Page 7 of Reaping Havoc
I was a lucky woman.
Blowing him a kiss, I smiled as he pretended to catch it. His hand tapped his heart, more proof of my value in his eyes. Every woman should be cherished like this in the daylight hours and then fucked until they orgasm at least twice until they fall asleep.
If not, they needed a sexy, inked, biker bad boy and their own Reaper.
Chapter 3 Rael
“Somebody is fucking with me,” I complained, nearly whining at my brother, whose lips twitched with humor.
“Bro, that’s an everyday occurrence.”
“I’m serious.”
He stood, pocketing the rag he used to shine and buff the chrome on his bike. “Okay. Tell me what’s happening.”
I opened my mouth but then closed it. Irritated, I speared a hand through my short hair. Was I imagining this shit?
What if this was just a few of my brothers fucking with me like they’d done at Christmas? It wouldn’t be the first time.
Chrome tilted his head to the side, watching me. My twin knew me almost better than I knew myself. “If it’s got you this worked up, I need to know.”
A sigh escaped my lips. “I saw some dude wearing the same face makeup as me the other day.”
He blinked. “Like the skeletal face?”
“Yep.”
He frowned. “That’s a little odd. Not like it’s Halloween.”
Right? “That’s what I thought.”
“Well, where was he? What was the guy doing?”
“Staring at me. From across the fucking street.”
Chrome’s eyebrows shot upward.
“Outside the restaurant, when I took Nylah out.”
“Okay, that’s fucking weird,” he agreed.
“See? Grim and Trish watched the boys for us so I could give my ol’ lady an afternoon out. That fucker probably watched us the whole damn time.”
Yeah, I had his attention now. I could tell my brother didn’t like this any more than I did.
“Well, shit. Maybe we should bring this up in church,” Chrome suggested.
That had been my thought, too. But what if... thiswasn’ta club brother or some fool on the street? What if this was our past catching up to us?
“Noah,” I nearly choked, using my brother’s real name. “What if this isn’t random or one of the brothers messing with me?”
Any trace of humor vanished. “You don’t mean those fucking Russians or that Black Market Railroad shit?” He tensed. “Arthur Cooke died a long fucking time ago, Ian.”
Arthur Cooke. The doctor who took Noah and told my parents that my twin had died at birth. That motherfucker stole a family member from us and caused a shitstorm that ended with our father, Boone’s, death at the hands of an enemy club, the Bloody Scorpions. We wiped them out since, but that feud cost the club several members over the years.
The blame originated with the fucking Black Market Railroad and the goddamn Russian trafficking ring infiltrating Nevada. We’d taken out several prominent leaders, including Vladimir Solonik, his nephew Alexi Voltoy, Sergei Resnikov, and several associates, including Sean Jones. But there were rumors about another Russian, Gorbachev, who called all the shots, and we knew he wanted revenge for all we’d taken from the Bratva. Life had been peaceful. Too quiet in the wake of all that bullshit.
“It’s not the doctor or his past I’m worried about.”
