Glacier

By C.M. Stunich and Violet Blaze

His real name might be Saint, but he's a monster.

His heart—if he even has one—is coated in ice.  Dark.  Like the blood under his fingernails.

Saint “Glacier” Nordin is the enforcer for the Alpha Wolves Motorcycle Club and sin for sin, he's an outlaw among outlaws.

But even monsters want to be accepted and there's a place in the club for someone like him, a man that paints with blood instead of oils.

Glacier, he's the stuff nightmares are made of.
But I love him.

Even if he's thirty and I'm only seventeen, even if the looks he gives me are cold hell.
I want all of him: his body, his heart … and his monster.

*GLACIER is a stand-alone MC romance by bestselling author C.M. Stunich writing as Violet Blaze, with a sexy tattooed badass, a strong and capable heroine, and a dark but riveting love story.  This book is a spin-off of the completed "Bad Boys MC Trilogy" starting with "Raw and Dirty" but can be read entirely on its own.*

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.M. Stunich
• Release date: Jun 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781938623394

Book preview

His heart–if he even has one–is coated in ice.

Glacier

Copyright © Caitlin Stunich 2017

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

For information address Sarian Royal Indie Publishing, 89365 Old Mohawk Road, Springfield, OR 97478.

www.sarianroyal.com

ISBN-10: 19386231398 (eBook)

ISBN-13: 978-1-938623-39-4 (eBook)

Cover art and design © Amanda Carroll and Sarian Royal

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or locales is coincidental and is not intended by the author.

there's a little bit of weirdness in all of us.

learn to embrace it.

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Welcome to Glacier, a stand-alone romance about dark things, hard choices, and broken people. This book can be read start to finish for a complete story and stands entirely on its own, but if you'd like more backstory on Glacier and Serenity, or want to read more about the other characters in this story, please check out the completed "Bad Boys MC Trilogy which starts with book one, Raw and Dirty", and introduces you to the epic love story of Glacier's club's president and his wife.

If you're looking for a typical MC book, you won't find it here. Glacier is a decadently dark and beautiful badass, and his love interest, Serenity, is a strong female character that wants her own damn bike. If you like alpha females matched to your alpha males, this is the right book for you. In this story, women don't have to stay on the back of their man's ride. ;)

As you're reading, Tweet, Snapchat and Instagram your favorite passages to me @CMStunich (my main Twitter account under my pen name!) #glacier. This book-and the man within its pages-hold a very special place in my heart. I can't wait to hear what you think!

~Love, your kick ass new BFF, Violet Blaze

www.violetblazebooks.com

www.facebook.com/violetblazeauthor

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One month earlier …

The night my mother gets shot is the night I lose my virginity. Willingly. To the monster I'm in love with.

I storm across the polished hardwood floors of the Alpha Wolves Clubhouse, dashing tears from my eyes and trying to stop my breath from coming in panting gasps. Growing up in the life is hard, but I've never had to go through something like this before, this frantic waiting and pacing and wondering.

My fingers rake through the long blonde strands of my hair as I hit one end of my mother's bar and turn back, boots loud and clomping, droplets of icy rainwater sliding from my skin to the floor. The absolute worst part of it all is that I'm trapped here like a bird in a cage.

Mom got shot; Mom got shot; Mom got shot.

My palms slide over my face as the tears run hot and easy. I'm not even embarrassed to be caught crying in the bar by a group of men in leather vests, glancing up as they walk in and hardly give me a second glance. I'm a fixture in this place, just Jack's little girl. Not a woman. Not even a person. Still a kid.

I dash my arm over my eyes and smooth my red midriff top into place, hating that there's nowhere around here to grab a moment of privacy. It's much easier to be alone than it is to be ignored.

Walking as quickly as I can, I head back into the hallway toward the front door, pausing when the president of the club walks in, face drawn, eyes flicking over to mine for a brief second before he passes by, hair dark and expression darker.

I have no idea what exactly happened tonight, but the chance of getting one of these assholes to tell me anything is slim to none.

