Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 105803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
“No point, it’s just good to see.” He pats me on my shoulder. It’s a fatherly gesture, and it surprises me when I feel it deep in my chest.
But I shove the feeling away. I let go of my need for fatherly approval the day Dodger disappeared.
Viking’s light blue eyes study my face. “You like this girl.”
“Yes, that’s why I asked her to marry me.”
Before he can reply, I catch the eye of one of our prospects. “Find Belle and bring her to me.”
He nods and makes his way out of Church, and I return my attention back to Viking.
“Well this is a fucking surprise,” he says with a grin.
“Like you’ve been telling me for months, it’s time to find a bride. So I went out and found one.”
“This is a good thing, son. I know you haven’t exactly been thrilled about the idea.”
Understatement. He knows I see marriage is as appealing as a bullet right in the fucking eye.
“When’s the wedding?”
“We haven’t set a date. But soon.”
When my feisty bride has a little more time to get used to the idea.
He nods, but his smile fades. “This shit with the Psychos, if we’re going to strike then we need to destroy them completely. Or there will be blowback.”
“That’s why we’re waiting for all the pieces to be moved into place. I don’t want to just hurt the fuckers, I want to fucking destroy them.”
Looking pleased, Viking puts a meaty hand on my shoulder. “Your father would be proud of you, son.”
No he wouldn’t. He would criticize me for waiting. Despite knowing it is the smartest option.
Sometimes the hardest thing to do is to wait. Especially when all you want to do is burn shit down. And that’s exactly what I want to do. Burn the Psychos and their drug trade to the ground. But until our ducks are in a row, we have to wait and watch and prepare.
The Church doors open, and the prospect stumbles in, looking uneasy. In fact, he’s gone a whiter shade of pale.
“Where’s Belle?”
The prospect looks like he’s gonna be sick. “She’s not coming.”
I feel my last nerve break and have to bite back my rising temper. “What did she say?”
The prospect swallows, clearly worried about how I’m gonna react.
“She said no.”
CHAPTER 22
BELLE
It was hard to leave my uncle behind and return to the clubhouse. So when I receive a summons from Beast via the prospect, it makes me feel a little…prickly.
I’m grateful that my uncle is getting the medical care he needs, and I will do my duty and marry the bike gangster as I’m expected.
But I won’t be summoned.
I might have to be here. But I won’t be a pushover.
I know I’m playing with fire. Beast has made it clear that there are consequences for disobeying him, but right now I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t ready for a fight.
Instead of waiting around for Beast to storm into the clubhouse to yell at me for ignoring his summons, I decide to take a walk in the beautiful garden between the clubhouse and the chapel.
It’s where he finds me when he stalks past on the way to rattle the walls of the clubhouse.
“What did I say about saying no to me?” he growls.
“You told me the last person lost their tongue.” I sharpen my gaze on his. “But after this morning, I didn’t think you would want me to lose mine.”
His expression darkens. “I don’t know where you think you are, but you are not in control here. You do as I say.”
“And if you want to talk to me, then you come and talk to me. But I will not be summoned like I’m at your beck and call.”
“You are at my beck and call,” he growls.
Still rattled after seeing my uncle so sick, when Beast summoned me via the prospect, it rubbed up against my last nerve.
“That doesn’t make for an even playing field.”
He takes a menacing step closer and with a low rumble says, “Who said anything about an even playing field? There is only one way this works—I say jump and you ask how high.”
“Like hell,” I say, holding my hand out to him like I’m handing him a phone. “It’s the 1950s, they want their chauvinism and misogyny back.”
His eyes flare.
And mine flare right back.
“I expect you to be more obedient,” he says, gritting his teeth.
“And I expect you to be less of a demanding jerk.”
“Need I remind you of what is at stake here?”
My eyes narrow on him. “How could I forget?”
“Then you will start behaving—”
Like hell.
I storm away from him because I’m frustrated. I know it doesn’t solve anything. But it does stop me from murdering my seven-foot bike gangster fiancé for being an inconsiderate jerkface.
I head deeper into the garden. In another life—the one where I’m not broke and kidnapped—I would be a botanist. Or a garden designer. Someone who works with plants every day. I love them. I like to think it’s something that was passed on to me by my mother or father. But Uncle Maurice says neither of them were interested in gardening.