Vengeance

Chapter One

He was a bully.

Ever since his voice deepened he’d been mean and short-tempered. Mom told me that he was at a point in his life where he had to lose himself to find himself. I had no idea what she meant. I just … I just really missed my best friend. —Cleo, diary entry, age nine

Amnesia.

A curse or a blessing?

Memory.

A helping hand or a hindrance?

The things I’d forgotten and remembered had been both enemy and friend—solace and pain. They’d been constant companions, fighting over me for years. Amnesia traded my first life for a new one—with new parents, new sister, new home. But then the boy with the green eyes brought me back—showed me the path to my old world and a destiny I’d forgotten.

For eight years I’d struggled, always fearing I’d left loved ones behind. I’d hated myself for being so selfish—knowing my brain had deliberately cut them out in an act of self-preservation. I’d always wondered what I would do when I finally remembered everything … if I finally remembered.

I didn’t have to wonder anymore.

Even after the consequences of following a mysterious letter, the snake pit of lies, the confusion of blended pasts, the rough way Killian had treated me—I wouldn’t change a thing.

Those trials were a worthy payment for my broken memories. I was whole again … almost. I was on the right path to patching my life together and finally understanding it all.

However, as I stared around the freshly painted room, all alone and imprisoned, I wished that I was stronger, smarter. I didn’t suffer from fear or terror of what would become of me, but I did suffer regret—regret for not anticipating retaliation, for not being prepared.

Enough! Focus. This isn’t the place for stupid reminiscing.

I forced myself to shove aside worries. Now was the time to fight harder and stronger than ever before.

I’d endured one captivity: a caging of my mind with no walls or locks but with endless darkness and unknowing. Now my mind was intact for the first time in years, but I had a new prison.

I’m not bound by rope or chains, but I’m trapped all the same.

I sighed, smoothing Arthur’s black T-shirt I wore. Before, the cotton softness was comfort and safety—the perfect wardrobe to wear beside my sleeping lover. Now, it was vulnerability and no protection.

Locked in a room, stolen from Arthur’s arms, I was lost, lonely, and most of all bristling with fury. I would’ve traded everything I owned for the strength to destroy the men who’d taken me. I’d end their evil tyranny and pay them back for not one wrongdoing but two. They’d burned down my house. They’d murdered my parents. They’d tried to kill me. And most of all they’d destroyed the boy from my past.

So many tithes to pay.

And I had every intention of stripping what was owed and balancing the scales of justice once and for all.

The truth is despicable.

My eyes fell on the forged police report Rubix Killian had given me to read. He expected me to buy his lies?

Stupid, stupid man.

He’d done me a favor. His lies had set my memories free. I saw it all now. Nothing was hidden and everything revealed.

I’d never been a victim. Even as a little girl, I’d always fought and spat, inheriting the swift temper said to be the curse of having blazing red hair. Even when I was lost in the blank sea of amnesia, I put faith in my tenacity, trusted my instincts, and followed my heart.

Now my instincts were screaming a message I’d never heard before.

This will never stop.

Unless you stop them.

The past would forever suck me back if I didn’t deal with the men who continued to puppeteer me at their whims.

They have to die.

They couldn’t be allowed to live because they would never be satisfied. And men who could never be satisfied could never be trusted.

Arthur “Kill” Killian, my childhood lover and green-eyed Libran, wanted these men dead.

He’d plotted and schemed for eight long years to claim closure and payback for all that they’d taken.

He wants their blood.

And now … so do I.

My name was Cleo Price. I’ve had so many names. Sarah Jones died the moment I willingly embarked on this crazy odyssey—just like Cleo had died the night she crawled from a burning building. The FBI had tried to keep me safe until they found the true culprit of my attempted murder. But now Cleo had been reborn, and not only did I remember my upbringing … of burly men, cigarettes, and battles fought on the backs of Harleys and choppers … but I also remembered the glue forming our communes: revenge.

Revenge to those who threatened our loved ones. Swift punishment to any traitor. In our world, society’s rules didn’t matter. We followed our own black-and-white laws with no leniency and swift punishment.

And these men deserved severe punishment.

After what they’ve done to me … to Arthur.

Vengeance wasn’t just Arthur’s cross to bear anymore—not alone at least.

I remember what they did to him.

I no longer saw blankness when I tried to recall. I saw everything that happened that fateful night, and it was up to me to save him from his own self-loathing.

Arthur Killian killed my parents.

He pulled the trigger and ended their lives.

But it’s so much more complicated than that.

However, at the same time, it was exceedingly simple. He was innocent and I would make sure the guilty paid. I would ensure their wickedness was struck out for all eternity.

Sitting taller on the bed, I embraced my cold conviction and turned my thoughts to present matters.

How many hours had passed since I’d left Arthur bleeding and unconscious?

Was he still alive?

Could he come after me?

He’ll come for me if he’s able. I didn’t doubt that for a second. But I also couldn’t wait around for him … just in case. Don’t think like that.

Climbing off the single mattress, leaving behind the daisy-decorated sheeting, so similar to my old childhood room, I circled the small space searching for any weaknesses for escape.

I’d done this already when I first arrived.

How long ago was that?

And just like before the door was still locked.

The window still barred and sealed shut. Its pane painted black from the outside, obscuring all illumination and passage of time.

The only light was a bedside lamp just bright enough to read the police statement that’d sent Arthur to jail for a crime he didn’t commit.

Well, he did commit it …

Sighing, I spun in place. The room was a tomb with no way out.

I wished I hadn’t been so stupid. My recklessness had brought me here. I’d come like a lamb to the slaughter the moment I was summoned.

Here I was—at their mercy, while Arthur was bleeding and alone … possibly dead.

Stop thinking that way.

Taking a deep breath, I prepared for whatever came next.

Any weapons?

My eyes skated over the unhelpful bedspread and empty dresser.

No weapons.

Engine noises purred outside the blacked-out window conjuring ancient memories of being lulled to sleep by the grumble of motorbikes and masculine voices.

My heart flurried, stretching within the thought.

I’m home.

Gritting my teeth, I shook my head. I wasn’t home. I might be across the compound from the charred remains of my own house, but this wasn’t home. Not anymore. Not after the massacre and betrayal.

These men weren’t my friends. They weren’t my childhood saviors who I’d trusted blindly.

They were the reason I’d lived the past eight years in a different country. Why I’d spent my teenage years in foster care, and why my brain was broken.

Scott “Rubix” Killian had taken great pleasure in welcoming me back into his lies and treachery.

A sharp tang existed in the back of my throat—the residual effect of being drugged. I didn’t know what they’d shot into my veins, but its effects lingered far longer than I wanted. I struggled against the sluggishness in my blood, trying to keep my thoughts in order.

Don’t give in.

I yanked on the door handle again. Still locked.

Making my way to the window, I pried at the sill. Still unmovable.

Dropping to my knees, I tried ripping up the carpet, desperate for a weapon or freedom, but the threadbare covering was glued firmly.

Frustration sat like a vise around my lungs.

“Dammit!” Climbing to my feet, I ran my hands through my hair. “There has to be a way out.”

But there isn’t.

I had to concede.

I was locked in there—for however long they wanted, and there was nothing I could do about it.

Chapter Two

I was a stalker.

