Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
“If you don’t get out, I will throw you out,” I warned her in a calm voice.
But she just stared at me like she couldn’t believe her fucking eyes. “It’s horrible.”
In that moment my mind snapped. I knew it was fucking horrible. I wasn’t blind.
“I said get the fuck out!” I yelled.
Terrified, she took off out of the room, barely covered by the clothes cradled against her naked body.
I slammed the bathroom door behind her and stood there, letting the shock waves ripple over me. I felt rocked, and in pain, the heated sense of shame knotting tightly in my chest.
Walking to the sink, I leaned against the porcelain counter and stared at my reflection in the mirror, hating what I saw.
A beast.
From this angle, there was only a slight hint of my scars curling around from the back of my neck. But when I turned, the mass of scar tissue stretched from the top of my neck, across my shoulder blades, claiming my back all the way down to my hipbone. Layers of melted skin. Shiny and silvery pink. Scars of war. Scars of hate.
I turned to face the mirror, and my eyes moved to the deep wound on my face. It carved through my eyebrow and up the side of my forehead. It was deep. Pink. Ugly. A constant reminder of what I had become that day.
A beast who took the shot.
But the scars on my body were nothing compared to the brokenness inside. In time, the burns and shrapnel scars would heal, but the invisible ones inside never would. They were open wounds of pain and hatred.
And today that pain and hate had broken free, forcing my hands around the neck of the girl I was fucking and squeezing until I’d almost choked the breath out of her.
I was losing it.
Not holding it together like I kept telling everyone I was.
I ran my palm across the back of my neck and shut my eyes tightly.
It wasn’t just my scars that made me a monster.
It was the darkness inside.
And I knew it was growing stronger every day.
Because the military had made me a soldier.
But war had made me a beast.
CHANCE
Later that afternoon, I rode with my brothers, Cade and Caleb, to Stockade Square. The town was getting ready for Founding Fathers’ Day celebrations, and there was a real buzz in the air for the approaching holiday. Posters about the parade and fireworks plastered every street corner, and storefronts were filled with holiday displays. Decorations in red, white, and blue decorated the town square.
Today, it was busy with people.
We pulled up in front of Iron & Salt, a bar off the main street, and sat in the outdoor terrace with beers.
I loved my brothers.
But I wasn’t like them.
Not anymore.
Once upon a time, we were three peas in a pod. The Calley boys. The cocky kids of the MC, sharing the same dark hair and blue eyes, and the same easy-going charm we threw around like fucking fairy dust to get ourselves out of the trouble we always seemed to get in to.
That was before life kicked me in the balls.
Now we were vastly different, and our paths couldn’t be further apart.
They had their wives who adored them. Stunning queens who loved them fiercely and who gave them beautiful children who climbed all over them. Cade’s son, River, was the spitting image of his father, and at almost two years old, he was as adorable as he was mischievous. And Caleb’s daughter, Ruby, my sweet little niece, was the apple in her father’s eye, and I had to admit, in her uncle’s as well. Somehow, and God only knows why, she absolutely loved me. Whenever I was around, she would reach out her little arms and whine until she was held snugly in my arms. And that smile. Man, it just melted the scar tissue in my heart until all I could feel was a pure, avuncular love coursing through my veins.
I loved spending time with my niece and nephew. It was really the only time I was happy because they held the darkness at bay.
My brothers were lucky sons of bitches.
But that life wasn’t for me. And whenever I found myself longing for what they had, I quickly replaced the ache with anger and hate. I would never have what they had, and it was for the best. A wife deserved love, and my heart was too much of a desolate wasteland for love to grow.
Besides, I didn’t have time for anything but the club. When I returned as a full-time member of the Kings of Mayhem, I was voted in as Sergeant at Arms because Grunt had to move back to Indiana when his youngest sister was injured in a car wreck. At the time, Bull had been considering a few candidates for the position. He needed someone he could trust. Someone who wasn’t afraid to step up when he needed them to. Someone who always had his back and put the club first. A good Sergeant at Arms possessed a certain amount of crazy, and I had a fuck-ton of crazy to bring to the table—not to mention the pent up rage. It was a useful resource when the club needed you to keep them safe.