Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 134057 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 670(@200wpm)___ 536(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134057 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 670(@200wpm)___ 536(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
“Yeah, it may not have been the worse she’s seen,” he gritted out. “But that wasn’t here. On her home soil. In a club that I’m fuckin’ in.”
Hansen didn’t even blink. “You don’t think she knows who you are? Exactly what you’ve become?”
Jagger couldn’t hide his flinch. “Yeah.” He stood. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Then he walked out, before he punched his best friend, before he broke down in front of his president.
He didn’t stop walking until he found himself on his bike.
Then he roared off, seeking the solace the road gave him.
But he found nothing.
Definitely not solace.
He’d locked that in his bedroom at the clubhouse.
Chapter Ten
Caroline
“You’re not gonna slap me, are you?” I asked, sighing at the person who approached me with a hostile glint in their eye. “It’s been a long night.”
That was something of an understatement. Working the first night after every patched member of the Sons of Templar found out my true identity was nothing short of miserable. Henry still treated me exactly the same, then again, he wasn’t a patched member.
His only comment on it had been a raised brow when I walked in with a prospect behind me. “You’ve got balls, babe,” he commented as I walked behind the bar.
“No, I’ve got ovaries,” I replied.
He grinned. “Well, get those ovaries behind the bar and get to fucking work.”
And that had been that.
That was not that with the rest of the club.
Claw had almost warmed back up to me. But the flirting was definitely gone. I wasn’t sure if that was because the thought of hitting on a rat was repulsive to him or if Liam had done or said something to him about it. It was not something to dwell on. So Claw didn’t flirt with me when he came up to the bar. Though he still smiled at me when I gave him his beers.
Not like Luther, an older, tattooed and muscled man with mean eyes and shoulder length hair, who not only glared at me but had snatched my outstretched wrist and yanked me so my mid-section pressed painfully against the edge of the bar. “You might have Hansen fooled with your doe eyes, and Jagger because you’ve obviously got him by the dick. But I’m not softened by doe eyes, and you’re a hot piece of ass. Doesn’t mean I won’t hesitate, won’t fuckin’ revel in taking you down the second I get wind of you goin’ behind the club’s back.”
His breath smelled of smoke, no booze. No one in the Sons had to be drunk to hand out death threats and brutality anyway.
“You don’t let her go in the next two seconds, we’re gonna have problems,” an iron voice informed him.
He snapped his gaze at Liam, who had murder in his eyes. Menace. And horrifying coldness. Something I should’ve gotten used to by now, but I couldn’t. Luther didn’t back down, though I guessed that most of the men in this room might’ve from a look like this, a promise of death. Brother or no brother.
He squeezed my wrist even tighter so I had to sink my teeth into my lip to stop from crying out.
Then he let it go, snatching his beer, giving me one last sneer before he sauntered off.
I yanked my hand back, glaring at Liam. “I don’t need your protection,” I hissed.
His eyes went to the wrist that was pulsating with red hot pain. “Yes, you do.”
“I don’t want it,” I corrected, moving to mix drinks pointedly with my sore hand. It was agony, but it was better than standing there idle with him staring at me.
“Want it or not, you’re getting it, Peaches.”
“Don’t call me that,” I snapped.
He didn’t reply. Just gave my wrist another glare and walked off.
He watched me the whole night.
Until he left, some kind of cold promise in his eyes as he looked over his shoulder standing at the exit. Different than the one he gave Luther. Different only because it didn’t promise violence. But it promised death nonetheless.
Elden still sat in the corner of the room, chain-smoking and nursing his second beer of the night. I guessed captors had to have their wits about them. And he had wits. Spending time with Elden, I put him at least early thirties, with a liberal amount of salt in his pepper hair. It worked for him. Big time. Where every single member of the club, prospects included, boasted some kind of ink, usually it covered their bodies, he had none.
He had muscles.
Plenty of those.
He was one of the largest men in the club. That was saying a lot, considering the men in the club were all six foot or over, and almost pure muscle.
He was a hulk, with a rolling Scottish brogue and emptiness behind his eyes. He barely spoke to me. But he watched. Watched in a way that I knew he wouldn’t hesitate to detain me if I tried to run from him. In a way he wouldn’t hesitate to dig my grave. I didn’t find myself afraid of him. I felt somewhat safe in his presence. There was an honesty in it. He was here because he was ordered to be here. He wouldn’t hurt me out of menace. Or pleasure. Only duty.