Shit, I’d even researched the definition to see if it was true. It was. I willfully followed, watched, and coveted Cleo Price. There. I admitted it. I was in love with a child. I had dirty thoughts about a girl who didn’t even have boobs yet. But that didn’t stop me. It made me worse. Because not only was I a stalker, but I was an addict, too. An addict for any glimpse of her, any sound of her voice, any hope that I could ever possibly deserve her. —Arthur, age fourteen

“What the fuck?”

I tried to sit upright, glaring at Grasshopper and Mo. “Let me up, you assholes!”

The room refused to stay still. The edges of my vision were fuzzy and the god-awful pounding in my skull wouldn’t give me a fucking break.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” My breathing was broken and short; my eyes burning with light from the diabolical fluorescents above.

Where the hell am I?

Where’s Cleo?

Rage battered away my pain, granting me temporary power. I shoved aside arms holding me down and swung at the faces of my captors.

My knuckles met flesh.

A bellow sounded in the square, white room. “Christ, man!”

The incessant beeping sliced through my eardrums turning my headache into a brass fucking band of horror.

I’d never been one to panic but I couldn’t control the overwhelming sensation that something awful had happened.

Something I needed to fix straightaway.

The door suddenly swung open.

I paused just long enough to take in the balding man with a stethoscope around his neck and baby-blue scrubs, before struggling with renewed determination. “Damn bastards. Let me up!”

The doctor inched warily into the room. “What on earth is going on in here?”

“He’s just woken up, Doc,” Hopper said, trying to grab my shoulders but unwilling to risk another fist to his jaw. “Ain’t got his bearings yet.”

“I’ve got my fucking bearings, asshole. Let me up!”

“You gotta do something, before he makes it worse,” Mo growled. His lip was bleeding, his nostrils flared in pain.

Did I do that?

The headache turned feral, crumpling me in its agony as if I were nothing more than a sardine can. Clutching my skull—finding bandages instead of hair—I bellowed, “What the fuck is going on? Someone tell me before my brain explodes out of my goddamn ears!”

My heartbeat clanged to one name. A single name siphoning through my blood over and over again.

Cle … o.

Cle … o.

“You’re in hospital, Mr. Killian. I need you to relax.” The doctor used his calm-the-unhinged-patient-down voice as he crept closer. Grabbing the chart from the foot of the bed and scooting backward as if he would get bitten or infected by being too close to me, he flipped the pages and scanned the notes.

I couldn’t breathe properly.

I couldn’t see anything in my peripheral vision, and that damn fucking beeping was getting on my nerves.

“Someone shut that thing up!”

Grasshopper ignored me, coming to the side of the bed and bravely laying a hand on my chest. “Kill, you have a concussion. Doctors said if you move too much before the swelling goes down, you might do some serious damage.”

My headache came back with ten-ton pressure.

“Concussion? How the fuck did I get a concussion?” My eyes flew around the room.

I wasn’t in my bedroom, that was for fucking sure. White morbid walls looked like a bleached coffin, while an outdated television hung like a spider just waiting for death. The entire place reeked of antiseptic and corpses.

Hospital.

I’m in the fucking hospital.

Clutching my head, I tried to gather my temper and relax. Screaming only drove pins of agony through my eyeballs and terrified answers away. “Speak. Tell me.”

Mo looked at Hopper, unsuccessfully hiding the nervousness in his eyes. They waited for me to explode again. When I didn’t, Mo admitted, “Eh, you were struck in the head.”

My headache tripled its efforts to turn me into a vegetable almost as if on cue.

Then … everything came back.

Finding Cleo after all this time.

Loving Cleo after all this time.

Holding Cleo after all this fucking time.

She’s not dead.

She was never dead, just missing.

They took her!

I soared out of bed. The wires, the sheets—nothing had any power to hold me in my wrath. “Where is she?!” Shoving aside Grasshopper with superhuman strength, I swallowed hard as the room spun like a fun house. “They have her! Goddammit, they have her.”

Grasshopper, Mo, and the doctor sprang on me, each grabbing an arm or a leg. I grunted, buckling beneath their weight. In ordinary circumstances, I would’ve let them win. I would’ve been rational and collected and listened to what they had to say.

But this wasn’t ordinary circumstances.

This was motherfucking war!

My father and brother had broken into my house, got past security, and taken the only thing of value I had left.

They’d stolen her from me all over again.

“Shit!” I screamed. “Shit, shit, shit!”

“Kill, calm down!”

“Let us explain!”

“Get the fuck off me.” No amount of arms could hold me down. Adrenaline tore through my blood, giving me a merciless edge. My vision might be faulty, my head might be broken, but I still knew how to fight.

They weren’t listening to my voice. Perhaps they would listen to my fist.

With no effort at all, I punched the three men in a connecting roundhouse, and tore at the IV in the back of my hand.

Yanking it out, blood spurted over the white sheets and linoleum floor. The stark crimson spread macabre patterns, whispering of murder and revenge as I launched out of bed, battling sickness and vertigo. “Someone better start talking.” I breathed hard. “Now. Right fucking now.”

Mo and Hopper stared transfixed at my bleeding vein. “We should patch you up, dude.”

Waving my hand, splattering the bed with more red droplets, I snarled, “Leave it. It’s not important. I don’t even feel it.” Strangely, that was the truth. There was nothing that could overpower the pain of knowing they’d taken Cleo. That agony was enough to drown me. Over and fucking over again.

I groaned under my breath as scenarios and horror-filled daydreams tormented me.

Please, please, let her be okay!

My eyes flickered to the door. All I wanted to do was leave. To chase after my rotten enemies and give them what they deserved.

Suddenly, nausea raced up my gullet. I stumbled to the side. Crashing against the bed, I gritted my teeth against the swirling room.

The doctor sidestepped, avoiding me as best he could. “If you could sit down, Mr. Killian.”

“Do what he says, Kill. Just behave for once in your damn life,” Grasshopper growled. “Let us explain before you kill yourself, you bloody asshole!”

A wave of brutal heat tackled me to the bed. The nausea turned to sickness. My teeth chattered as the agony in my blood came back full force. Having no choice but to lean against the bed like a fucking invalid, I muttered, “Why the hell aren’t you out there looking for her? She’s your responsibility, too!” The light stabbed my eyeballs as I stared at my trusted friend and vice president.

Grasshopper’s black mohawk hung limp, floppy without gel. His blue eyes ringed with stress lines and bruises. He swallowed hard, refusing to answer my question.

“Well?” I prompted, holding my pounding skull. “What the fuck have you been doing to get her back?”

“Kill, back up.” Mo inched forward, wiping at the blood on his chin with the back of his hand.

Hopper never took his eyes off me. “We had to make sure you would survive. Been for a ride in an ambulance, helped dress your naked ass into a hospital gown, and stood by you while you were given scans and all that other medical bullshit to make sure you didn’t croak.”

Pointing at my bandaged head, he added, “You were out of it. Talking nonsense; wouldn’t wake up. The doctors thought the swelling might affect your speech. What were we supposed to do? Strap you to your bike and drag you with us to kill your own flesh and blood?”

My fists clenched. Blood dripped from my torn vein, splashing faster to the floor.

I couldn’t contemplate that the two brothers I trusted above anyone had let my woman get taken. And then not gone after her the second she was stolen.

It’s not their fault.

She’s yours and you failed her, asshole.

This is all on you.

