Vengeance – Snow and the Vengeful Reapers (Ruthless MC #4) Read Online Theodora Taylor

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Biker, Dark, Erotic, Mafia, MC, Romance Tags Authors: Series: Ruthless MC Series by Theodora Taylor
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Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 57811 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
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Read Online Books/Novels:

Vengeance - Snow and the Vengeful Reapers (Ruthless MC #4)

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Theodora Taylor

Language:
English
ISBN/ ASIN:
B09BLKSV7Z
Book Information:

Vengeance isn’t just a team of enforcers, they’re a destination where all morals and good sense get checked at the door.
Every server at the roadhouse I work at knows that Vengeance is a package deal. The three enforcers for the Ruthless Reapers don’t just share a job, they share you for one night if you dare to go to one of the rooms upstairs with them.
Whenever they come into the roadhouse, they stare at me. Three wolves just biding their time until I agree to be their next meal.
But you know what? Hard pass. I’m on the last six months of my five-year plan to become a certified doctor. And giving my body to three outlaw bikers is not one of the items on my sensible checklist. Besides, I’ve learned the hard way you can’t trust anyone but yourself.
So, nope. No way. Uh-unh. It doesn’t matter if they make my stomach flutter and my seriously neglected nether regions stir with some very bad thoughts. I’m not budging from my five-year plan.
But then, my aunt’s boyfriend attacks me. One moment I’m calling Vengeance as a last resort. And the next I’m waking up in their bed.
Vengeance has me now. And Reapers don’t date. They POSSESS.
New plan. Figure out how to escape from these three men before they convince me to give them everything they want. My body, my mind, my heart—maybe even, my soul.
Books in Series:

Ruthless MC Series by Theodora Taylor

Books by Author:

Theodora Taylor



CHAPTER 1

DOC

“No, no, no, you cannot sleep here,” Nestor declares. His Greek accent is heavier than usual with irritation. “It is the same as I tell the bikers. I do not care where go you. But it not be here unless you pay for the fucking room. I say this always. But when I come to bar after long night of working, who do I find?”

The answer to that question is me. I was so exhausted after cleaning up the bar area. I either forgot to set or slept through the alarm that’s supposed to wake me up twenty minutes before Nestor emerged from his office at 6 am to let all our upstairs guests know they have to go.

“Uncle Nestor—” I begin.

“Do not call me uncle. I am not real uncle to you.”

Nestor glares at me from underneath bushy gray eyebrows, which come nowhere close to matching his ridiculously black Reagan hair. And he might stand a couple inches shorter than my five foot eight, but he becomes the very picture of an immovable obstacle when he folds his arms over his barrel chest.

“You only call me this when you are trying to get me to bend my rules. And my rules are rules for reasons.”

I let out a frustrated huff of air. Nestor is literally the only member of my family who feels that way—probably because he’s right. He’s not my real uncle. He’s my sort of stepuncle. The older brother of Cosmo, the Greek mafioso, and the last in the long line of terrible guys my mother got serious with before her death.

That’s the only reason Nestor lets me work at his super-illegal unnamed topless roadhouse, despite me only having A-cup breasts. So, still creepy—but maybe less so because we’re not actually related by blood.

I clamp my lips and put my voice on its sweetest setting. “I didn’t mean to break your rules. I was just trying to catch a little nap before I begin the coffee service and clean the rooms.”

“You come to roadhouse to clean fucking rooms at the mornings. That is our deal. You are lucky I let you work in here with such small tits—and have your coffee service on top.” He jabs an index finger in the air. “I am saint!”

I have to pinch my lips even harder to keep from pointing out that real saints don’t have to go around declaring it. Instead, I let him know between clenched teeth, “And I’m grateful, it’s just—”

“Then act grateful!” He cuts me off before I can explain why I’ve had to throw down a sleeping bag behind the bar. “Do your job right. Do not steal or take advantage of me. That is family weakness from your mother, and I gave you this job because you said to me you are trying to do better than her. This breaking of my rules is not better.”

My cheeks burn under his censure. Being called out for acting like my mother is even worse than getting chewed out by an attending in the emergency department, where I just finished my second to last rotation. And my head swims with guilt because he doesn’t know I’ve been sleeping here for nights plural—not just the one time I got caught.

“You’re right,” I say instead of defending myself or begging him to let me keep using the floor as an overnight bedroom. “I overstepped. I’m sorry, and it won’t happen again.”

The hard gaze he uses for dealing with outlaw bikers and flaky roadhouse waitresses with much bigger boobs softens a bit. “No more naps here. You go home to the house my brother gave you between shifts from now on, okay?”

“Okay,” I agree instead of explaining why I didn’t think that was an option.

What’s the use? I know how the world works—especially the underworld I was born into. Nothing is free, and at the end of the day, nobody wants to help you unless you have something to give them in return. And I have nothing. Every dime I earn here and nearly my entire paycheck from the hospital goes toward paying back my staggering student loan debt.

There’s nobody in this world you can depend on but yourself. How many times have I learned that lesson? Whining to Nestor won’t change that hard fact.

Focus on the plan. My four-word mantra seals my lips shut.

And Nestor claps his hands together like we’re all made up. “Okay, and look, you have a customer wanting coffee. I will leave you now. Do not forget to drop off my ten percent before you leave for the day.”

I turn around with a shiny roadhouse smile to welcome my first customer of the very early morning. But my heart stutters when I see who it is.

Des-E.

The sight of him hits me like a too-quick gulp of coffee. My belly fills up with a scalding-hot heat that spreads everywhere. And my face burns while my too-small-for-this-place breasts swell in a way I can only hope he doesn’t notice.


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