I swing around the newel post at the bottom of the curving staircase and pound my way up, leather boots loud against the wood as I head off in search of an empty bedroom. There're a good dozen of them between the second and third floors, with beds and attached bathrooms for members that need a place to stay when they're visiting from out of town—or for local guys to fuck the groupie girls. I might be seventeen, but even I know how it works around here.

The first door I come to is unlocked and I shove it open, slipping inside and slamming my back against the wood to close it, my eyes sliding shut as I breathe in deep and smell freshly laundered blankets, mothballs, and … blood.

My eyes flash open and my breath explodes from my lungs in a rush.

There's somebody in here. And just not just anybody, but him.

I … I start, tears pouring from my eyes unbidden as I stare at the heavily tattooed and pierced blonde man sitting perched on the edge of the bed. He glances over at me, blood staining his shirt, his leather vest, the perfect white-gold color of his hair. A row of silver earrings winks back at me from the curve of his ear as my hands start to tremble and I wonder why, why the hell of all people I could bump into, it had to be him.

Serenity, Glacier says with zero inflection in his voice, watching me with a blank expression, a crossbow sitting on the floor by his boots. If you're looking for Jack, he's not here.

I know, I manage to say, despite the violent trembling in my lips and the salty tears on my cheeks. I should turn around and leave—now—because my dad's already warned me several times about this man.

He's dangerous, Serenity. Cold. There's something seriously wrong with him.

Only … I don't care because when I look at the man everyone calls Glacier, I don't see that at all. I see a hot fire buried beneath ice, a heart frozen and covered with snow, a bright vibrant spirit that's so sharp and clear that everyone else just looks right through it and pretends it isn't there.

What are you doing in here? I ask as he continues to look at me with white-blue eyes, running a tattooed hand over his stoic face. The man is … gorgeous beyond gorgeous, with full lips and long lashes, big eyes and a straight nose. He'd be pretty, almost too pretty, if it weren't for the tattoos that curl up and around his neck, his shoulders, down his arms and fingers. Other than his face, I'm not sure that there is a spot on Saint Nordin that isn't covered in ink.

Decompressing, he says with a dangerous lilt to his voice, like a warning to me to get the fuck out of there. I sweep red-streaked blonde hair over my shoulder and ignore that. What will happen if I do? I want to know.

Rough night? I ask, but right now, Saint isn't acting like he usually does, that goofy over the top personality he uses to hide his true self. He's all Glacier in this moment and idle chitchat isn't going to work. He just stares at me and then pulls a pack of gum from his pocket, slowly unwrapping the silver foil with his inked fingers. He pops the piece in his mouth and tucks the trash in the pocket of his cut. Oddly enough, Glacier's the only one of the guys who doesn't smoke. No, he paints his fingernails black to hide the blood and lets the president and his officers lock him away in an abandoned house by the cemetery to do their dirty work.

Nobody on this compound realizes the things I know. If they did, I'd probably be banned from the property.

I realize as I'm standing there that I'm still crying.

Mom got shot; Mom got shot; Mom got shot.

Do you know what happened to Fauna? I ask, using my mother's first name to distance myself from my age. What happened to Mommy? just doesn't seem like the best way to talk to a man that everyone on the compound is convinced is a psychopath.

A man that I've been in love with since I was fifteen.

She was shot on her way out of the grocery store, Glacier says, leaning back on the bed with a sigh, tilting his chin up toward the ceiling and closing his eyes. I study his profile, limned in gold from the bedside lamp, my heart thumping painfully, my lungs tight and throat dry. Saint's pierced everywhere that I can see: silver rings on either side of his lip, his right nostril and left brow, up and down both ears. The Omegas—what the men in the club call the women that hang around the property looking for a little slice of danger to take to bed—gossip about where else Glacier might be pierced. But none of them know because unlike all the other single (and sometimes married) men in the club, he doesn't fuck any of them.

Sometimes, I fantasize that's because he fell in love with me that same day I fell for him, but I know that's a bunch of bullshit.

Who shot her? I demand, still crying, but standing up and then shivering when Glacier's eyes snap open and flick over to me, running down my body in a cold, appraising sort of way. I can't tell if he even likes what he sees, but it feels good to have him look at me—even for just a moment.

