Page 13 of Blackbeard
Everything was going according to plan. Dad and I knew the Blackjacks wouldn’t accept our idea right away. They needed convincing. And that wasn’t going to be easy.
Then Dad dropped the bomb about his cancer—a truth I didn’t like talking about, but he was in remission, and had stayed that way for four years.
A little sympathy would soften the bitterness of the deal, and make the whole thing more palatable. The sobering reminder that a powerful man like my father could be taken down by something as simple as cancer served to lower the Blackjacks' defenses, appeal to what little humanity they harbored behind closed doors.
Bikers operated on reputation—it meant everything to them. They bragged about the women they bedded, showing off battle scars, crowing about how tough, and strong, and bad they were. Outlaws who operated outside the scope of polite society. Misfits too rough and rugged to belong anywhere else.
At the end of the day, beneath those cuts they wore and the tattoos marking their skin, they were men. Pride would be their Achilles heel. And no man wanted to die of fucking cancer. Far better to go out in a blaze of glory instead.
But that was the one hiccup to my father’s plan that could make this entire thing fold like a house of cards.
The Blackjacks didn’t want a fight on their hands. It would put them—and their families, their loved ones, their brothers—at risk.
In my experience though, men did stupid shit all the time. Especially bikers. I’d witnessed men choose their hubris over their own wives and children, on more than one occasion.
And our success hinged entirely on whether or not the Blackjacks would sacrifice their pride in favor of peace.
Blackbeard’s gaze roamed over my body, drinking me in from head to toe. I was tempted to arch my back and suck in a breath, pulling his attention to my cleavage.
But that would be testing my luck. If I was too obvious about enticing him into our trap, he might back off and leave the deal on the table.
He wasn’t stupid.
Aroused? Yes.
But not dumb enough to blindly fall for the virtues of a push-up bra.
“Now I’m the one who feels like a side of beef sold at market,” Blackbeard said. “Do I get a say in the matter?”
I shrugged.
“Of course you can say no. But your club—and your family—will pay the price.”
“Why me, princess? If protection is what you’re after, you should go with Vlad.”
Blackbeard jerked his thumb at the giant biker standing at the door, with the Enforcer patch on his chest. His biceps wereas big as my head, and the scowl etched into his face made me wonder if he even knew how to smile. The brute looked as if he knew how to throw his weight around like a battering ram.
I considered for a moment. It would be fun to break the Blackjacks’ muscle. Watching their strongest member crumble—the one man who was supposed to keep them safe, no matter what—would make our victory over them ten times sweeter.
But that only worked if I could break Vlad. And I wasn’t entirely sure I could pull that off.
Blackbeard, on the other hand, had that big family, which made him the perfect target. I could use that vulnerable chink in his armor to my advantage.
“Your President is spoken for,” I said, gesturing at Kingpin. “So, you’re the next in the chain of command. Like Dad said—you’re not going to pair with me a useless Prospect who doesn’t hold any weight in your club. I’m the President’s daughter. If you want this peace agreement to work, you need to make a fair trade.”
Blackbeard scrubbed a hand over his mouth. I was mesmerized by the tattoos on his knuckles, along the digits of each finger. His tanned skin and the shadowy ink contrasted with the myriad of silver rings he wore. Bracelets clustered at his wrist—black and brown beads, tangled threads of dark green and ocean blue, studded with silver charms.
To think that same hand had been wrapped around my throat only an hour ago…inked knuckles nestled beneath my chin, warm, callused palm pressing against my pulse…
I swallowed hard and shoved that memory to the back of my mind. Not now. I’d revisit that memory later, privately, when I could properly indulge it.
Unfortunately, the throb between my thighs wouldn’t be silenced so easily. I couldn’t do anything about it at the moment in a room full of men, so I did my best to ignore it.
If I was going to be married to Blackbeard, I might as well enjoy myself, I reasoned. There was no denying how attractive he was—tall, with broad shoulders, dark stubble, black hair tied back at the nape of his neck, and a swagger in his stride that spoke of confidence and charisma.
Besides, it wasn’t like Blackbeard and I would be husband and wife forever. After the Forsaken decimated the Blackjacks and took over their territory, I would have no need to play house anymore. The marriage would be annulled and I would regain my freedom.
“Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet,” I said. “As the VP, I thought you’d have more of a spine than that.”