“Fuck!” I groaned, tearing at the bandage around my head, trying to reach inside and turn off the incessant throbbing. Why was I so weak? I’d failed her again!

The room swam; my eyes worked like a faulty camera lens unable to focus. “You know what she means to me. You know how damn important she is.” Glaring at Grasshopper, I couldn’t bring myself to be grateful for his loyalty or attempts at keeping me alive. I didn’t want to be alive if Cleo was hurt.

I deserved to rot in hell for letting her be taken again.

“We did what—”

I slashed my hand, cutting off his sentence. “No, you did what you wanted to do. Not what I would’ve done. You know damn well I would’ve gone after your woman—regardless if you lived or fucking died.” Punching myself in the chest, I growled, “That’s what I wanted.”

“Kill, what were we supposed to do?” Hopper snapped. “We’d go to war for a girl who would hate us if she knew we did nothing while you bled to death. No point in that fight. No one wins.”

I couldn’t see his logic. It was flawed. Ridiculous. Cleo would understand if I died while my men rescued her. She would expect such a gallant act.

At least she would be safe.

I didn’t want to listen to fucking reason.

I want blood!

I didn’t care that my ass was hanging out the back of this paisley printed apron. I didn’t care that blood dripped from my hand, staining my bare feet and floor. And I definitely didn’t care about the viselike agony in my skull.

All I cared about was Cleo.

The nausea faded and I charged at Hopper. In a jumble of leather and hospital gown, I pinned him against the door, threading my fingers around his throat.

“Mr. Killian, unhand him!” the doctor shouted, swatting the back of my shoulders with the clipboard.

I ignored him like a lion would ignore a flea. He was nothing.

However, the rush of energy, coupled with moving reluctant legs made me squeeze Hopper’s throat more out of support rather than rage. My vision blacked out. I blinked, trying to see. “How long? How long was I out?”

Mo slapped a warning hand on my arm, tugging me away from Hopper. “Let him go, then we’ll tell you.”

My brain didn’t feel right. The sequences of numbers I relied on all my life, the ingrained knowledge and intelligence I’d taken for granted was muted … faded. Missing beneath a storm of pain and swelling. My temper was fucking insane.

Grasshopper didn’t try to remove my hand. Instead, he stood taller, breathing shallow as I slowly suffocated him.

“Two days.”

My world fell away.

I stood on the brink of suicidal mayhem.

Don’t snap. Do. Not. Snap.

My headache consumed me until I felt sure I would explode into bloody particles and devour the entire world with my fury.

Letting him go, I staggered backward. “Two days?”

Two fucking days where my father could’ve done anything to her.

Hopper shrank before my eyes. “Rubix took her about fifty hours ago.”

I shook. Fuck, I shook.

“Fifty hours?” I couldn’t do anything but repeat him. It was all I could do to force English through my lips and not revert to primitive grunts and growls.

I wasn’t human. I was an animal. An animal drooling at the thought of tearing my enemies limb from limb for what they’d done.

“Why was I out for so long?”

Mo answered, “They hit you a few times over the head with a baseball bat. The scans showed—”

“The PET, MRI, and CT scans all came back conclusive,” the doctor jumped in.

I’d completely forgotten he was still there.

“You have a hairline fracture in your skull and heavy swelling on the prefrontal cortex.”

I turned my attention to the man severely pissing me off. I didn’t want to hear what happened to me. Didn’t he get it? None of that fucking mattered!

“We kept you in an induced coma for thirty-six hours, hoping the swelling would recede to acceptable levels.”

“You. Did. What?” My heartbeat exploded. “You kept me fucking drugged when my woman is out there with men who won’t hesitate to rape and murder her?”

I couldn’t fucking believe this shit.

“You need to get back into bed, Mr. Killian. The swelling hasn’t decreased as much as I’d hoped. Your rage is a side effect of your injury. The prefrontal cortex is in charge of abstract thinking and thought analysis. It’s also responsible for regulating behavior. I don’t believe—”

I laughed. “The bump on my fucking head isn’t the cause of my behavior; it’s because my woman is missing.”

Mo placed himself in front of the doctor. “Kill, this is serious. If you don’t let yourself heal, you might suffer long-term effects.”

“Yes, like … eh …” The doctor scrambled. “Your normal reactions and moral judgments might be impaired. Choices between right and wrong could be compromised. You won’t be as quick to predict probable outcomes. The prefrontal cortex governs social, emotional, and sexual urges.”

“I don’t fucking care!” I roared. “All I care about is getting her safe. Healing can come later.”

“But you might not heal correctly if you damage yourself further!” the doctor yelled, finally finding some balls. “I refuse to sign you out until you are well. You’re my patient. Your recovery is on my conscience!”

Putting one bare foot in front of the other, I shoved aside Mo and towered over the doctor. “Listen to me, and listen good. I am no longer your patient. I can take care of my fucking self and if that means I damage myself in order to save her, then so be it.” Bending so our eyes were level, I glowered into his mousy brown ones. “Get it?”

He swallowed. “Fine. I’ll let you leave. But you’ll sign a waiver saying you refused treatment in case you become a damn vegetable.” In a flurry of blue scrubs, he dumped the clipboard on my abandoned bed and shot out of the room.

“Kill, you really should stay. Everything depends on you and that genius brain of yours. How will you run the Club, the trades—shit the whole fucking operation if you can’ t—”

I snarled, “Shut it, Hopper. This is the way it has to be. I won’t waste another moment arguing when Dagger Rose has my woman.”

Mo sighed. “Despite what you think of us, we did send a couple of men to the compound to spy and report back. They say they’ve seen her. She’s alive and unharmed, Kill. You could afford to heal and let us take care of this.”

That didn’t make me calm down. If anything, it made me worse.

I couldn’t speak. I only glared. It was enough for Mo to shut his hole and nod.

My father had Cleo.

The same fucking father who’d orchestrated an entire murder, sent me to life imprisonment, and left my lover to burn.

I’ll fucking kill him.

Screw my plans. Screw my vengeance. I wanted his soul. And I wanted it now.

The heart monitor squealed as my pulse skyrocketed with another dose of adrenaline. Reaching down the front of my hospital gown, I ripped off the sticky sensors and threw them on the floor. “Call reinforcements. The entire crew. We’re going after her.”

Grasshopper grabbed my elbow as I swayed a little to the side. The room faded in and out, an irritating fog consuming my vision. As much as I hated to admit it, the doc was right. The ease and supercharged highway of my thoughts was blocked and faulty.

I wasn’t myself.

But it didn’t matter.

“Kill, seriously, man, you’re not in a condition—”

I shoved Grasshopper away. “He’s hurt me for the last time. This time there will be no elaborate schemes, no long-winded plans to destroy him piece by piece. This time … I want his head at my feet, his blood on my face, and his soul hurtling toward hell.” Pointing a finger at Hopper’s chest, I said coldly, “Don’t try to stop me. You’ll lose.”

Hopper nodded. “What do you want to do?”

I know exactly what to do.

My lips stretched over my teeth. “We kill them, of course. Slowly, painfully. I want them to scream.”

Chapter Three

We climbed on the roof of the Clubhouse again tonight.

We ignored our parents and stargazed until the bugs drove us inside. Lying beside him, discussing Orion’s Belt and the Milky Way, I’d never felt so close to him. When we’re up there, we aren’t boy and girl or neighbors or even friends. We’re infinite … just like the stars shining upon us. —Cleo, diary entry, age twelve

More time passed.

