Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75592 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Before I could figure out what was going on, though, the door burst open.
And there he was.
Looking like some kind of avenging angel, snarling at Randy.
“What are you talking about?” Randy asked.
Typical.
He hadn’t even noticed the rings.
He’d never been a particularly observant guy.
“Yeah. Engagement. Wedding. Got the papers to go with it. So if you don’t get your hands off my motherfucking woman—”
“You’re not the one barking orders here, asshole,” Randy snapped.
He’d never been good at being challenged. I guess that was what made him a rather fearsome president—his swift and ruthless punishment of anyone who questioned or pushed back against him.
“Get the gun off my wife’s head.”
Maybe it was the wrong time to feel a little cartwheel in my chest, but there was no reasoning with unstoppable forces like affection… and love.
“Fuck you.”
“Tess, babe,” Rook said instead, giving me a tight smile. “You okay?”
“Ready to come home,” I said, starting to nod my head, but the press of the gun muzzle had me stilling.
“You’re going back with me. You’re mine.”
“She’s not yours anymore,” Rook said. “That’s my old lady. And you’re gonna get your hands off of her, or I’m gonna tell my club to rip your men apart, limb by fucking limb.”
I could feel the change in Randy, the way he jolted at Rook’s words.
“Old lady,” Randy repeated. He’d never been a bright guy. And he almost always needed to think things through aloud. “Club,” he went on.
He was probably looking at Rook, confused by his lack of a cut. After all, the Iron Wolves ate, slept, and fucked in their cuts. The only time Randy was without his was when he showered.
And Rook almost never had his on, thanks to his parole and Nancy’s constant and unexpected drop-ins. Even if Randy and the guys had seen another club in town, there’d be no reason for him to assume Rook was affiliated.
“Yeah. Club.”
“Need a hand in here?” Slash asked, walking into the bedroom, looking every bit the scary, badass, scarred-faced, tattooed biker president. And unlike Rook, Slash was wearing his cut.
“This place is a shithole,” Slash declared, turning in a circle to casually show off the logo and rockers on the back of his cut.
Against me, Randy tensed harder.
For a second, I thought it was because he was accepting defeat.
But when his arm tightened harder and the muzzle loosened—like maybe he was going to move it, aim it somewhere else—I knew the challenge to his authority was making him want to double down.
I was going to have to do something.
Or I was going to watch my ex gun down the man I’d fallen for.
Would he be able to fight off the whole club when they came running? No. But it would be too late for Rook at that point.
Someone had to do something.
And I was pretty sure that someone had to be me.
My hand slid into my pocket, feeling the cool handle against my fingers.
I pulled it out, flicking it open.
Then, before anyone could figure out what I was doing, I swung down, stabbing the knife clear through the hand holding me around the waist.
The shock had his grip loosening, and I let myself drop to the floor.
Rook didn’t waste a second before rushing forward, taking Randy down with a leap, the two of them falling back into the bed.
Slash scrambled forward.
Then another set of hands were grabbing me, dragging me away.
“No!” I shrieked, trying to fight the hold, needing to help Rook, to make sure he was okay.
But the grip just tightened, turning me, and walking out of the bedroom.
“Easy, sweetheart,” Raff said, as he half-dragged me out of the trailer.
“Let me go!”
“Hey, Rook’s okay. Slash is there. He’s fine. Let’s worry about you.”
“I’m fine. Please, just let me—” I started, but trailed off when someone else came walking out of the front door, the whole front of his shirt bloody, his arms and face stained as well.
Coach?
The sweet, gentle, yoga-loving Saúl?
“Get her outta here,” Coach said, tone brooking no argument.
“No, please—”
“We need to get you back to the clubhouse,” Raff said, pulling me across the lawn toward where I could see a car parked on the other side of the trees.
“Murphy!” I said as soon as I saw her standing near the car. “Tell him to let me go. Please. Rook…”
“Clubhouse,” Raff said, dragging me into the backseat with him, his arms pinned around me.
“No,” I cried.
“I’m sorry,” Raff said, giving me a squeeze. “I’m sorry.”
But the car was peeling off.
And any hopes of getting a look at Rook disappeared as Murphy sped through the mobile home park, past the apartments, around the rich area of town, then into the parking lot of the clubhouse.
“I know. I’m sorry,” Raff said as a pathetic little whimper escaped me.
He wasn’t actively dragging me anymore.
Because Nyx, Murphy, Vienna, and Everleigh surrounded me. And all of us just… moved as a group into the clubhouse.