The stylish room was nothing like I envisioned. I thought an MC Club would be strewn with litter, discarded reading material, and other gang-related messiness.
The hygiene of the place was impeccable.
Who are these people?
Two of the men turned to face us, cocking their heads. “Stand in a line.”
The women shuffled, standing behind one another quickly.
“Not like that. Goddammit, a line!” The older of the two with sandy-blond hair grabbed the second woman, hauling her level with the first. Repeating the same with the third and fourth, he arranged the five women until they all stood shoulder to shoulder.
I didn’t wait to be manhandled; I moved to position without being told. But instead of heading to the bottom of the sad little lineup, I squeezed myself into the center.
Straightening my spine, I kept my face blank as the black-haired man raised an eyebrow. “Fine. Good enough, I suppose.”
A chill darted down my spine. The hair on the back of my neck stood up and I just knew.
He’s here.
Awareness was a woodpecker knocking tiny holes into my soul as I tilted my head, looking over my shoulder.
Walking tall—taller than most of his entourage—he moved with dangerous grace. A mesmerizing war between a fighter’s bulk and a dancer’s elegance.
His black jeans and T-shirt hid the puddle of blood well. He’d zipped up his dark brown jacket, further hiding whatever injury he’d sustained in battle.
Planting himself in front of us, he glowered at each woman. The other men faded behind him, his army of leather-jacketed warriors all beaten up, bruised, bloodied, and war-weary.
What had they been fighting over? What was this place?
The man never looked at me, skipping my awareness as if I were invisible.
My mind was more intrigued by my predicament than the most important question I continued to ignore. I didn’t want it to form because the moment it did, it would itch my brain until it drove me mad.
Why can’t I remember anything?
The question blurted loud and fierce—cutting through my wavering ignorance.
What happened to make me like this?
Or maybe not what but who?
My left hand cupped the singed skin of my right forearm. I winced in pain from the moderate burn.
What happened to me?
Green-eyed man froze as his gaze landed unwillingly on mine. His attention dropped to where I cupped my arm. His feral energy seemed to reach between us, drawing me deeper into his spell.
I tingled with a desire so powerful, it overrode my current situation and the fear dancing on the outskirts of my brain.
Who are you?
Almost as if he heard my question, his eyes locked onto my mine once again, glowing with pent-up emotion. Recognition flickered, love smoldered, and a heartbreaking sorrow only those who have loved and lost can know etched his eyes.
He clenched his jaw, shoulders seizing with tension the longer we stared. Regardless of what happened, or what would become of me, I knew he was a clue.
A vital clue.
The linchpin that would be the catalyst to my undoing.
My heart pumped and tricked beneath his careful scrutiny. My lips parted as fingers of magnetic awareness drew us tighter and tighter and tighter together.
His nostrils flared as if he tasted the air—unraveling my secrets by scent alone.
I waited for him to speak. I willed him to touch me again—to hold my face and dive into my locked thoughts. But he stayed frozen, bristling with rage and hate.
Please, let him have answers.
Even if he did, he’d probably never tell me. I might not suffer a debilitating level of terror, but I wasn’t an idiot. I didn’t need to know my history to guess the likely scenario of my new future wouldn’t end well.
I’ll find a way to run before that happens.
My mind raced, eyes locked with his. A silent duel ensued, each wielding sharp-edged questions, trying to decipher the other without a spoken word. He was as remote as the peak of Everest with his height and unreadable icy gaze.
The shock and passion he’d shown when we first met was absent. Gone. Never existed.
The longer I stared, the more the sense of familiarity stuttered, pushed further inside as the green fire in his eyes scorched my thoughts. There was no denying he was handsome, scary, and throbbing with power—despite his injury—but there was something else there… something he hid so well… too well.
The way he so effortlessly cut me out, left me floundering with fear worse than any I’d felt up till now. The severance of any connection made me throb as if he’d cut out a piece of me.
My hands fisted.
To be denied the tiny piece of home I’d found in him reinforced my conviction that I would do anything—absolutely anything—to get the answers I desired.
I didn’t care what I had to do.
I didn’t care who I had to tolerate.
I would find out the truth.
I will.
The men behind him shuffled uncomfortably. Black Mohawk cleared his throat. “Eh, Prez?”
Earthquake Man stiffened, balling his hands. Instead of looking away, our connection lashed tighter—tentacles crisscrossing the space until we’d somehow knitted an intense cognizance.
It grew deeper, firmer—more demanding than ever.
The chill down my back evolved to a tremor, an aftershock rippling down my spine to my legs.
Something threaded blistering hot between us. A dangerous combination of competition, attraction, and threats.
You know me.
He gritted his jaw, almost as if he’d heard my thought.