"Maybe you should go downstairs and wait for Jack?" Glacier says, snapping my father's name off the end of his tongue in a sharp, whiplike sound.

Don't talk down to me like everyone else does, I say, and then realize that I might be yelling, dashing away more tears as I suck in a deep breath and feel the burning metallic tang of blood on the back of my tongue. This isn't the first time I've ever smelled blood on this man; it won't be the last. "I'm not an idiot. Clearly, something happened tonight. It might be club business, but my mom is about as much my business as things can get."

Is that so? Glacier asks, letting a wicked scary smile slide over his full lips. There's nothing at all humorous or pleased about that expression. It looks like he's seconds away from killing somebody. But he won't hurt me. I know that.

Then why are you shaking twice as hard now, Serenity?

I take a step back and bump into the door, my heart so loud that it feels like it's beating between my ears instead of inside my chest.

The mattress creaks as Glacier rises to his feet and slips his leather vest—called a cut because it's a jacket with the shoulders cut off—down his muscular arms. He tosses it onto the bed along with a gun holster before reaching over his shoulder and grabbing a fistful of his t-shirt, tugging it off in a single motion and slinging it aside.

The sight of all that naked flesh steals my breath away.

Down his back are a pair of inked black wings, like those of a bat … or a demon. When he moves, his painted skin slides over lean muscles, making it look like the tattoos are moving, getting ready to spread open and blot out the sun.

He glances briefly over at me, slowly chewing his gum, flashing me the hardened points of his nipples and the long, smooth stretch of muscles in his chest and belly. I blink several times, unsure where to look, my attention dragged low to the curve of his waistband, the way it sags on his hips and reveals more than I ever thought I'd get to see of the man. He has that crazy deep set of V-shaped muscles that the girls in my school go nuts for, but they're almost hard to see beneath a collage of blue, green, red, and purple ink.

Don't you have a bedtime? Glacier asks, voice still smooth and icy. It's easy to see why the other men in the club call him by that nickname. But to me, he's just Saint, the one and only man in this club—in this world—that's ever let me drive his bike. Just once, when I was fifteen, but I've never forgotten that day. It's burned on my brain in a ragged scar, one that I just can't help running my fingers across.

Fuck you, Saint, I tell him, not at all intimidated by his muscles or his gun or the crossbow lying on the ground between us. I'm not a kid anymore.

He makes a snorting sound that drives me completely up the wall and before I even realize what I'm doing, I'm stepping forward and tearing my red half-shirt over my head, throwing it aside and standing there panting in a black lace bra.

Do I look like a fucking kid? I snap, resisting the urge to cross my arms over the swells of my breasts. The dorm room must be at least ten by ten, but in that moment, it feels small and warm and stifling.

If you think flashing your chest like that makes you seem all grown-up, then you've got a long way to go, Serenity. The sound of my name on Glacier's lips almost makes up for the harshness of his insult. Unlike any other guy on the planet, Saint doesn't take advantage of the view, casting barely a glance at my heaving chest, at the sweat running between my breasts.

But he doesn't ask me to leave or put my shirt back on either, perching on the edge of the bed again with a sigh and ruffling his blonde hair with colorful fingers. The word BURY is tattooed in sharp black ink across his knuckles, an ominous warning to stay away from this man.

I know what he does; everyone around here knows.

Saint aka Glacier, he kills people. Tortures them. For the club.

Why won't you look at me? I ask as I take a bold step forward, my black mini swishing against my thighs. Because you're afraid of what will happen if you do?

Glacier continues to ignore me, leaning over to spit his gum in the trash can by the bed.

That's it.

Before I can stop myself, I'm moving forward and swinging a leg over his lap.

I don't even get the chance to sit, stumbling back as Glacier's hands come up and push me away violently, knocking me to my back on the floor. Anger and shame flash hot and sudden through me as I ignore the fresh ache in my side and push up from the ground.

Those white-blue eyes of his are looking down at me like he could give two shits less, but his hands … are trembling.

