Page 56 of Making the King

“Cara.” She’s trembling, her eyes locked on the fucker who was trying to take her, his body now a slumped heap on the asphalt, half his face blown off.

“Cara!” I demand, and she snaps out of it, her shocked steel gaze darting to mine. “Let’s go.” I reach out a hand, and her trembling one takes it, letting me pull her to her feet.

Engulfing her in my arms, I turn in time to see another nomad charging for me, and I get my shotgun raised just in time to blow his head clean off his shoulders.

Cara squeals again, and flinches into me, not used to the loud crack of guns, but it’s a sound she needs to get used to. She’s in my world now, and shit like this is inevitable.

Pulling my handgun from the back of my jeans, I nudge her back and offer it to her.

“Here. You know the drill, Killer. Point and shoot.”

Even though she trembles, she takes the gun and nods, her gaze locking with mine.

“No one touches what’s mine,” I tell her and it’s like my words are a blanket of courage for her as she stands taller and rolls her shoulders back, giving me a nod.

There she is.

“No one touches what’s mine either.” She rasps huskily, and pride fills my fucking chest.

Fuck, I want to kiss her, but not with that fucker’s blood all over her face. That will have to wait.

Side by side, we turn and face the foray, stepping into it together as we help my crew put an end to this.

By the time we are done, everyone is dead except for the one asshole Grayson is pummeling over and over, and Gunner has to wrestle Gray off the guy so we can get some answers.

“Start talking asshole,” I snap just as Cain appears wearing a grin.

Jesus, he loves this stuff way too much.

“They were here for the Diamond with a teardrop tattoo.” He tells me and I see fucking red.

My fucking wife.

What the actual fuck.

The nomad on the ground peers up through his swelling eyelids, blinking against the rain with a groan.

“What club are you from?”

Since they are on motorcycles, and wearing cuts, although no logo is displayed, they are clearly from an MC.

“Fuck you,” he hisses, and Gray leans down, bitch slapping him before pulling back his cut and tugging down the torn neck of his shirt.

“I saw that he had ink,” Gray mutters as he shows us the tattoo.

It’s a skull, with the name, Cali Reapers, above it.

Fuck. I’ve heard about them. Causing havoc all up the coast.

“Why are you in Santa Cruz?” I hiss and the fucker chuckles and then coughs.

“Haven’t you heard?” he wheezes. “We are bidding for this territory.”

Frowning, my eyes meet Cain’s who shrugs.

“What do you mean?” I ask the Reaper. “This territory is already claimed.”

Slowly, the Reaper laughs like he’s about to tell a fucking joke. But nothing about this is a joke.

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