Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 36214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
Headlights sweep across the parking lot. Dad’s old truck rumbles into view. Relief floods through me so strong my knees almost buckle. I grab my backpack and bolt outside. The night air hits humid and thick. It carries the smell of mangrove mud and distant rain. My shoes slap against wet pavement as I hobble to him.
Dad looks older under the streetlight. Deep shadows under his eyes. His hands grip the wheel tight enough to turn his knuckles white. “Get in. Quick.”
I climb into the passenger seat. The truck smells like him. “Dad. You’re scaring me. What’s going on? Is this about the signals I’ve been tracking? Because I thought I was just being my usual paranoid self but now I’m thinking maybe not?”
He pulls out fast. Tires squeal on the damp road. “Someone’s been watching you. For weeks. I thought distance would keep you safe but it didn’t work. I need to take you somewhere they can’t fucking reach you.”
The truck bounces over potholes. Each jolt sends pain shooting through my ankle. I clutch the backpack in my lap. My fingers trace the cartoon kraken’s sunglasses. “Somewhere like... witness protection? Or that underground bunker you used to joke about building?”
“Somewhere with protection that actually works.” His voice sounds gravelly. “The Royal Bastards.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “The motorcycle club? Dad. Those guys are dangerous. I read romance novels about them. The heroes are always ridiculously hot but also emotionally unavailable and covered in scars. Wait. Is this real life? Am I about to meet actual scary bikers who might grunt instead of using full sentences?”
He doesn’t smile. The truck speeds through the night. The ocean glimmers on our right. Moonlight paints silver streaks across black water. My mind races with ridiculous thoughts to keep the fear at bay.
What if the president has a secret soft spot for girls who collect succulents and talk to their houseplants? What if he looks like sin wrapped in leather and I accidentally say something dorky like “nice chrome” instead of running for my life?
We drive for what feels like hours. The road narrows. Bridges stretch over dark water. My ankle throbs in time with my heartbeat. Dad stays quiet. His jaw stays locked. The silence feels heavier than the humidity pressing against the windows.
By the time we reach the Key West compound my nerves have twisted into excited little knots. The gates loom tall. Razor wire glints under harsh floodlights. Men with guns and hard faces stand watch. My stomach does a somersault that feels suspiciously like butterflies.
Okay heart. We’re not thirsting after dangerous criminals right now. Even if they do have really nice arms.
Dad talks to the man at the gate. Voices rumble low. The gates creak open. We drive inside. Engines idle nearby. Men mill around the lot. Their cuts look worn and dangerous under the lights. Tattoos snake down arms thick with muscle. I sink lower in my seat but peek out anyway. Curiosity always wins with me.
Dad parks near the main building. “Stay close. Don’t talk too much. These men don’t do cute.”
I snort. “Define cute. Because I once introduced myself to a stranger by telling him my goldfish’s entire backstory. I can’t promise anything.”
He gives me a look that says he regrets every life choice that led to this moment. We climb out. My injured ankle protests with sharp pain. I limp after him trying to look dignified. The air feels charged. Heavy with testosterone and the metallic tang of guns. Music thumps low from inside the clubhouse. Bass I feel in my chest. We push through the doors.
Smoke hangs thick in the air. It stings my eyes. Men turn to stare. Their gazes feel heavy. Assessing. I swallow hard and offer a small awkward wave because apparently my survival instinct is broken.
Hi scary bikers. Please don’t kill me. I make excellent pancakes and I can quote every line from The Princess Bride.
Dad moves straight toward the back. A group of men wait near an office door. One stands out immediately. Tall. Broad shoulders that stretch his cut tight. Dark hair. Eyes like storm clouds ready to unleash. My mouth goes dry. Heat crawls up my neck.
Oh no. He’s stupidly hot. Like unfairly hot. The kind of hot that should come with a warning label and possibly ice packs.
He watches us approach like a predator measuring prey. Raw power rolls off him in waves. Possessive energy that makes my knees feel wobbly for reasons that have nothing to do with my injured ankle.
Dad stops in front of him. “Kraken.”
The big man doesn’t smile. “November.”
They exchange words in low voices. I catch pieces. Watching. Protection. Daughter. My cheeks burn as Kraken’s gaze slides to me. His eyes drag slowly down my body then back up. I feel that look everywhere. Like fingers brushing my skin. My thoughts scatter into full chaos.