How much, I had no idea. There was no way to tell.

Hunger twisted my stomach, my head ached from dehydration, and my bladder was uncomfortably full.

I’d investigated until I’d memorized the pattern in the brown carpet and become best friends with every streak in the terribly painted walls. There wasn’t a rusty nail, paperclip, or even a pencil to turn into a weapon.

Nothing.

No tool to pick a lock or phone to call for help.

But I had a more pressing problem: I couldn’t stand another moment without a bathroom.

As much as I didn’t want to bring attention to myself, I had no choice.

Swinging my legs from the bed, I stomped over to the door and banged on it. “Hey!”

I paused, straining my ears for any movement outside.

Only silence returned.

I hammered again. “I need the bathroom!”

My mind left the confines of the room and traveled through the house that I’d been in so many times as a child. Would it still look the same? The Killian household wasn’t big: three bedrooms all joined by a short narrow corridor with one bathroom in the middle. The lounge was open plan with a kitchen where Art and I would spend many hours watching his mom bake and complete our homework.

My heart punctured with daggers.

Please, let him be okay.

He’s okay. He has to be.

And if he was okay, I had no doubt he would come for me.

He might already be on his way.

I just had to stay hopeful and strong and bide my time until Kill, the president of Pure Corruption, cutthroat killer, and hardass protector, came for me.

It would be a bloodbath.

Pressing my forehead on the door, I knocked as loud as my knuckles would let me. “Someone let me out of here!”

Silence.

“Are you awake, Buttercup?”

My eyes snapped open, staring directly into the soulless gaze of Rubix Killian. I winced at the pain in my bladder and the weakness of hunger.

He smirked, leaning against the door frame. “Did you still need the toilet or did the past hour push you to the breaking point?”

Sitting upright, I gritted my teeth. “If you’re asking if I disgraced myself, then you’ll be unhappy to know I haven’t.” Standing, I hissed, “Let me use the bathroom.”

He chuckled. “Still so high and mighty. Always giving demands as if I have to obey.” Pushing off the door frame, he came forward in creaking leather and smoke. “You’re not the princess around here anymore, Cleo.”

Cocking my chin, I didn’t back down. This was a man I’d been raised with as an uncle. The vice president of Dagger Rose and best friend to my father. My temper banded around me until I throbbed with the urge to make him pay. “We trusted you. I loved you. How could you be so cruel?”

He grinned. “Who’s to say I’m cruel? Your father didn’t see the potential of what our brotherhood could be. He was weak … and there ain’t no room for weakness in our Club.”

“There’s no room for liars or murderers, either.”

Rubix lost the gloating glint in his eye, replacing it with rage. “Tell that to my fucking son.”

I shot forward and slapped him.

We both gasped at the same time.

My brain transmitted the message to cause bodily harm without being filtered by rationality. My palm stung from connecting with his scruffy five-o’clock shadow.

His green eyes narrowed as he grabbed my wrist, jerking me painfully close. “You shouldn’t have done that, Buttercup.”

My stomach turned inside out with revulsion.

My nickname. It was blasphemy on his tongue.

My hands curled. “Don’t ever call me Buttercup. You lost that right years ago.”

“I can call you whatever the fuck I like.”

Asshole.

“Why did you frame your son? What did he possibly do to deserve his own father betraying him?”

Rubix turned from rage to savagery. “Don’t talk about that motherfucker in my presence.” Dragging me forward, he carted me from my prison and threw me into the bathroom two doors down—exactly as I remembered it.

“You have three minutes.”

He slammed the door.

I had no doubt he meant I had precisely three minutes. He’d always been a Nazi when it came to time. Tardiness was as much an affront to him as disobeying a command or spilling brotherhood secrets.

Turning to stare at the bathroom, I pursed my lips. The grout between the tiles was blackened, the shower curtain covered in grime, and the toilet filthy. The air was rank with mildew and smelly drains.

Who lived here? Was it just Rubix and his second son, or had he patched in more members and shared his home? I remembered the layout of the compound from when Arthur and I would explore from fence to fence. The piece of land had approximately twenty homes all dotted in an ever-widening circle. But the Clubhouse and my parents’ home had been the crown right in the center.

Quickly relieving my bladder, I splashed my face with cold water and drank as fast as possible straight from the tap.

The door wrenched open before I had time to dry my face. Not that I’d touch his towels—probably covered in E. coli.

Rubix narrowed his eyes, his gaze trailing down my nightshirt-encased body. He smirked as he took in my scars—the scars he put there. “Pity the burns make you ugly, isn’t it?” He licked his lips, looking at my left side. The ink that ran from my collarbone to my little toe was an intricate mural of blues, reds, and greens. “If it were me, I would’ve covered up the scars with the tattoo. Hide your awful disfigurement.” His forehead furrowed. “Why didn’t you?”

Because I’m not ashamed of wearing my scars or from finding strength in them.

Yanking a few squares of toilet paper free from the holder, I dried my face and threw the wadded tissue in his direction. “Curious or just trying to figure out how I survived you?”

He ducked my missile, green eyes darkening. “Neither. Just making conversation.”

I snorted. “Everything you say is loaded with ulterior motives, never just conversation. Always has been.” My mind skipped back to snide comments over the years as I grew up in his shadow.

“You really shouldn’t draw that way. It’s not very good.”

“Your father sure doesn’t care about your welfare if he lets you walk around wearing that.”

“Jesus, Cleo, could your voice be any higher and annoying?”

Most of them had been said in jest, with a cheek-pinch or a licorice allsorts being given, but the desired effect never failed.

His words were the only way he could hurt me back then.

Now he could hurt me any damn way he wanted.

My father was dead. The men loyal to him most likely dead, too, or joined with Rubix under fear of torture.

I was alone.

My heart panged for Arthur. I didn’t care that I had no one to rely on—I’d spent most of my life that way—but now that I’d found Arthur again, those feelings of togetherness only amplified the echoing emptiness of loneliness.

“You’re right. I never quite grasped the art of straight shooting.” Rubix grinned. “Always preferred to deal my true thoughts in thinly veiled bullshit.” His nostrils flared, his eyes taking yet more liberties of my scantily dressed figure. “How about I forgo the veils and just tell you point-blank, hey?”

My skin crawled. “Fine.”

Tilting his head, he said, “I think you’re a stuck-up fucking princess who was raised by a redneck and pampered by a whore. You warped my son’s mind and used your pussy to divide my family.”

In a flash, he pounced. Shoving me against the vanity, he wrapped fingers around my throat, the cold porcelain dug into my lower back. “How’s that for the fucking truth?”

Tears sprang to my eyes as he squeezed my neck. My hands shot up to cover his, clawing at his hold. “Not … truth …,” I gasped, hating the way my larynx squeaked from being crushed. “Insanity.”

He choked me harder.

Our faces were so close, his nose brushed mine. It was as if he tried to wring me dry—waiting to see what lies and secrets spewed forth.

My eyes bugged, the pressure of not being able to breathe pounding in my head.

Then … he let me go.

I collapsed at his feet, sucking in air with loud inhales.

His large boots stayed glued to the floor as I panted and coughed and slowly dragged enough oxygen into my bloodstream to halt the screech of death.

