Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 33577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
I should have run the second I stepped inside the Bound in Blood clubhouse. The music is too loud, the men too dangerous, and “Bloody” Jack Mason is watching me like I already belong to him. Then a rival gang storms in, and chaos erupts. One moment I’m choking on fear, the next “Bloody” Jack has me pinned against the wall, kissing me like he owns me. “Bloody” Jack is a criminal. A killer. And the one man I can’t resist.
“Bloody” Jack
I’ve ended more men than I can count, and I don’t regret a drop of blood. But Honey? She’s temptation I can’t ignore. Sweet. Soft. Mine. When a rival gang touches her, I show them exactly what happens when someone crosses “Bloody” Jack. She’s terrified, trembling… but she’s still holding on. I should push her away. Instead, I claim her.
A rival gang wants war. My club demands blood. And the woman I should never have is the only thing I’ll never surrender
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter 1
Bloody Jack
“Any partyin’ you bastards plan on doin’ better be durin’ the fuckin’ day.” I didn’t have the patience for this fuckin’ shit. The Copperhead MC from the underbelly of Rockwell, Illinois was nipping at my supply chains like a fucking piranha. Fuckin’ bastards annoyed the piss outta me in the extreme. Their fucking with my shipments stung like a son of a bitch, but were mostly harmless. But the braver they got the more it stung. With tonight being Hell Night, the night before Halloween, most mischief would be happening in the city tonight. There was a tight itch between my shoulder blades telling me I needed the club on alert.
I sat at the bar, nursing my third whiskey and scowling at the paper skeletons some idiot had strung up across the ceiling beams. The Hell Night party I'd warned against was in full fucking swing anyway, and the clubhouse pulsed with bass-heavy music that made my teeth ache. Halloween had always been a bullshit holiday, but tonight it felt like an invitation for trouble with the Copperheads circling our territory like the venomous bastards they were.
"Another one, Prez?" Kneecap, one of the prospects tending bar, held up the bottle of Jack Daniels. His fresh club tattoo peeked out from beneath his rolled-up sleeve.
I pushed my glass forward, turned it upside down, and shook my head. "Coffee."
Kneecap raised an eyebrow but didn’t hesitate to pour a cup. Black. The stout brew burned a familiar path down my throat as I surveyed our clubhouse. I suppose it wasn’t as bad as it could be. There had been years when the club whores took over and the decorations got out of hand. Normally, I’d have happily retreated to my office and let the mayhem go on its merry way, but I never ignored that itch between my shoulders. If something happened tonight, I intended to be ready.
The main room had people everywhere. Crowded as shit. Brothers, their old ladies, and the usual rotating cast of club girls looking for a night with a patch holder. Cigarette smoke hung thick, mingling with the scents of motor oil, sweat and beer.
My phone vibrated against my thigh. I pulled it out, checking the message from Reaper, one of my scouts watching the south border of our territory.
All quiet. No snakes in sight.
I texted back a simple “K” and pocketed the phone. Five other scouts were positioned strategically around Rockwell, each with orders to report any Copperhead movement. So far, nothing, but that knot between my shoulder blades only tightened. Fifteen years in this life had taught me to trust that feeling more than any scout report.
The heavy front door swung open, and the October chill swept in, carrying with it a vision that had me squinting my eyes and leaning forward to make sure I was seeing her properly. I'd seen plenty of women come through that door — club girls with their tits hanging out, old ladies marking their territory, even the occasional lost soul looking to score. But this woman? No. She didn't belong.
She wore a black leather corset that hugged curves I wanted to map with my tongue, paired with tight pants that said "good girl playing dress up" louder than if she'd screamed it. It wasn’t so much in the outfit, though. More the way she wore it. Like she was trying to convince herself not to be self conscious. I doubt she’d ever worn anything remotely similar to the get up she had on now.
Her hair fell in honey-blonde waves past her shoulders, and even from across the room, I could see her wide eyes taking in the chaos around her. Red lips parted in shock before she swallowed and put her shoulders back. Brave little thing. If she was twenty-one, it wasn’t a day over.