I stand up again and put my palm flat against Glacier's warm chest, right over a pair of blackbirds on his left pec, straddling his lap before he can push me back again. My left hand reaches back to cup his head, but he stops me, locking his fingers around my wrist so hard that it hurts.

We stare at each other for a long, aching minute, the air in the room hot and sticky, my breath coming in panting gasps, his chest completely still. Glacier holds his breath so long I worry that he's stopped breathing altogether.

But when I move to climb off his lap, my hips wiggle and I can feel a hardness in his jeans that wasn't there a moment ago.

I blink several times and then draw my left wrist back, adjusting my hand and pushing Glacier's fingers against my bare side. Please, I think as I look into his face, touch me.

He resists for a split second, but then his grip is curling around my waist hard enough to bruise.

I grit my teeth against the pain, and swallow hard, shifting my pelvis and rubbing the warmth between my thighs against Glacier's jeans.

He clenches his jaw and turns away for a brief moment, but he doesn't throw me to the floor again. I want to keep pushing him, see how far I can get, but I'm afraid to scare him off, so I sit still, realizing as I do that I can feel his heart beating beneath the palm of my right hand.

It's so frantic and wild, like the birds inked into his flesh are alive and panicked, desperate to escape. I curl my nails against his skin and he lets out a sharp, low gasp, yanking my body forward so that my breasts are pressed up against his chest.

Glacier smoothes his palm down my side and caresses my hip, his grip still too harsh, probably bruising. I could stop him, but I don't, letting him touch me without making a sound.

When he leans forward and rests his lips against the jumping pulse in my throat, it takes every last ounce of self-control I have to keep still.

You act like you've got it all figured out, he whispers, his breath hot against my skin. I want to kiss him so badly, my lips ache, but you're terrified. Are you scared of me, Serenity?

No, I answer honestly, hoping he can taste the truth in my words. I might be the only person alive who's not scared of Saint Nordin. Of Glacier. But I am scared because the furthest I've ever gotten with a boy was making out, clothes on, hands touching my breasts through a shirt and bra. I've never straddled anyone, felt their erection pressing up against the thin cotton layer of my panties. And Glacier … he's not a boy, but a man.

That's what scares me.

Liar, he says, his tongue sliding hot and wet down the side of my throat as I struggle to stay still, to remember to breathe. My left hand finally manages to curl around one tattooed shoulder, and this time, he doesn't bother to stop me.

My fingers knead strong, hard muscles as Glacier moves his mouth to my collarbone, kissing his way across it and pausing in the center of my chest as I arc my hips forward again. When he stays still, I do it again. And again.

My body starts to gyrate in a natural rhythm, working a hot wetness between my thighs that I hardly know what to do with. I keep hoping Glacier will take charge, but he seems content to sit and wait and watch me, lifting his head up and looking me dead in the face.

Do you have a condom? I ask, hating that my cheeks light up with a blush. Fuck that. I grew up watching club members screw groupies in the corners at parties, take their old ladies up against walls in the alleys between compound buildings. I've literally seen everything there is to see and yet …

Glacier hardly moves, grabbing the knob on the nightstand drawer with his hand and giving it a small tug. It slides open a few inches, revealing a sea of foil wrapped squares. Oh. Right. Of course.

My right hand moves up, mirroring my left and curling around Glacier's shoulder. His body is scalding against mine, almost unbearably hot, but I still feel like we're not close enough. I need to get closer.

Glacier continues to watch me, the piercings in his face glittering as he licks his lower lip and I lean in to kiss him, expecting him to meet me halfway. He doesn't. He just sits there until I press our mouths together, nervous as hell and hating him for making me take charge like this.

His other hand wraps around my hip on the opposite side, tugging me even harder against him and slowly, so slowly that it's almost painful, he opens his mouth.

Glacier's tongue slides against mine, firm and demanding, slow at first and then … faster. Harder. Almost frenzied.

Holy shit.

My mouth feels like it's on fire, flames licking at my lips as Glacier kisses me with a startling amount of passion, alternating between strong flicks of his tongue against mine, and nibbling my lower lip. He takes me to the edge of pain with his teeth, pulling back at just the right moment, just before drawing blood. With his hands bruising my hips, the hard bulge of his cock pressed up against my panties, I'm lost in a whirl of sensations.

