Page 1 of Angel

PROLOGUE

1 YEAR AGO

Selene “Angel” Matthews stared down at the battered and bruised teenage girl in the hospital bed. She was so small, vulnerable. Angel hated to use the word weak, but that was what she was. Bree. Brianna Faux. Foster child and former sex slave of a dead man.

Because he was dead. He might not know it yet, but his days were numbered. As soon as Keys found the information, a name, a description, anything, Angel was going hunting.

No woman, let alone a child, should have to suffer as Bree had. The little that Bree had disclosed was horrible. Angel knew the reality was so much worse.

Glancing down at her tattooed wrist, Angel realized she’d been subconsciously rubbing the hidden scar there. The butterfly that covered the long scar with its wings circling her forearm, palm, and the back of her hand had been her first tattoo. She got tired of people looking at the scar and assuming she’d cut herself. Not that a scar on a wrist wasn’t telling or an indicator of attempted suicide. It just wasn’t her story.

A shadow moved. Angel stiffened, her hand going for her gun, before she recognized Scar. The VDMC’s Enforcer had a way of just appearing out of nowhere. Angel didn’t know much about Scar’s history and even less about his present. The silent man was dependable, though, and Angel had always admired his stoicism.

She couldn’t help but wonder if Scar could speak and was disciplined enough not to or if those scars on his throat meant that he could no longer speak. Bulldog, the club’s SAA, swore that Scar could speak but didn’t. Angel wasn’t sure she believed that. But, if he could, what did he sound like? Did he have a deep, dark voice that matched his personality or maybe a raspy voice that indicated years of smoking?

More than his voice, Angel wondered about his scars. The long one that ran from his left temple, down his cheek, and over his lips looked like it had been painful. If the man did smile, it would no doubt be crooked. His hands were scarred too. Some looked older than others, making Angel wonder if they were leftover from his childhood.

Unlike the other brothers, Scar had never come to her for a tattoo. With his signature black long-sleeve shirt, black pants, and boots always worn, she had no idea if he had tattoos at all. It wasn’t a requirement to get the VDMC symbol tattooed once patched over, but most of the members did. She understood why Jumper didn’t. He had severe PTSD and it was a concern that the pain of getting a tattoo, while manageable, might trigger him. Even Angel could admit that getting a tattoo wasn’t worth that. Some found the needle of a tattoo soothing—she certainly did—but that didn’t mean there weren’t times that it was painful too.

Scar walked over to Bree’s bed. He didn’t acknowledge Angel in any way. Just stared down at the sleeping teen.

The excitement of the blood drive had understandably worn Bree out. Angel had never been so grateful to be a patched member of the Via Daemonia MC as she had been that day. The way they’d rallied for Bree was beyond admirable. Only two members had not participated in the blood drive: Grumpy, due to getting a tattoo less than three months ago, and Scar. Angel hadn’t gone down to the drive—having had a nurse come up to Bree’s room to take her blood and test her as a viable donor for Bree—but she’d heard through the grapevine that Scar hadn’t even shown up to the event.

Generally, at parties and fundraisers, Scar could be found with Sissy, Lucky’s daughter. She was probably the only one who could hold a conversation with Scar too, even if it was one-way. Angel suspected there was something romantic between the two, but Sissy denied it every time she was asked and claimed Scar was just a friend.

Angel started to dose off. She’d been only sleeping in short bursts when someone else from the club was present. She needed to remain on guard to protect Bree. Scar was a mystery to her, but she trusted him. In fact, there was no one she trusted more to protect Bree in her stead.

Scar was, at his core, a protector.

A hand on her shoulder jolted Angel awake. Her hand automatically went to her gun hidden under her jacket. The light streaming in from the window indicated that she’d slept longer than she’d meant to. A quick glance around the room confirmed that Bree was still asleep. Scar was no longer in the room.

It was Cage standing next to her. Angel felt her heart leap as the stupid organ always did in his presence. Like most of her club brothers, she had been told Cage’s legal name but had long forgotten it. Both had been members of the club for nearly four years and it was considered rude to call a patched member by their legal name. She knew it was something weird and hard to remember, though. The man was Greek, from his blonde hair, blue eyes, olive skin, and high cheek bones.

Angel had gotten her moniker when she’d been in the Army. As her platoon’s sniper, she’d been dubbed the ‘Angel of Death’. They would say she had the face of an angel with the trigger finger of death. While others might look down on her for her MOS, Angel had been proud to be one of the few female snipers of her rank. She even had a replica of the Remington-700 rifle she’d used tattooed down the back of her entire right leg from hip to ankle.

Cage, on the other hand, had been given his moniker by the club when he’d been patched over. Unlike Pumpkin, who hated the road name he’d been given, Cage didn’t mind his. Despite being a member of a motorcycle club, Cage had a Mustang convertible he loved more than his Harley-Davidson hog. The members had started calling him ‘Cage’ even before he’d gotten his rockers because his legal name was so hard to pronounce. By the time Angel had become a prospect, Cage had been about to be patched in.

She still remembered that first day. She’d been prepared to have to earn her right to be there, just as she had with the Army. Equality was not a thing in the military, no matter what the commercials said. It was rare to find a man who was honestly pleased and willing to fight alongside a woman and not feel threatened by her. Worse was when the men tried to be ‘chivalrous’ or sweet to her.

Bulldog hadn’t been like that. When she’d been transferred to his platoon, she’d been ready to prove her worth. Bulldog hadn’t even batted an eye. It was like he didn’t see her as a woman, only a fellow soldier. Not once had he treated her differently because she had boobs and a vagina.

When Bulldog had invited her to prospect for the motorcycle club he’d help create, he’d assured her that there would be no gender bullshit that she’d dealt with in the past. She hadn’t completely believed him but had been willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Civilian life had not been an easy adjustment, especially when her father wanted to use her military career for his political agenda. The idea of being surrounded by her own people, veterans, had sounded amazing. Her parents had never understood her desire to join the Army, to prove she was more than she’d been, and, more so, did not understand her art. They hated that she had tattoos even more than they hated her lack of makeup or unwillingness to wear a dress. Despite her repeatedly telling her father that she was not gay, he wanted to use his lesbian daughter as a campaign ploy to gain votes with the LGBTQ+ community.

Angel had been hoping that going home after her time in the Army had changed her parents. It had not. Her older sister had tried to warn her, but she hadn’t listened. Bulldog had saved her sanity the day he’d reached out to her.

Angel had never ridden a motorcycle before but had been intrigued by them all her life. She’d been more than willing to get one while prospecting. Bulldog had even found a storefront for her to open her own tattoo shop in.

Her parents had been appalled that she’d joined a motorcycle ‘gang’ and refused to speak to her as long as she was a member.

That first day, Cage had nearly stopped her heart with his wicked smile and smoldering eyes. Only years of discipline had kept her from blushing like a virgin bride.

It hadn’t taken her long, though, to realize that Cage did not see her as a woman and only as one of the guys. Angel should have been thrilled by that…but she wasn’t. Not when it came to Cage. Rather than admitting to being hurt, Angel had done what she’d always done: put on a front. She was as sarcastic, as vulgar, as crass, as any of the guys. Hell, they soon learned that Angel could drink most of them under the table.

Four years later, and many carnal encounters on Cage’s part, Angel’s damn heart still reacted to him. At least she had an excuse for her racing heart this time, having been woken up as she’d been.

Angel ran her hand down her face. “What time is it?” She kept her voice low because Bree was still asleep.

“Just after six.” He handed her a large coffee in a Styrofoam cup.

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