Keeping my head down, I muttered brokenly, “What you believe … it’s not the truth—just lies you fed yourself over and over.” Rubbing at the blazing pain in my throat, I wheezed, “I loved you. You scared me and I always felt as if I disappointed you, but you were the father of the boy I loved. I wanted your blessing. I wanted to be a part of your family as much as mine.” Every word bruised my larynx but if I could somehow get him to believe me … perhaps I stood a chance at getting free without more pain.

A few endless seconds ticked past.

With each one, I tried not to let my hope run out of control.

I stood on shaky legs, praying that he would see sense.

But just like every time, he believed lies over truth.

Rubix’s face shaded with hate and disdain. Disdain that I’d somehow stripped him of his righteous anger by fighting him not with loathing but with love.

A love he didn’t deserve.

A love that finally died completely inside me.

He was no longer my uncle. No longer a father figure from my childhood. He was a monster and deserved to die.

His arm came up.

I twisted to avoid him, but he was faster.

His fingers wrapped in my hair, yanking me close. “Enough of these games.” His eyes flickered to my lips. “Are you ready?”

My heartbeat exploded. “Ready for what?”

Rubix smirked. “Ready for your penance, of course.”

His hair was longer, tied up with twine at the base of his skull. His leather jacket had streaks of rusty red from blood of his countless victims. It was strange to think as a child I looked up to him. I believed he would be there to protect me always … now I knew better. I was no longer blinded by young naïveté.

Every inch of me wanted to spit in his face. “I have nothing to repent for.”

Rubix chuckled. “Always were argumentative, even as a little girl.”

“Stop it!” Having him talk about our shared past infuriated me. I didn’t want to fight memories of happiness when I wanted to embrace the coldheartedness of murder. I was done with this production.

I snarled, “You’ve lost the right to talk to me. You’re dead to me, and soon you’ll be nothing more than a rotting corpse.”

For the first time in my life, I surprised the ruthless biker.

His fingers loosened in my hair, a sharp inhale on his lips.

My eyes darted behind him, down the dingy corridor to the small slice of sunlight bouncing into the lounge. If I could get past him, I could sprint to the boundary and escape.

I’d done it before while burned and bleeding.

I could do it again.

Rubix lost his shock, fisting his hand deeper into my hair. My scalp burned but my anger overrode any pain. “You really didn’t change, did you? You still have the same runaway fucking tongue as you did when you were ten.”

“You don’t scare me anymore.” I dragged my nails down the back of his hand holding my hair. The lie came out brutal and fierce—sounding truthful rather than a fib.

Rubix smiled, not flinching in the slightest from my scratches. “You should be afraid, pretty Cleo. Because unfortunately for you, your life just became a goddamn nightmare.” His breath reeked of stale coffee as he pressed a rancid kiss against my mouth. His fingers wrapped harder in my hair like an awful cage. “Don’t panic, little princess. Nothing will happen that you can’t handle.” He added under his breath, “After all, I want you alive.”

Chills darted down my spine.

My heart stopped.

Fear tangled with fury and I wanted to carve out his eyeballs and flush them down his disgusting toilet.

“Let me go!” Struggling in his hold, I kicked his leg. Hard. Extremely hard.

My toes screamed and I hoped to God I hadn’t broken them, but the pain was worth it because his fingers unlocked just enough for me to throw myself into escape.

I shoved him backward.

He stumbled.

A gap opened up between him and the doorway.

I was free.

Run!

I leaped past him and pushed myself as fast as I could.

Run, run, run.

I skidded into the lounge, tasting the breathy relief of freedom.

But it all came crashing down.

I didn’t get far.

A few steps, that was all.

Rubix launched himself at me; his heavy leathered bulk knocked me off balance and sent me sprawling to the sickening carpet below.

I cried out as my arm bent painfully; air shot from my lungs.

Rubix breathed hard in my ear, his body crushing mine to the floor. “You try that again and the outcome won’t just be a few fucking bruises.” He kissed my cheek, then climbed to his feet. With a savage jerk, he yanked me upright. Capturing my chin, he snapped my head back to glare into my eyes. “The result will be a lot worse. Understand?”

His green gaze glinted, sending me whirling into a sudden flashback.

“We have to kill him, Thorn. There’s no other way.”

I peeked through the stair railings, eavesdropping on my father and his vice president when I should’ve been sound asleep.

My father bowed his head, looking tired and stressed. “He’s one of us, man. Teach him a lesson but don’t fucking murder the son of a bitch.”

Rubix scowled. “He broke the code. He’s got to pay the punishment.”

I didn’t know who they were talking about, but I didn’t like the sound of it. Ever since I was old enough to understand, I knew the lifestyle we lived was high risk and often dealt in high penalties for disobedience, but I’d never witnessed or heard of people being killed before.

My tummy rolled as I tiptoed back to my room. I loved my parents, but I couldn’t handle hearing my sweet father who’d bounced me on his knee, painted my room my favorite buttercup yellow, and shared his desserts with me could kill someone just for disobeying.

“You’re not going to ruin my plans a second time, bitch.” Rubix shook me, dispelling the memory. “I’m through with you fucking everything up.”

He spun me around and twisted my arms behind my back. “Move,” he ordered, kicking at the back of my knee with his boot.

I bit my lip at the pain, refusing to cry out. My leg buckled, stumbling forward before my balance saved me from face-planting again.

Without another word, Rubix marched me from the house.

I didn’t struggle—what would be the point? I had to save my strength for another opportunity and this wasn’t it.

I blinked at the brightness after being in a gloomy house. The sun hung low in the sky. I guessed it was late afternoon.

Late afternoon.

It’d been nighttime when I’d been drugged and stolen from Arthur’s arms. I tried to work out if my abduction took place last night or the night before … or even before that.

It depends how strong the drugs were.

An icy chill coated my insides. If it was more than a day … why hadn’t Arthur come for me yet?

Because he’s …

I slammed up a mental wall, not able to think of him dead or gone.

Deciding to believe in miracles, I clutched blindly to hope. I visualized Arthur and his Club storming the perimeter and mowing down these men. I fantasized about him thundering in on his bike and rescuing me.

And if that doesn’t happen … then what?

I had no answer to that. I would just have to save myself—through whatever means necessary.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked as Rubix pushed me forward, forcing me to lurch faster toward the large Clubhouse in the center of the complex. My bare feet landed on sharp stones and weeds. Cigarette butts littered the pebbles and black splodges of oil-stained concrete pads outside small community houses.

This was Dagger Rose.

This was my old home.

To a child, the compound had been a treasure trove of magical machinery, gruff teddy-bear men, and interesting finds of bullet casings and dirty bandanas. Now it was just destitute and unhygienic. The aura of poverty and violence sat heavily like a rain-clogged cloud, shadowing everything with black greed.

It was the exact opposite of Pure Corruption. There, men had families, love, wealth, and a president who earned their loyalty rather than demanded it. Arthur had turned a tarnished lifestyle into something safe—a true brotherhood rather than a bunch of criminals.

Men appeared from behind closed doors, all watching me with evil in their eyes. I shuddered as I remembered the rules I’d been forced to recite as a little girl.

No getting caught.

No using the merchandise.

And above all else, no going against family.

Rubix broke the third one. He went against family. He murdered my family.

Hatred effervesced in my stomach.

He’ll pay. Somehow, I’ll make him pay.