It's almost too much and yet … not nearly enough.

Saint slides his hands up my bare back and undoes the clasp on my bra, keeping his mouth busy with mine as the lace falls forward against his chest. Suddenly, his hands are just there, lifting up the heavy mounds of my breasts and making me cry out.

The noise doesn't startle him like I thought it would. Instead, it seems to encourage him as he rubs his thumbs across the painfully stiff points of my nipples, sending these electric thrills through my body that steal the breath from my lungs.

I'm breathing so hard and fast right now that it feels like I've just run a marathon, sweat pouring down my skin as Glacier slicks his hands across my flesh. His touch is just as harsh and unforgiving on my breasts as it was on my hips, pushing me back to that edge as I dig my nails into his shoulders.

He seems to like that, dropping one hand down to cup my ass, burying his fingers under my miniskirt and using his grip on me to encourage the movement of my hips.

I let Glacier pick the pace, gyrating my hips against his jeans as he palms my breast and kisses my mouth in a way that tells me definitively that I was right. This man, he's not an emotionless psychopath like everyone thinks. Not at all. There's so much unbridled passion in his touch, in the flick of his tongue, in the way his hips rise subtly to meet mine.

Glacier reaches between us and pops the button on his jeans, shoving the denim out of his way so he can free his cock. He grits his teeth as he does it, like everything about this moment is painful.

I lean back and tuck some blonde and red hair behind my ear, several long strands escaping and teasing that fine space between my breasts and Glacier's hardened nipples.

My eyes flicker up to his as I lick my lower lip and watch him reach over to grab a condom between two fingers. Without saying a word, he hands it to me and then just sits there staring, waiting for me to take it. My hands tremble as the tiny black package slips from his fingers into mine.

Please let me get this right, I pray as I tear the corner of the condom wrapper and slide the sticky ring into my fingers. I want this so bad right now, more than anything. In the back of my mind, I feel guilty, like somehow I'm betraying my mom by doing this. But I can't stop. I don't want to stop.

Glacier leans back, putting his inked hands on the dark red comforter, still watching me with those gorgeous eyes of his, like the sky on a clear winter day—swirls of silver, gray, and blue. Lube smears across the whorls of my fingertips as I look down through a curtain of my own blonde hair and find Glacier's cock arching thick and ready from the open fly of his jeans.

He's big, I think. But then, I've only ever seen cocks in porn and YouTube videos and stuff, never in real life. Maybe he's just normal? I don't fucking know.

You can leave, you know, Glacier says mildly, almost like he doesn't much care either way. There's this sharpness to his voice, though, this razor-thin edge that feels like it's slicing shallow scars all across my heated skin. If you want to get up and walk away, you should do it now.

I don't want to walk away, I whisper, voice hoarse and raspy and weird. I don't even sound like me anymore. My eyes lift to find Glacier—Saint—watching me. I like his real name, even if everyone else here finds it ironic. I want to stay.

My gaze drops back to his cock, to the clean, circumcised head and pale shaft. I can't see his balls; they're still tucked inside his jeans. I want to, but I'm too scared to touch him that intimately, like he might still spook and throw me back on the floor if I do.

Is this what he's like with other girls? I wonder as I drop my shaking hands between us and fumble stupidly with the slick surface of the condom. Does he stare at them like this? Get all hot and edgy and weird like this? Or is just me that does that to him?

Finally I manage to slide the round circle over the tip of Glacier's dick, rolling the latex into place with my fingers as I feel every muscle in his body stiffen around me. It's like the room goes cold and hot at the same time, gets quiet and loud, flickers light and dark. Glacier's just sitting there, stiff as a board, leaning back like he doesn't give a fuck and then …

Those hands are back at my hips, curling under the waistband of my panties.

Take them off, he whispers through gritted teeth, pushing me from his lap only slightly less forcefully than last time. I manage to keep my feet, glaring back at Saint and wondering why, when he's being such an asshole, I feel like the aggressor here.

