly came with one rule and she’d just broken the shit out of it. No bikers. Yet here she was with this cockwad asshole, some douche who thought putting on leathers gave him the right to exist.
In an MC clubhouse, no less.
This was a problem. A big fuckin’ problem. That terror on her face was totally justified, because she was about to witness a goddamn murder. And no, that wasn’t just a figure of speech. In ten seconds I had every intention of ripping the dick off his body, feeding it to him at knifepoint, and then jerking it back out his ass before repeating the process.
A hand wrapped around my arm, silently warning me—my president, trying to calm me down. I shrugged it off, tuning out whatever the hell Pic was trying to communicate as I lunged forward, catching the little prick by the front of his shirt. I jerked him savagely into the center of the room. A rushing sound filled my ears and in the distance I heard Mel scream. Then my fist connected with his face, sweet pain tearing through my knuckles as time slowed.
I love fighting.
Not just winning, but the rush of energy, the sweetness of the pain, and the incredible focus that hits when your entire existence narrows to one moment of terrible purpose. It’s primal and beautiful, and it’d never felt better than it did in the instant Melanie’s new boyfriend went down.
I followed him, pounding his face into hamburger and savoring the fountain of blood exploding from his nose. Fuckin’ cathartic as hell—his life was over. More screaming cut through the fog of violence.
Damn straight, she should be screaming. She should be fucking afraid.
“You asshole!”
I smiled, because from Mel it sounded sweet as hell. She’d called me an asshole ten thousand different ways over the years, ranging from enraged hatred to whispered insults between kisses. It worked for me, too. I was a total asshole, but for once she’d just have to suck it up and deal with the consequences.
She’d broken the fucking rules by bringing him here.
No bikers.
Simple, right? One condition I’d given her. No. Fucking. Bikers. All she had to do was keep her ass out of my world, because so long as I didn’t have to see her sucking someone else’s cock, I could pretend it wasn’t happening.
Not a complicated concept.
Arms came around me, strong arms dragging me off my victim before I could finish killing him. Then I heard Puck’s voice in my ear.
Puck.
My best friend. Puck, who’d taken my back for a year and a half in prison. I’d trusted him with my life inside, and I trusted him now. I should be listening, but I really, really wanted to end this cockwad’s life.
I shrugged Puck off, determined to finish it.
“He’s not worth it, bro,” Puck gritted out. Melanie was still making noise. Between us, her pussy of a date moaned and cried, whimpering about how he didn’t want to die. Yeah, you better beg for your life, bitch. “You kill him here, you’ll never see your kid again. Whatever shit goes down with you and Mel, you gotta think of Izzy.”
Fuck. I took deep breaths, forcing myself to calm as I stood over the man, staring between him and Melanie.
Had to focus.
The image of my beautiful, fuzzy-haired blonde baby girl flashed through my mind. Izzy. I’d do it for Izzy. I ran a hand through my hair, holding back the fire raging through me.
“Get him out of here,” I finally managed to growl out. Nobody moved as the man rolled to one side, whining like the little cunt he was. Fucking pussy hadn’t even managed to get in a hit. A distant part of me noted he wore leather with Harley Davidson patches, but no MC colors. Who did he think he was, coming to the Silver Bastards clubhouse? This wasn’t a game. “Get him out of here before I kill him!”
“Fuck,” Horse muttered, stepping forward to grab the douche by the armpits. A path cleared as he started dragging the man toward the door. Melanie shouted at me again, and I turned on her, stalking forward. This was it—I’d had enough of her shit. She wanted to play games? Perfect, because I loved to play, and she knew damned well I liked to play rough.
Melanie was about to get one hell of a reality check.
Picnic stepped in front of her, arms crossed as he stared me down.
“Not happening, son.”
“It’s none of your business,” I snarled. I was right, too—so what if his old lady loved the little bitch? He’d been standing between me and Melanie for way the fuck too long, and this little scene tonight wasn’t club business. Melanie was mine to deal with. There wasn’t a man in the room who had the right to say otherwise, including my president.