Page 33 of Viking

She’s mine too.

I know now, as true as the Viking blood in my veins, I’ll die to protect her. I’ll cut down every last motherfucker who ever touched her, and I’ll never let her go.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Arie

Irub my eyes and blinkat the TV. I should go to bed, but I don’t want to turn it off. There is so much noise from the clubhouse and the compound that I’m too frightened to sleep in case I have to flee.

The island was never this noisy. My people were not allowed out past curfew. The Brothers and the Prophet could do as they pleased, but he was rarely seen. He preferred to hide away in his dwellings until he was asked to oversee a ritual, or expected to give one of his rare speeches. I only saw the man a handful of times before I was married off to him ... before I stuck a knife in his throat.

The door bursts open, and I yelp.

“Shit. My bad. I thought this was the pisser.”

I don’t move. I can’t. My heart races. Sweat beads on my brow and between my breasts. I am frozen with fear.

Where is Viking?Why isn’t he here?

The man flicks on the light, temporarily blinding me. We had lanterns and candles on the island, but electricity frightens me—except for the Television.

“What have we here, a little house mouse?”

I stare at the man, unsure what he means by that.No, I am not a mouse. I am a girl created by the divine Mother, a Sister of the Moon ... the killer of our holiest man.

He steps closer, puffing on a cigarette. It has a strange earthy smell, not unlike the weeds the Brotherhood grow on the other side of the island.

“Where has Viking been hiding you, darlin’?” He stumbles over and sits on the couch beside me, stinking it up with his smoke and body odor. I have not seen this man before and he does not wear the same patches as Viking or the rest of the MC. He doesn’t wear any patch, just red ordinary clothing. “Cat got your tongue, mouse?”

I stare at his dark greasy hair and skin. He smiles at me, flashing front teeth that are made of gold, but it quickly fades as I inch away from him.

“Where you going, sweetheart? You too good to sit and talk to old Nitro?”

I shake my head. He leans forward, grabs the remote, and flicks through channel after channel until he settles on one where a couple joins in the ceremonial rite. The woman is not on her back though, her ankles are not harnessed, and she is not crying tears of pain.

“That’s more like it,” the man beside me says.

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