My panties drop to my knees and then I struggle to wiggle them over the thick leather surface of my motorcycle boots, kicking them away and then standing up tall and straight and proud.

Come here, Glacier says, holding out the tattooed hand with the word BURY on it. Carefully, oh so carefully, I place my fingers in his, feeling a shock of bright heat curl down my arm and into my chest.

This time, he helps me straddle his lap, settling me over the thick curve of his shaft and holding me in place by my hips. I'm tall enough that I can just barely feel him brushing against the throbbing wetness between my thighs as I stand there with my heart thumping in my throat, my eyes focused down on Glacier's blue ones.

I must be fucking crazy, he mumbles under his breath, pressing his hot lips to the smooth skin of my breasts, sucking my nipple into his mouth as I curve my fingers in his blonde hair and tug him against me. He lets out a low warning growl and bites down hard enough that I cry out. Last. Chance.

I already told you— I start and then Glacier's grabbing me around the waist and flipping me over onto my back on the dorm bed. He puts a palm on either side of my head and stares down at me, jaw clenched tight like he's angry about something. But that heat in his eyes? That kind of emotion can't be faked. Do it, I whisper because I'm ready. Beyond ready. And there's no other man in the world I'd want for this moment.

Glacier reaches down and takes hold of his cock, pressing the slick condom covered head against my folds. In that last brief second of being a virgin, he looks up at me and smiles wolfishly.

One quick thrust and the moment's passed, my back arching off the bed as I gasp and see stars flickering across the ceiling. There's no way Saint could have possibly known I was a virgin—and no way in hell I was telling him—so he mounts me hard and quick, thrusting his muscular body into mine with the most guttural sounds I've ever heard.

It hurts … and it doesn't. I want to ask him to slow down, but I'm afraid that if I do, he'll spook, pull away and leave me with this raw ache that needs to be filled.

Saint, I whisper because like this, feeling him inside of me, he can't be cold, unfeeling Glacier, the enforcer for the Alpha Wolves Motorcycle Club. No, like this, he's Saint Nordin, the man beneath the monster. Saint.

I pull his head down to mine, crushing our lips together and squeezing my lids shut tight against the tears as I spread my knees wide and embrace this new feeling of sharing my body with someone else. Saint moves fast and frenzied, like he can barely hold himself back from the edge of violence, like all of that easy, cool control he had before is gone.

His tongue shoves its way into my mouth, his lip piercings brushing against me as we kiss. He tangles a hand in my hair and pulls hard. He's supposed to be the experienced one here, but it feels like he's completely out of control, fucking me with hard, angry thrusts.

Pain and pleasure mix together, confusing my brain, drawing these sharp, aching gasps from my throat as I dig my fingers into the hard muscles of Saint's back, pulling him to me so I can press my mouth into that tender spot between his shoulder and neck. I hide my face from him as he grinds against me, dropping a hand to cup my ass, pushing deeper into me.

My heart is thundering so loudly that it's drowning out everything but the rough, rasping sounds from Saint's throat. My eyes are squeezed shut, tight as I can get them, and my body is nothing but a confused, aching mess with needs and wants that seem to be at direct odds with one another. Saint's body hurts, but I have to have it. I have to.

The headboard bangs against the wall and the mattress creaks beneath us for long minutes. I'm not sure how long it lasts, but then Saint's inked fingers are on my face, pushing my head back so he can look down at me. My eyes pop open and our gazes meet.

Saint's muscular body tightens above me with an orgasm, his hips moving with the final thrusts as he shudders and pushes into me a few last frantic times. When he's finished, he rolls away from me immediately and stands up, disappearing into the bathroom without looking back.

I take a quick moment to catch my breath, gather my shirt and bra from the floor, and leave before he notices the bright red smear of blood on my thighs.

I'm kneeling in the garage of Wolf Cycle Service and Repair, trying to fix a foreign bike with missing parts that the idiot owner bought off the internet. The wiring's a mess; the man who brought it in tried to fix everything himself and none of the other guys will touch it. Personally, I enjoy the challenge. In here, in the quiet dark of the shop, there's a right answer and a wrong answer. Either something can be fixed, or it can't. There's no guesswork involved, no emotion.

