“On the cusp of war, a good man prays, and a coward begs, tell me, what does the devil do?”
TIME CAN’T CONTAIN THEIR PASSION...
After losing her white knight and the idealistic life she thought she wanted, Lacey reunites with the man whose very breath steals her own.
His father’s death puts him in a reluctant position of power and past transgressions place him and his brethren on the peak of war.
YET, HIS HEART STAYS A WEARY FIEND.
A good man would leave her in peace, a coward would beg her to stay, and if she allows, he will have her, consume her, wholly.
| 1 | FINDING MEMORY ||
Devlin adjusted his grip on the handlebars and inhaled the crisp mountain air. There was nothing quite like the sun when she grabbed the earth by his sack and squeezed.
He revved the growling engine. This was all he needed: air in his lungs and the open road.
It was a perfect day to ride, but then, he was pretty damn sure every day was. Rain, snow, goddamn hurricanes or tornadoes, most shit didn’t matter when he was ridin’ Python anyway. She was an ornery piece, but fucking loyal to a fault.
Instead of heading to some tux fitting, he was taking care of business. Bones were never buried when it came to his brotherhood, no matter how much he wanted them to be. Dead men never stayed quiet neither, ‘specially not his dad. The man haunted Devlin’s dreams, and his decisions weighed on his son’s shoulders like the crown he passed on after the Devil claimed his favorite.
He pulled at his collar. A wedding.
A fucking biker’s wedding.
He didn’t understand why Dash couldn’t just go to town hall, sign a license and have a party. That was the tradition around Devil’s Sinn M.C.
She wanted the white dress and shit. Didn’t it stand for purity? He laughed. She’d put up with Dash’s shit since they were in high school, which was a long fucking time ago. Purity shouldn’t even be apart of her vocabulary.
He squinted when the sun caught his eyes, temporarily blocking his view of the penitentiary tucked off in the distance. He looked around. He couldn’t determine if they were lucky or cursed having all that beauty around but never being able to see any of it.
The familiar heat of rage filled him up when his thoughts fell on his purpose at the prison: Connor Duprey. The fucking rat bastard that was the reason why Luscious Sinn didn’t come home. Devlin had every nerve to order a hit once the man got inside, but that would be too easy. He wanted to look the man in the eye when he took his life.
Near half an hour later, he was sitting across from Duprey, staring at the man for the first time in over four years. The tangy taste of hate was still as pungent on his tongue as the day this asshole was put where all rats belong: locked behind bars.
The man picked up the phone and Devlin followed soon after.
“Don’t fucking call me that.”
The other man took a long, deep breath. “You have every right to be mad, but your anger toward me is a waste.”
“You said you had shit on my dad.” The man sure knew how to trigger someone. Devlin was certain steam came out his nose like a bull ‘bout ready to charge.
Duprey set back in his chair. “Oh, I’ve got mountains of shit on him. Where to start is the question.”
Devlin hung up the phone and stood.
“WAIT!” The man shouted so he could be heard through the thick glass.
Devlin looked at Duprey over his shoulder. He gestured for Devlin to sit back down. He just stood for a long moment before slowly sitting in the lopsided chair and picked up the phone again.
“Don’t fucking play games with me, Duprey.”
The man smiled. “I can see you’re far from the little pussy, biker boy who thought he was an outlaw, thought he was a rogue rider.”
Devlin gripped the phone with the strong desire to smash it against the glass, even with no chance of breaking through.
Duprey laughed and made a motion with his fingers.
Devlin started when a guard came behind him and set a notebook down with a hard blood-red cover.
“The fuck is this?”
“Beware the dock master’s chains. A noose around the neck is a deadly fiend.” Duprey leaned forward, coming close to the glass and whispered into the phone. “A legacy is written in blood. Blood of a midnight butterfly. A symbol of hope for the weary, an omen of death for the lost.” He hung up the phone, stood and walked back to the gate, leaving Devlin sitting there like an idiot with words floating around his melon that made no sense.
He looked down at the book and touched his fingers over the calligraphy on the cover. He hung up the phone, just then realizing he was still holding it to his ear.
He opened the book cover and frowned when he was confronted by his mother’s handwriting. “There is no voice quite like my own.” Was scribbled in her familiar font on the front page.
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