Sleeping With The Devil

Chapter One

Los Angeles never slept. The city thrummed with life, its pulse steady and unyielding like a beast that refused to die. Neon lights flickered over cracked pavement, casting a sickly glow on the forgotten souls who roamed the streets. In the heart of this decaying paradise, Archer Reid watched over his empire like a predator surveying its territory.

From the second-floor window of the Nameless MC clubhouse, Archer gazed out at the sea of bikes parked outside, each one a symbol of loyalty and power. The Nameless were more than a club—they were a family bound by blood, fear, and the shared understanding that in their world, only the strong survived. And Archer was the strongest of them all.

"The Devil of Los Angeles," they called him. He had earned the title with every drop of blood spilled, every soul broken under his heel. At twenty-five, Archer had clawed his way to the top of both the Russian mafia and the one-percent MC world, where only the ruthless thrived. His name was spoken in hushed tones, a prayer or a curse depending on who uttered it. But here, within the concrete fortress of the clubhouse, his word was law.

He turned from the window, his steely blue eyes catching the light for a brief moment. The room behind him was a chaotic blend of worn leather, cigarette smoke, and the sharp tang of whiskey. The air was thick with tension, as it always was when Archer was around. His presence demanded it, cultivated it, like a gardener tending to his most prized blooms.

"Prez," a voice cut through the haze, low and gravelly. Viper, Archer's right-hand man, stood in the doorway, his face as scarred and battle-worn as the rest of the crew. "Got a situation that needs your attention."

Archer nodded, a silent command for Viper to continue. He didn't need to ask what kind of situation. In their line of work, there was only one kind—bloody.

"Got word that the Irish are making moves again," Viper said, stepping further into the room. "This time, they're aiming for Hellfire."

Archer's jaw tightened at the name. Farrah Hellfire. The one person in this godforsaken city who could still make him feel... anything. They had been raised together, practically siblings, their lives intertwined by the same cruel hands that had shaped them both into who they were. But blood ties weren't enough to protect her from the harsh reality of their world.

He had spent years pretending she was nothing more than a little sister, someone to protect but never touch. But the truth was far more dangerous, lurking beneath the surface like a dormant volcano. The slow burn of his attraction to her was something he couldn't afford to indulge—not if he wanted to keep them both alive.

"The Irish can try," Archer said, his voice as cold as steel. "But they'll regret it."

Viper smirked, a flash of teeth against his dark beard. "That's what I thought you'd say. What's the plan?"

"Send a message," Archer replied, his eyes narrowing. "Make sure it's loud and clear. No one touches Hellfire and lives to tell about it."

Viper nodded, already halfway out the door to relay the orders. Archer watched him go, his mind racing. The Irish were playing a dangerous game, but then again, so was he. Protecting Farrah was becoming increasingly difficult, especially when the threat wasn't just external. The real danger lay in the feelings he had tried so hard to bury.

Archer ran a hand through his dark hair, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. He had built his life on control—controlling his surroundings, his emotions, his destiny. But Farrah was the one thing he couldn't control, and it terrified him.

He needed to see her, to make sure she was safe, even if it meant confronting the demons he had locked away for so long. Before he could second-guess himself, Archer was already moving, his boots echoing in the empty halls of the clubhouse as he headed for the door.

Outside, the night air was thick with the scent of gasoline and distant rain, a prelude to the storm that was about to break over the city. He mounted his bike, the engine roaring to life beneath him, and took off into the dark streets of Los Angeles.

Farrah Hellfire was a force of nature, a wildfire that burned bright and dangerous in his life. And as much as he tried to fight it, Archer knew one thing for certain: he was going to get burned.

The road stretched out before him, a winding path that led straight to her. And as the Devil of Los Angeles sped into the night, he couldn't shake the feeling that this was just the beginning of the end—for both of them.