Zay is held captive by the VP, Riggs, of the motorcycle club Snakes because her ex-boyfriend, Adam Lovett, owes them money. Little does she know, she's more connected to the club than she thinks. Will she escape? Will she end up six feet under? Unve...
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The rumble of engines startles me awake. I shoot my eyes open and see Riggs's back facing me, on the verge of falling off the bed.
I appreciated what he did last night. A simple gesture that proves he's not as rancid as the other two men who spent the night.
He's different.
Caring. Concerning. Respectful, to a point.
Not so gentle, though.
Gosh, my ankle still hurts from where he grabbed it and dragged me to the kitchen yesterday. Sadly, if he's done that and tossed me on the couch to have his way with me, I don't think I would have minded.
Regardless, I don't trust these demons.
These snakes.
I don't trust anyone since I let my demons win. I let them win and it's still haunting me.
I get out of bed and stretch, using the bathroom to prepare myself for the day.
He's still asleep when I get out.
His gun is on the side table.
Boots on the floor.
As is his shirt.
For someone covered in tattoos, he's kind of pretty when he's sleeping.
His stern, stubborn face softens. His brow isn't furrowed. Those long lashes frame his eyes.
He's all muscle and ink. Ink that runs down his chest, arms, and back. Ink that's dark and terrifying. I want to turn him over and study them, trace my fingers over the images.
I don't.
I'm far too frightened at what he'd do if I wake him.
I tiptoe out of the room and see the other room is empty. Lip and Judas are gone.
Their room is a pigsty and reeks of whisky and cigarettes. I may not have acted like it, but I was scared that as I slept, one of them was going to come into the room and hurt me. Riggs owes me nothing. As protective as he seemed yesterday, his protection is as valid as my expired driver's license.
I take one more scan of the room and turn my nose up. As disgusting as this room is, I'm hungry. Food is what I need.
I start for the kitchen when I'm slammed against Riggs's hard frame. "Jesus," I exclaim, pushing against his chest. Jesus is right. His chest is amazing. Chiseled and sculpted to perfection. I don't think I've seen this many muscles formed so intricately before. I don't know him at all, but he sure does take care of his appearance. Every edge and ridge is molded like a marble statue. Even his tattoos. There isn't a single one that is faded or scratched. Who is this guy?
He arches an eyebrow, that softened face is stiff again. "Where were you going?"
"To eat."
He grumbles, running his hand through his hair, and points back to the room. "Sit, I'll be out in a minute."
