Page 1 of Reaper's Claim

Prologue

It was a love so strong that it was undying, impossible to destroy. It was the type of love that filled novel pages and romance movies aimed to feature. Every bone in my body ached with warning; every muscle stiffened with fear at the thought of him, but the stubborn person I was didn’t listen to my own body’s warning.

He was a flame able to burn through me. He was the flame, and I was the moth, unknowing of the harm this man could cause or the power that he would one day hold over me.

If I knew then what I know now, would I still let myself be drawn to him? I often asked myself this question.

As I stared into his misty gray-black eyes, I had my answer; I would do everything the same because I loved him, and this love was worth everything I faced for being with him—every torment, every second glance, every argument I was sure to have with my father. It was all worth it.

Chapter 1

Abby

Everyone gets an upbringing. Everyone is taught the essentials of life by their parents, and sometimes the parents’ essentials of life aren’t always the best. I learned to roll a cigarette before I was taught to tie my shoelaces. I suppose in most families this is considered odd, but in ours, it was normal.

My father, Jed Harrison, was President of Satan’s Sons Mother Charter. He was a hard, rough man who was absent for most of my childhood. My sister, Kim Harrison, was tall and blonde, and eyes were naturally drawn to her. She had the ability to draw the attention of any man and didn’t have to do much to hold it. She was also my twin.

We shared similar features—both tall, slim, and blonde, but if you looked closely enough, we had noticeable differences. To most people, the differences were too small. It didn’t help either that we lived with only males.

The MC was positioned in the bushland on ten acres at the top of a large hill. The main house, garage, and pub were fenced off with barbed wire, which sent the clear message—fuck off.

The clubhouse wasn’t a traditional one. It was a large four-story brick house. Dad had renovated it to fit the needs of the club. This meant extra bedrooms, a boardroom, and an open living space.

When we had larger functions, the larger bar was opened. It was complete with pool tables, TVs on every wall, and rooms down the hall for when couples could not make it back to the main house.

Kim and I were brought up on the brother’s code and understood the world that to most was a mystery. We knew the differences between club women and “old ladies.” Dad always said, a brother’s old lady only knows what he tells her, and we are never to interfere. So we kept our mouths shut.

Dad often made us tag along on club runs, the non-dangerous ones. He took our safety seriously and didn’t trust anyone with it.

Mom left us, but she didn’t do it by choice. Breast cancer took her from us. Kim and I were only young, barely ten. It didn’t just hurt losing her; it tore us apart. Kim and I once got on. After Mom’s death, we couldn’t be in the same room without wanting to kill each other.

Dad did his best, but he wasn’t born to be a parent and hell, he never wanted to be a dad. He was meant to be the distant dad that showed up every once in a while, told us he loved us, then rode off again, but he had to take us on full time, and that really threw a firecracker in his idea of parenting.

So we grew up in the clubhouse; not the best of places to raise two growing girls, but the boys took us under their wings, too, and not once did they hurt us.

My best memories are ones around bikers—tattooed, criminal bikers.

Kim threw herself into shopping, flirting, and makeup. I threw myself into art, study, and removed myself as far away from people as possible. Kim loved high school; I hated it.

Dad, or Roach as he was known around the club, didn’t care what we did as long as we were happy, and I guess in our twisted way, we were.

Kim was happy stealing smokes from biker’s jackets and sneaking off with boys. I was happy in my room drawing in my notepad. The years slowly moved on, and before long, I was sixteen; or should I say, we turned sixteen.

My interests stayed the same: I drew, went to school, and I guess, all in all—minus swearing and the occasional punch-up—I was a model student and the daughter that didn’t cause Dad’s head to explode every five minutes, unlike my sister.

Kim’s interests in boys had disappeared, and while I strongly believe it was because she screwed her way through them all already, she would say it was because she grew up. The real reason was that she had the hots for Dad’s Vice President, Trigger.

My dad was blind to Kim’s open attraction for Trigger, but the rest of the world wasn’t; at least, I wasn’t. Every time I looked up, it seemed one of the two was giving the other suggestive looks.

What Kim saw in him I didn’t know and why she would want to go there—where oh so many other women had been before—was beyond me. He was a man, she was barely a girl, and yet those factors didn’t seem to stop either of them.

Trigger was the stereotypical biker. When he wasn’t checking out my sister, he was either bashing someone’s brains in or working on his Harley. He had the height that shadowed everyone, muscles that bulged, and he wore a pissed-off look really well.

Dad had told me Trigger was the best Vice President he could have asked for. He was one that didn’t mind to “get his hands dirty.” Personally, he creeped me the fuck out and if I could avoid him, I would at all costs.

Being brought up in a clubhouse meant two things—I knew what sex was before any other kid my age, and I was bartending as soon as I could hold a glass and pour a steady drink, which pretty much led me to this point of my life—me serving drunken, swearing bikers from behind a bar and Kim over in the corner giving Trigger “fuck me” eyes.

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