Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35499 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35499 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
"She's not an Ashby anymore," I say. "She's mine."
Diesel's face splits into a grin. "Yeah, we all saw that last night." He shakes his head. "Girl's got some fire in her, I'll give you that. But this ain't about how good she fucks, Legion. This is about the club."
"I know what it's about."
"Do you?" He steps closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "Because if this vote goes your way, you better be ready for what comes after. The Ashbys, the senator, the cops—they're all gonna come. And they're gonna come hard."
"I hope they do,” I say. Meetin’ his eyes. “They fucked up, Diesel. They fucked up. I will never get theimage of Savannah tied to a bed, drugged and almost naked, out of my head. Not even killin’ those boys would erase it. So let them come. I’ll handle it.”
Diesel studies me for a long moment, then nods once. "That's what I needed to hear." He claps me on the shoulder again. "You bleed for us. We bleed for you. That's the code."
The door opens, and men start filing in. Patches I recognize, some I don't. Older members I've only heard about in stories. Faces hard as stone, scarred from fights, weathered by years on the road.
Diesel gives me one last look before moving back to the table. "It's your show now, brother."
I stand to the side as they take their seats, row by row. The air in the room grows thick with tension and the smell of leather and sweat. This is church—our version of it, anyway. Where decisions are made that change lives.
End them, sometimes.
Brick calls the meeting to order with three strikes of the gavel. The sound echoes off the concrete walls like gunshots.
"Brothers," he says, his voice carrying to every corner of the room. "We're here for a Level-One vote. Patch member Legion Kane has called for club protection of a civilian—Savannah Ashby."
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Some faces darken. Others remain impassive.
"As is our way," Brick continues, "he will present his case, and then we vote. No discussion. No debate. Just your conscience and the good of the club." He turns to me. "Brother Legion, the floor is yours."
I step up to the podium, feeling the weight of every set of eyeballs. My mouth is dry. My ribs ache with each breath. But none of that matters now.
What matters is Savannah, sleeping in my bed, with my mark on her chest and my name on her lips.
I look out at the sea of faces. Some nod encouragingly. Others glare, arms crossed over their chests, judgment already written in the hard lines around their mouths.
I take a breath and begin to speak for the only thing I've ever wanted to keep.
CHAPTER 11
I'm falling through darkness, tied to something I can't see. Cherry pie and Marcus's voice—honey-dove, honey-dove—his fingers on my face, in my hair, places I don't want him. The syringe coming closer, closer—
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
I jolt upright, a scream lodged in my throat. My heart slams against my ribs as I blink at unfamiliar surroundings—cracked window repaired with duct tape, upside down milk crate, sheets that smell like Legion.
Legion. The silo. The rescue. The club.
I look down at my naked body tangled in rough sheets, chest still marked with Sharpie. PROPERTY OF DEMON. My wrists throb where the zip ties cut into them for three days.
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
"Not Mine! Wake your ass up!"
Not Mine. I huff out a breath that's almost a laugh. It was cute last night when they christened me with whiskey and that ridiculous name, but in the cold light of morning, it feels less charming.
"I hear you breathing in there! When I fucking knock, Not Mine will get her ass up and answer the fucking door!"
The woman's voice is sharp as a cattle prod. Shit. I wrap the sheet around me, toga-style, and pull open the door with my heart still racing. I arrange my features into the polite mask I've worn at a thousand charity functions.
"How can I help you?" My voice comes out scratchy from sleep.
The silver-haired woman from last night stands in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest. She's wearing jeans and a faded Badlands MC tank top, her arms lean and muscled. Up close, I can see the lines around her eyes, the hardness in her jaw. This isn't a woman who's ever smiled for a camera she didn't want to.
"You've got thirty seconds to pull on some clothes," she barks, "otherwise you're coming with me naked."
I blink at her, still foggy from whatever drugs are lingering in my system.
"While the men do their little vote, us women have a meeting of our own," she explains. Though it is very clear that she doesn't feel explaining is necessary.
Great. A female interrogation to match the male one. Because showing my tits and fucking Legion in front of fifty bikers wasn't enough of an initiation.