In here, I don't have to pretend to feel … anything.

I pause and lift my head up, listening to the sound of approaching footsteps. Even over the noise of clinking metal, purring engines, and laughter from the break room, I know who's coming. I know all my brothers by sound alone. It's not as hard as you think, really. Maybe if the other Wolves spent less time talking and more time listening, they could do the same damn thing. They all think I'm some sort of tactical guru, but that's not it at all. While they're all busy fucking, feeling, and fighting, I'm watching from the shadows.

The monster is watching from the shadows.

Do you have a minute? Jack asks as he slides into the darkness of the garage, leaving the aching brightness of the sun behind him. I glance up at him, at the frown buried in the darkness of his beard. Jack's the treasurer of the MC, a seasoned old-timer … and Serenity Westbrook's father.

Serenity.

Just the movement of her name sliding through my skull makes me feel fucking insane.

I blink past the thought, trap that feeling beneath the layer of ice that covers my soul, and rise to my feet, tugging a rag from my back pocket and wiping the grease from my hands. My lips curl up in a smile, but not because I'm excited to see Jack. I don't get excited about anything but the chase, the hunt, the kill. But a smile's expected out of me, so it's a smile I give—even though I'm almost certain that Jack fucking hates me.

What can I help you with? I ask with manufactured cheer, wondering if the man's finally found out that I fucked his only daughter. Images of that night flicker through my mind, and I almost frown. It's been a month and I'm still puzzling out what happened in that goddamn dorm room. Sex is … I've never liked it. What's the point? It doesn't do anything for me, doesn't make me feel anything at all. I tried it once or twice in the past because it was expected of me, but I just don't get it.

Or … I didn't until Serenity.

My mouth twitches and I tilt my head to the side to stare at Jack.

He frowns back at me, but I don't think it's because he knows I took his teenage daughter's virginity. If he did, he'd probably try to kill me. It wouldn't work, of course, but I don't want to see him try either. I'd have to incapacitate or kill him and that wouldn't go over well with the club. I need this; there's no other place in the world that I'd get patted on the back for being a monster.

Royal wants to see you in the chapel, he says gruffly, still staring at me like he wishes I'd never patched in to the club. Jack thinks I'm weird; most of the brothers do. I think the only one that likes me at all is the president and even then, that's questionable. If we hadn't gone to high school together, he'd probably look at me the way Jack does.

Better hop to it, I say, making myself smile again, big and wide and stupid. It's like, if I don't make the expression exaggerated, then I can't do it at all. Slow, subtle, little smiles just don't take; they slide right off of my fucking face. What's the damn redcoat want now? I ask as I toss the rag onto the bike and follow Jack outside.

Dunno, he says, getting out a cigarette from the pocket of his cut and doing his best to ignore me. Didn't say. Jack shrugs his shoulders, the leather of his vest crinkling with the motion. I focus on the word Treasurer sewn above the single pocket, and then glance up at his face again. He gives me a look like he wishes I'd die in a horrific motorcycle accident. I'd like to see how much worse that look would get if he knew what I'd done with his daughter. If I was capable of real smiles, I'd probably smile at that; Jack is a fucking asshole.

Well, I say with a sardonic grin, let's find out, shall we?

The president of the Alpha Wolves Motorcycle Club is some Brit named Royal McBride. He might be foreign and far too emotional for me to truly understand, but he's one of a few souls on this earth that I have half a mind to listen to. Really, he's my only friend. Maybe. Or maybe I don't have any friends? I'm not sure.

Saint, he says as I let myself into the chapel—the semi-sacred place where the club holds all its meetings. The old building sits behind the clubhouse, surrounded by the towering trunks of ancient redwood trees, the entire interior drenched in the smell of tobacco. Doesn't bother me, but it doesn't thrill me either. I don't smoke; what's the point in that? Like sex, it doesn't do anything for me. Not a damn thing at all.

Royal sounds tired, looks tired. He's sitting in his chair at the head of the table, one elbow resting against the wood, fingers curled in his dark hair as he examines some