Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 148238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
I slammed to a halt.
The room was nothing fancy: grey walls with a ceiling fan, polished floorboards, and windows looking over the compound behind, but the large oval table that sat twelve or so guys was definitely the centerpiece of the décor.
The same abacus, skull, and waterfall of coins had been heavily engraved into the table with the motto that I was beginning to understand: PURE IN THOUGHTS AND VENGEANCE. CORRUPT IN ALL THINGS THAT MATTER.
Grasshopper pulled out a chair for me.
I inched closer, unsure.
“Guys, this is Sarah.”
I trembled at the familiarity and homecoming of my name. I quickly glanced around the room, looking for him.
Nothing.
The men ranged from early twenties to late forties, all wearing the brown leather jacket of the Pure Corruption MC and all at ease with each other—unlike the first night I’d arrived.
“Hey,” some said, while others nodded in greeting.
I clutched the front of my bronze dress, sitting awkwardly in the chair provided. “Hi,” I murmured.
Sitting primly, I narrowed my eyes, inspecting each biker. Friendly hazel, blue, and green gazes met mine. Each man sat comfortably in their chairs, assured of their position and right to be there. The kinship in the room didn’t hide anything malevolent, and I let the tension ebb from my limbs.
Then my eyes met his.
And my world went instantly bleak.
Brown eyes, deep-set in a face that spoke of handsomeness but couldn’t quite disguise the evil in his soul. Thin lips, long hair tied in a greasy ponytail, and a tattoo of an alligator on his neck peeked from the collar of his leather cut.
He nodded, his lips curling at the corners. Something flickered in his hands, drawing my attention.
A lighter.
The tension I’d released shot straight back into my muscles tenfold. Gripping the lip of the table, I never looked away as he flicked the lighter, releasing a small lick of orange flame.
My mind twisted behind the locked door, hurling itself in panic against the amnesiac barrier. My fingers went unwillingly to the fresh burn on my forearm, rubbing at the painful searing that’d sprung from nowhere.
Him.
He was the one who burned me.
That night.
The night they stole me.
Try as I might, I couldn’t remember anything more or how I came to be kidnapped, but I knew with utmost conviction—he was the one to grace my body with yet another scar.
Was it the new burn that set off another episode of amnesia? Could my brain be so traumatized by fire that the barest of flames on my skin made me turn inward and hide?
My heart raced.
Not only was I dealing with remembering one past but it seemed I had two to unravel. A past where my home was England and Corrine and a brown-eyed boyfriend I couldn’t recall, and a lifetime before that one… a childhood of motorcycles, family, and green-eyed lovers who helped me with homework.
Will I ever know the truth?
I jumped as the sandy-blond guy, Mo, sprawled in his chair beside me. His arrival snapped the awareness between me and Lighter Boy, breaking whatever panic attack I might’ve had.
Mo grinned. “Been staying with the boss, huh?” He whistled. “Kinda a big honor to go home with the Prez, you know. What did you do to fuck it up?”
My nostrils flared, body stiffened, and I refused to reply. My eyes skittered back to the asshole playing with his lighter, but he dropped his attention to the table, blocking me from reading his thoughts.
Grasshopper sat on my left, scowling at Mo. “It was always only temporary, dude. She’s the sixth sale—remember?”
The door opened behind me and the scents of grease, cheese, and salami filled the room. The men around the table smacked their lips, eyeing up the huge pizza boxes that were deposited onto the table by a younger member with no patch.
There weren’t too many men—twelve, fifteen, and most of them seemed open and friendly. But I couldn’t shed the horrible feeling of dining with the devil with Lighter Boy across from me.
How did he take me?
How did all of this happen?
And where the hell did they kidnap me from if I’d been living in England? There was no way they could’ve smuggled me internationally. Could they? But most of all—what was the point? Why me? Why the girl who couldn’t remember but had some inexplicable link to their boss? The boss who slaughtered a rebellion the night I arrived.
It all felt like a chess game where everyone knew the rules but me. I was a pawn. Being slid left and right until someone smacked me from the checkered board and killed me off in a brutal checkmate.
“’Bout fucking time you got here, boy. I was wasting away I was so damn hungry,” one biker growled, his goatee bristling. He reached across and flipped up a lid, stealing a piece of delicious-looking pizza.