Page 2 of Psycho

Not with who these men were.

Highest ranked members of the Devil Sinners.

On the top of the pile was the leader of the Devil Sinners, Mitchell “Mace” Snyder.

The club was forced to leave Sacramento when the King’s Men came in and dominated everything.

They had been migrating to Texas when three of their members had the unfortunate luck of running into Roman.

My fists clenched tighter as I remembered the fucking bruises on Roman’s face and arms. And those were the ones I could see. It wasn’t like the stubborn asshole would just lie still for me to check him over.

Nah, he would probably punch me in the face.

I shook my head.

Things were a hell of a lot easier when we were little, and he deferred to me.

Of course, when we were little, I was playing his protector, caregiver, and brother.

Now, he was thirty-two, and he got it into his head that he needed to be his own man. Kidnapping the judge’s daughter as if shit weren’t gonna rain down on us soon with the Mansen Brotherhood.

Ryleigh Hudson would be his downfall, and if something happened to him, I would fucking kill the girl.

I could feel my heart spiking over the thought, and I forced myself to calm down.

I pulled out my phone and took pictures when I felt more settled.

A risk I was taking, but I knew the cops wouldn’t be able to trace these pictures back to me.

I just needed to send a message.

And this one was fucking clear.

The Devil Sinners MC was no more.

* * *

It tooka full day’s ride to get back to Sacramento.

I didn’t think I could fucking breathe until I finally entered the King’s Men’s territory.

I wasn’t close to my home. Not yet.

Still had about twenty miles before I reached the warehouse I had constructed to my taste, but, fuck, it was so fucking good to be back in Sacramento.

Roman was still at the cabin with Ryleigh.

I didn’t know when he would come back home with the girl, and I didn’t know what she would do once he brought her back.

But if the girl was smart, she wouldn’t do or say anything.

I pulled my bike up to a gas station and turned off the ignition, taking in the city as the afternoon sun glinted down on it.

Roman and I were born and raised in Los Angeles, though saying we wereraisedwas fucking laughable.

We had a piece of shit for a dad and a doormat for a mom.

Though I loved my mom—or at the very least, loved the memory of the woman who had tried to protect Roman and me, even if her trying wasn’t close to being enough—she wasn’t exactly someone I would have said raised us, or raised us right.

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