Rubix forgot one important thing: Once a member of Dagger Rose, you were no longer a single entity. You were absorbed by the clan—a cog in a machine that ran on unquestioning fealty. He broke that fealty and owed his life to pay it back.

He’ll pay forever in hell.

The concept of individual ownership was nonexistent, as was the tolerance for secrets. Men ate, slept, fucked, and fought as a family—unfortunately that family was now governed by a traitor. With Rubix as top dog, everyone else, including children and wives, all came second. Nothing was more important than the Club.

It was an age-old tradition to obey such strict guidelines—people said it forged bonds that were unbreakable. However, I thought it encouraged resentment. No one had anything to be proud of. No family to love or belongings to cherish. Everything they had belonged to the prez.

Arthur ran Pure Corruption so differently. His men were their own. They had freedom and happiness. Their loyalty was unswerving because it came with no conditions, no threats.

“Happy to be home, Buttercup?” Rubix’s fingers pinched my wrists.

I flinched as a sharp stone stabbed my toe, adding to a long list of discomforts. I should curb my tongue. Hold my rancid loathing and play along quiet and meek. If I did, I might have a better chance at lulling him into smug laxness and escape.

But I couldn’t hold my tongue.

My parents couldn’t stand up to him. Arthur couldn’t. It was up to me to point out what a twisted and deluded bastard he was.

To remind him that he’s a dead man walking.

Tilting my head, and with the airs and graces of a biker princess, I said, “This ceased to be home the day you murdered my parents.” Looking over my shoulder, ignoring the pressure around my elbows, I added, “You sold your soul, Scott Killian, and I’ll make sure you die for it.”

Rubix laughed. “Didn’t you read the report I gave you? It wasn’t me who slaughtered your family.” His fingers squeezed hard. “It was my lowlife pussy of a son.”

My heart stumbled as Arthur’s face played bright and true in my mind. His winged eyebrows, chiseled jaw, and fathomless emerald eyes. He was a romance novel. A fairy tale. My past, present, and future.

My hands fisted. “He was always too good for you.” I raised my voice. “You never deserved him. He’s a hundred times the man you will ever be and I’ll dance on your grave when he delivers the justice that you deserve.”

Rubix slammed to a halt, jerking me close so I crashed against his body. The pungent whiff of cigarettes and staleness wrinkled my nose. “We’ll see who will be dancing on graves, little princess.”

“I guess we will.” Our eyes locked and I had no doubt that if he meant to kill me, he would’ve dispatched me right there in an ocean of gravel. My blood would’ve poured through the dusty pebbles to the earth below and stained the sanctity of Dagger Rose.

But no matter how hot his temper, he didn’t slaughter me.

Why? Does he have more self-control than I thought? Or is keeping me alive more valuable than killing me?

What did he want?

Men looked up from their menial tasks around the compound, summoned by our wordless rage and silent death stare.

You won’t win. I won’t let you.

Rubix tore his eyes from mine, taking note of our audience. Smiling thinly, he propelled me farther from the home I’d been imprisoned in and toward the communal Clubhouse.

My skin prickled as more eyes fell upon me. Brothers young and old emerged from homes, falling in behind us to form a biker parade.

Tendrils of fear gathered like ghosts inside my stomach.

What are they planning to do?

Staring straight ahead with blank eyes, I forced my terror not to show on my face. However this ended, I would not show my fear.

Rubix looked behind us, grinning at his entourage. “See, Cleo … everyone has come to welcome our runaway pet. I have half a mind to collar you and make you crawl.”

“Do it, Prez!” a man shouted.

“I’d pay to see that kinky shit!” another yelled.

My body begged to whirl around and attack—to show them how rabid a pet I could be. Instead, I remained outwardly frigid, ignoring their manipulation and taunts.

I had no amnesia to hide me this time.

No protection from what would happen.

I knew these men too well and my mind filled with painful imaginings of what they would do.

Rubix laughed, shoving me the remaining distance to the Clubhouse. I tripped and winced, my feet becoming bruised and dust-painted from the gravel path. My attire of T-shirt and panties had been perfect for sleeping beside Arthur—the material enticing and sensual for my lover’s tender fingers and soft embrace. But here, with Dagger Rose devils gnawing on the fringes of my courage, it was woefully too revealing.

Then again, no wardrobe would be equipped to defend against being biker-napped and held hostage. The only armor I had was my mettle and ability to be dauntless in the face of certain torment.

“I want some clothes,” I snapped as Rubix pushed me up the stairs of the meetinghouse. “I’m still a Dagger, after all. What’s yours is mine and I demand some clothing.” The lessons Detective Davidson taught me when he prepared me for my foster family came back.

“If you ever find yourself in a situation where help fails, remember you did nothing wrong and to remain strong.”

I glanced up. My new name, passport, and documentation had been completed. I’d been in the state’s care for a few months while waiting for the final go-ahead to locate overseas. “What do you mean?”

“If you get taken, try to keep the kidnapper talking. Get them to see you, not as a victim, but as a fellow human being. Don’t beg or grovel, just be yourself. Appeal to the soul.”

I traced my pink burns. Bandages still covered the worst ones and pain was a constant daily war. “And if they have no soul?”

“Then it’s their life or yours. And yours is paramount.”

Rubix snorted. “You’re demanding clothes?”

“Yes. I’m cold.”

“And you’re calling yourself one of us? When you just told me you’ll try to destroy me?”

I held my chin high even though navigating the steps with my arms behind my back took concentration. “Yes. I know what I’m entitled to. I’m hungry as well. Add that to my order—clothes and food.”

A man chuckled behind us as if I was highly entertaining.

Rubix gripped me harder. “No.”

“If you won’t feed me, then you should know I’ll have no energy to play your little games—whatever you have planned. Oh, and by the way, my feet are bleeding from the damn gravel.” Wriggling my toes, a fresh cut oozed with blood and grime. “Clothes, food, and shoes. That’s the very least I’m owed after everything you’ve done.”

You owe me more than that, you bastard. You owe me your life.

“Fuck no.”

I kept pushing. Each argument undermined his power in front of his men. It was stupidly defiant, but I’d be lying if I didn’t enjoy pissing him off with reminders that once upon a time I was his ruler. “I’m your prisoner. You said yourself you want me alive. It’s your job to ensure I have the things I need in order to stay that way.” My back straightened regally. “Give them to me. Now.”

Rubix chuckled, rolling his eyes. “I said I’d keep you alive, not in a life of fucking luxury.”

“Food, shelter, and medical attention are bare necessities, not luxuries.”

His voice snaked down my ear. “And you would know, wouldn’t you, princess? Always had everything you ever wanted. Keep talking, bitch, and I’ll show you how much worse life can get. Then we’ll argue about what counts as fucking luxury.”

Slamming his palm on the large door of the meeting hall, the entry swung open, revealing the same high-lofted, bare-boned structure from my childhood.

Oh, God.

Such twisted memories. Such happy times now tainted with bad. My heart filled with Arthur and the past.

“Come on, Buttercup.”

I shook my head, crossing my ten-year-old sticklike arms. “Nuh-uh, we’ll get in trouble. Daddy says to never go in there. It’s adults only.”

Art rolled his eyes, stalking toward me with moonlight as his ally. “It’s ours as much as theirs. I want to explore. I’m sick of the forest. I’m sure there’s plenty of juicy things to read in those locked filing cabinets.” Reaching out, he touched my hand.

Instantly, the same electricity that only strengthened year after year crackled between us.

