Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 38333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
"I didn't ask you to do that," I say.
"No, you were too busy playing outlaw's whore to consider the consequences." The words are harsh, but his tone remains even. Clinical. "Someone had to protect the Ashby name. And the White name, by extension."
"I'm not calling to thank you," I clarify, gripping the phone tighter. "But I want you to know I won't press charges for what you did to me at the cabin."
He laughs, the sound so unexpected it makes me flinch. "Charges, Savannah? On what grounds? That I took care of my fiancée when she was having a mental break? That I protected her from herself? Good luck with that narrative."
"You drugged me. Kept me tied to a bed."
"I sedated you under medical supervision when you became violent. I restrained you when necessary for your own safety." His voice drops lower. "Who do you think a judge would believe, Savannah? The senator's son with an impeccable record, or the heiress who's been fucking a convicted felon?"
The truth of his words lands like a slap. Power has never been about what's right—only about who has the leverage to make their version of events the official one.
"I didn't do it for you anyway," Marcus continues, his voice softening into something almost kind. Which, somehow makes it worse. "I did it for myself."
"What does that mean?"
"It means you're still going to be my wife, Savannah."
The room seems to tilt beneath me. "No. That's over."
"Is it?" Another soft laugh. "Nothing's changed. You can live your own life. You can fuck anyone you want—hell, you can suck your biker's dick all day and night as long as you don't get caught. But you will marry me, and you will stand by my side like a good little political wife when I tell you to."
Who the hell does he think he is? "I won't."
"You will. Because there's no getting out of it. It's for the best. A win-win for both families." His voice takes on that practiced political cadence he uses at fundraisers. "Expect to hear from my lawyer."
The call drops before I can respond.
I lower my phone slowly, staring at the ended call screen. My hand trembles slightly. I feel cold all over, despite the warm Montana sunshine streaming through the window.
Marcus thinks he's won. That I'll fall in line like I always have, smile for the cameras, play my part in his political ascension. Maybe he's right. Maybe there is no escape from the life Eleanor crafted for me.
But Eleanor never accounted for Legion Kane. For what happens when you spend your whole life performing, then finally taste what it means to be real.
I look down at my wrist, at the "PROPERTY OF DEMON" tattoo hidden beneath my watch. Legion may have walked away, but I'm still wearing his mark.
Still his, whether he wants me or not.
And tonight I'll show him just how much he’s missing by pushing me away.
CHAPTER 4
I enter the meeting hall at noon, muscles tight under my cut. The building we hold church in stands apart from the main clubhouse. Concrete block walls, a single metal door with a locking bar across it, and no windows.
No chance for prying eyes or listening ears.
The floor is stained concrete, bearing decades of spilled whiskey, blood, and promises. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzz like angry wasps, casting everyone in a sickly pallor.
At the front, a raised platform holds the long wooden table where Brick and the officers sit. Diesel nods at me. Not sure if that’s an I-got-your-back nod or what, but I guess I’m gonna find out.
Behind them hangs our flag—skull wrapped in barbed wire rising from cracked earth—and the memorial wall with photos of brothers who died wearing the patch.
Sixty chairs face them, all arranged in rows. All patched members are present, plus the so-called nomads who hang back, by the exit.
Brick's gavel cracks against the table. "Church is in session," he announces. "Lock it down."
Someone secures the door, turns the key, and drops it in the metal lockbox. Nobody comes in or out until Brick says so. Those are the rules.
"Brothers," Brick continues, looking around the room. "We've got blood on our floor and questions that need answering."
Chains spits on the ground. "Fuckin' right we do."
"Shut it," Roach snaps from beside Brick. "President's got the floor."
"First order of business," Brick says, tapping a folder in front of him. "We've got rats in the walls."
There is an intake of breath here. Before Diesel’s confession, I probably would’ve mistaken it as surprise. But they’re not surprised. They’re resigned.
They don’t all look at me—most of them have more control. But at least half a dozen do.
And again, before Diesel’s confession, I’d take that as an accusation. Hell, it probably still is, in some way.
But that’s not really why they’re lookin’ at me. They’re lookin’ at me because I’m the reason for this meeting.