He froze.

I froze.

The moon froze.

We were too young to have these feelings. Too young to have found our soul mates.

But that was exactly what’d happened.

Rubix let me go, shoving me away from him and into the cavernous room.

I skidded with inertia as the late afternoon sun became gloomy interior.

“See, Cleo?” Rubix stomped his boot. “Tiled floor. You don’t need shoes. And the air is warm, so you don’t need clothes.” His eyes stole liberties, slithering over my body. “In fact, I rather like what you’re wearing. You sure don’t look like a fucking child anymore.”

Ignoring him, I drank in the meeting hall where Art and I had explored, stolen kisses, and ultimately planned our leadership when we came of age. So many memories inscribed the walls. So many laughs faded with time.

Pain crippled me thinking of him hurt or dead. I couldn’t stomach the thought of finding him only to lose him all over again.

Please be alive.

My agony morphed into blackened hate, reinforcing my desire to slaughter Rubix and ultimately cure the world of his evil insanity.

I expected darkness and quiet, the hazy world I remembered of swirling cigarette smoke and the anticipation of new conquests. Instead, I was interrogated by blinding overhead lights and thirsted after by a hall of vile men.

Every pair of eyes trained on me.

And every atom inside me sprang to a feverish fear.

“Well, fuck me. There she is.”

“Our own little queen back from the fucking dead.”

“Fuck, her hair looks like the fire she burned in.”

“Show us your scars, pretty princess.”

The voices all crashed around me, eddying in my ears, decomposing with their intentions.

Keeping my face haughty and void, I glanced at the men sitting around the huge wooden table. Empty booze bottles and odor-spewing bongs rested by filthy hands of at least thirty brothers. Unlike Pure Corruption, Dagger Rose’s Club room was messy and untended. Empty beer cans littered the floor and condom wrappers stuck to the stained couches shoved in the corner to make space for the huge table. The walls were covered in graffiti and cracked out Club bunnies lay haphazardly in chairs and on the floor.

There was something to be said for cleanliness washing the wickedness out of one’s soul. Dagger Rose needed a compound-wide disinfection.

A man with a bald head and a tattoo in the shape of a striking cobra licked his lips, wolf-whistling in my direction.

Cobra.

I remember him.

He’d whacked Arthur across the back of the head whenever he caught us doing homework. He said we wasted our time on education when Arthur was destined to always be a bitch.

Another man with long, greasy black hair slurped a wad of tobacco and probed me with his gaze.

I remember him, too.

Sycamore.

Named after his love for making shanks and weapons from the sycamore tree.

He smiled, teeth stained sepia from his nasty habit. “Hello, little Cleo. Fancy seeing you alive, after all these years.”

Snickers and chuckles echoed around the space.

“Fancy seeing you alive and still chewing cud like a cow.”

Sycamore’s fingers dug into the table. He spat the brown mess into an overflowing ashtray. “Your father should’ve used the strap to shut that fucking mouth of yours.”

I cocked my chin. “My father should’ve done a great many things.”

Like murder you all in your sleep before you murdered him.

Rubix sidled closer, his fists balled by his side. “You’re right, Cleo. Thorn failed on so many accounts. Pity my hell-bound son put him out of his misery like a fucking dog.”

My heart free-fell as Arthur consumed my soul.

Arthur never wanted violence. He’d been content with love and numbers, only to be smothered by a life he didn’t choose.

Arthur … I’m stalling. I’m doing everything I can to drag this out. But I need you to get here now. Where are you?

The fear I’d been keeping in check crested again.

My time was swiftly running out.

Sighing, as if I’d grown bored of my tiresome subjects, I placed my hand on my hip, hoping no one noticed my tremble. My eyes fell on another biker at the end of the table.

Him.

The one who’d burned me in the Dancing Dolphin motel.

Alligator.

My skin crawled and the acrid scent of my own skin burning haunted my nostrils.

Traitor!

His beady eyes pinned me to the spot. He no longer wore a tan Pure Corruption cut but downgraded to a black Dagger Rose.

I struggled to stay in place. I wanted to launch myself across the room and see how he liked being held down and set alight.

Hiding the flush of rage and fear, I demanded, “What is this all about? You write me a fake letter. You burn me when I follow your breadcrumbs, then steal me from Arthur all over again. If you wanted to kill me—why not just kill me when I didn’t remember? Why not shoot me when I was alone in England?”

Rubix came up behind me, poking my lower back with a gun to march me forward. I recoiled but had no choice. I moved closer and stopped at the head of the table.

“Because this isn’t cut and dry, Buttercup. This isn’t about murdering you to hurt him.”

The wooden table barricaded my way as Rubix jammed me hard against the edge. His hand lashed up, encasing my nape.

“I don’t understand.” I winced as his fingers turned to pincers.

“No, you wouldn’t. How can I put this?” Nudging my ear with his nose, he breathed, “This isn’t about you. No matter what we do to you, remember that you aren’t the target—he is. If I wanted you dead, you’d be two fucking feet under and the beetles would’ve already enjoyed your taste. After all, you are a fucking delicacy.” His tongue slimed over my cheek. “But that isn’t my plan. My plan is to show him that all this time he thought he was better than me. Better than his own flesh and fucking blood. Well, he isn’t and it’s time he learned that the hard way.”

Shoving my head against the table with a vicious push, he glowered at the cracked out whores who’d traded their souls to pleasure devils on earth. “Get out, bitches. All of you.”

Cobra, who sat in the vice president’s seat, glared at the scantily dressed girls. “You heard the fucking prez. Move!”

Slowly, the rustling of cheap fabric and abused bodies shuffled from comatose into movement. The bikers smirked and occasionally swatted a woman on her behind as the girls traveled the gauntlet to the main exit.

My heart charged thickly, my body growing frigid from pressing hard against the table. Everything inside me wanted to follow them and leave this godforsaken place.

Take me with you!

The men stayed silent until the last girl disappeared in a flash of nakedness and cheap polyester. The anticipation hummed with an electrical charge—all eyes pinned on me.

With a curt nod, Rubix ordered a man I didn’t recognize to shut and lock the door.

The nucleus of fear grew larger until it opened its jaws like a consuming black hole. It sucked and swirled, urging me to jump into its terror and give in.

With every attention zeroed in on me, my skin goose bumped and prickled. Their interest cramped my stomach. Their lack of empathy and blatant disregard for right and wrong ratcheted my heartbeat until my palms sweated and legs begged to bolt.

Arthur … hurry.

Pausing just long enough to make a dramatic beginning, Rubix shouted, “We have her boys. Sarah fucking Jones.”

Some of the men frowned. “That ain’t a bitch called Sarah … that’s—”

“Hey, wait … what?”

“Thought this bitch was—”

Rubix rolled his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, you’re a bunch of twats.” Pulling my face off the table, he choked me with his savage hold around my throat. His body singed mine, pressing hard like a living coffin behind me.

Even as terror suffocated me, I still scoffed at how stupid these men were. Before them stood a woman their president had waged a vendetta against for years. Yet they didn’t know my state-given name.

They should all die just for being half-wits.

“I know her name isn’t Sarah Jones, you dumb fuckers. That was the name witness protection gave her. Ain’t that right, Cleo Price?”

My mind filled with memories of the tender FBI agent who swooped me away and gave me a new life. What would become of me now that I’d walked from protection and into bloodshed?

I know what will happen. Arthur will come for me and we’ll end this nightmare together.

A collective grumble of excitement worked around the table. An elderly biker with white hair growing from his ears said, “Well, shit.”

Rubix nodded. “It’s time to fucking celebrate. The plan’s in action, boys, and there ain’t jack shit that my son can do about it.”

Questions danced on my tongue. What plan? Why had Rubix penned that letter to get me back after all these years?

“Goddamn, I can’t wait.” Cobra drank from his beer bottle.

Sycamore leaned forward, his nasty eyes never looking past my breasts. “Payback’s a bitch, little Price. And it’s been a long time coming.”

My palm itched to slap every self-righteous asshole before me. “You’re right. And you’ll get what’s coming to you for what you’ve done.”

The men frowned, hurling insults and profanities in a chaos of voices.

Rubix grinned, basking in the temper of his men. “This little bitch was stolen right from beneath that cocksucking son of mine. He thinks he’s better than me. He thinks he can start up a Club and not fucking beg for my approval. Well … I have news for him.”

The men nodded, their hatred for Arthur thickening the air until the large space became stiflingly claustrophobic.

Rubix grabbed my breasts, squeezing painfully.

I bit my lip, fighting against the urge to struggle. If I fought now, I wouldn’t stand a chance. I had to come across as scared, docile. Arthur was too late.

I have to get myself out of this mess.

“Time for the fun part,” Rubix muttered, pinching my nipples. “Time to send a warning.” Grabbing my hair, he tugged hard. “Time to steal something that’s fucking precious to him.”

Oh, God.

Suddenly, he shoved me forward. I crashed against the table. My arms sprawled sideways only to be captured by the two men closest. Cobra and Sycamore pinned me down, their breath reeking of beer and tobacco, their eyes glowing unnaturally bright from substance abuse.

“Good plan, boss.” Cobra laughed.

Sycamore asked, “So … she’s ours?”

Rubix pressed against me, grabbing my hips. “She’s all ours.”

Chapter Four

She was trying to kill me.

That was the only reason I could come up with. One moment she was the sweet, funny, terribly bad at mathematics little girl I loved more than anyone; the next, she was a little vixen, looking at me with something foreign in her green eyes, watching my lips, gasping whenever I touched her. The real Cleo—the girl—I could handle. I could love in the way I was permitted. But this new Cleo—this woman—I couldn’t. She terrified me because she made me want. I wanted her so fucking much. But I wasn’t allowed. —Arthur, age sixteen

The wind in my face and salt on my tongue never failed to grant me freedom.

Riding alone or with others; day, night, summer, winter—it didn’t make a difference as long as I had a stretch of road before me and no commitments. It was the only way I could find some resemblance of peace.

But not today.

Not this fucking ride.

My hand curled around the accelerator, feeding more and more gas to the snarling engine. I was already way over the speed limit but I didn’t give a rat’s ass.

If I could strap wings to my bike and fly to Dagger Rose, I would.

Come on. Faster.

I’d been raised on a motorbike, and tonight was the first time that I didn’t find that freedom—that peace. The loss of Cleo ate at my soul. The pain of failing her all over again threatened to crumble me into destruction.

I rode fast.

I rode hard.

But I felt as if I treaded water. Fought against demons. Got fucking nowhere.

The hum of tires and growl of engines only worsened my emotional torture. Peace? What was that? I’d never find peace again if I failed her a second time.

Fuck!

The speedometer needle climbed higher, teasing the boundaries of red danger.

Hurry up, for Christ’s sake!

The journey from Pure Corruption to Dagger Rose was an endless fucking marathon.

Every stop sign was a mortal enemy, every traffic light my ultimate nemesis.

An hour we’d been driving and we hadn’t even passed the halfway point.

My teeth clenched harder as I hunched farther over the bike.

We were late.

We were late and I was fucking pissed.

I was livid at my weakness.

I was furious at my condition.

And I was incandescent with rage at Mo and Grasshopper for not finding some way to fix this clusterfuck.

The nurse at the hospital had filed charges against me and called the police. She’d done everything in her power to detain me, all because I couldn’t leash my temper. She’d refused to give me the forms to sign out. She’d held my fucking clothes hostage. She’d deliberately antagonized me to the point where I would’ve probably killed her if Grasshopper hadn’t taken me into a janitor’s closet, stolen some fat man’s clothes, and thrown them at me.

I growled under my breath, anxiety and anger circulating hot in my blood. I needed to fly. I needed this journey to fucking end.

I need her.

I shivered as hurtling wind sliced through the horrific Hawaiian print shirt encasing my broad torso. The sleeves were too short, the chest too tight, and I couldn’t look at the god-awful track pants clinging to my legs.

I missed my leathers.

Shit, I missed my own damn bike.

Grasshopper’s custom Triumph was all wrong. The acceleration sluggish compared to my beast. The Pure Corruption logo of skulls and all-important abacas was drawn freehand with glowing flames on the frame.

The flames seared my heart.

Cleo.

My mind whooshed with burning houses, smoking remains, and charred dreams of ever growing old with the girl I loved.

She’d witnessed her parents’ double homicide.

She’d almost burned to death.

All because I wasn’t strong enough to save her.

And I’m not strong enough to save her now.

The agony of the never-ceasing headache hollered in agreement.

I’m a liability. I don’t deserve her.

Every mile we charged, my injuries and shortcomings became more apparent.

My head hurt like a motherfucker.

My vision was frighteningly narrowed.

My mind slothfully slow.

The joy of thinking in algorithms, the speed of dealing with figures and equations was … damaged.

I was fuzzy.

I was lost.

I hated to admit it, but the doctor was right.

There’s something wrong with me.

Everything raged inside. I couldn’t find that calm—that control. I was on the cusp of wreaking my revenge—on the precipice of having everything I’d been working toward coming true.

I couldn’t afford to be broken now.

I can’t bear to be ruined when she needs me.

The roar of another Triumph coasted beside me.

I looked to the side.

Mo matched my speed, still managing to look badass even with Grasshopper riding bitch on the back.

I felt empty, vulnerable at not having my usual weapons. But I’d refused to waste more time by returning home. Instead, I’d commandeered Grasshopper’s knife and his unregistered pistol and straddled his machine without asking.

What was his was mine. He’d get over it.

He worked for me. Not the other way around.

I’d been dead for too long believing Cleo was lost. I wouldn’t live in such hell again.

Yes, I had a shit-stirring headache. Yes, something was seriously fucking wrong with me.

But none of that mattered.

Cleo.

I have to get to Cleo.

Then, I could worry about myself.

Then, I could die happy knowing I’d finally avenged and saved her.

Fifty-four hours they’ve had her.

My mathematically tuned brain clunked and wheezed, no longer the streamlined super machine but a rusty fucking cog.

Fifty-four hours they’ll have to pay back in blood.

Hunkering over the bike, I fed another twist of petrol to the roaring engine. I didn’t need to look at the speedometer to know this speed would kill me three times over if I buckled beneath the pain in my head.

My patience snapped.

My hatred overflowed.

Nothing else fucking mattered.

Only her.

I’m coming, Cleo.

Don’t you dare leave me … not again.

There are limited chapters to put here, click the button below to continue reading "Vengeance"

(It will automatically jump to the book when you open the app).

❤️Click to read more exciting content❤️