He’s standing next to us at the bar, his eyes on me. They’re cold, unfeeling, and distant. I’m still staring, my mouth slightly parted, my breath a little heavier when his eyes leave me and focus on the bartender. With the slightest lift of his index finger, he gives the command for another beer. It’s such a simple gesture. There’s nothing worldly about his demand. But he makes it seem so powerful and lethal—like with just the lift of his finger, he could turn everybody in the bar to dust.
I’ve forgotten the other men, but they haven’t forgotten me, and their eyes follow mine to the man standing there as if this is his world and we’re just living in it.
“Who? This guy?” He claps the man hard on the shoulder, but he doesn’t budge. His eyes drag ever so slowly and deadly to the hand that remains on him.
“Get your fucking hand off me.”
One demand.
Six words.
It’s all I need to know that he is the one who can protect me. His words are so dangerous and threatening that the air grows colder with their iciness.
The scent of cologne fades slightly as the men stand to attention, ready to fight. Even though they move to stand between us, the force I feel radiating from him is unwavering.
“Or what, Adam Levine?” They laugh, taunting him. He is outnumbered. Outsized. The odds are against him. But he’s unaffected. He’s not intimidated, afraid, or the least bit worried. And something tells me that his confidence isn’t just a front.
When the fingers on his shoulder curl the slightest bit, my eyes widen, making sure to capture every moment of what I know is coming next.
The sound of a fist meeting flesh echoes around me, a second before a limp body falls at my feet. Then the face of the man that was beside him is met with the worn wood on the bar, splattering blood in every direction before sliding to the floor.
It took less than three seconds. Now it’s over. And the silence is everywhere.
His eyes are locked on mine, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. His breathing is controlled but I can see the veins in his neck pulsing with the rush of adrenaline. He’s not smiling. He’s not angry or happy or proud. He’s just as expressionless as I am.
He grabs his beer from the bar, stepping over the motionless bodies that lay unconscious on the floor. He throws some money down and nods to the bartender. Then, he turns to me, his narrowed, dark eyes holding me in place. Once again, his index finger extends slightly, this time in my direction.
“You’re welcome.”
I’m completely undone. Chaos surrounds me, but my focus is solely on him.
This man.
This being.
This force.
And as I watch him leave, I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is the one . . .
The one who is going to break my heart.
2
SHADY
IT’S BEEN SIX months since Dirk’s death. Six months since I buried him. Six months since I left Jackpot and everything else behind. Sinner’s Creed is still my club. Still my life. But right now, my only priority is revenge.
My new home is located in Hillsborough, New Hampshire, which is within driving distance of eighteen Death Mob chapters. People here know me as Zeke Robinson, a website designer who moved here from Natchez, Mississippi, in hopes of finding a fresh start. Nobody really asks me a lot of questions, and I haven’t drawn the attention of anyone until recently.
I’m sitting in Charlie’s Pub, a local spot that has a patio overlooking the river. I come here almost every day I’m not working. For the past couple of weeks, I’ve noticed that she’s been here too. She stares at me constantly, completely unashamed. Yesterday, she had an issue with a couple of guys who were from out of town. I was going to stay out of it, but one of them put his hands on me. I haven’t been in a forgiving mood lately, so I reacted, even though I knew I shouldn’t. Now I’m the local fucking hero.
And she’s coming over.
I glare at her, my eyes warning her off, but she only smirks at me. Each step she takes is slow, deliberate. She’s forcing me to look at her. Not just her face, but the sway of her narrow hips. The way her right foot crosses over her left like she’s on a runway instead of an old wooden patio.
I’d say she looks like a fairy. A five-foot, one-hundred-pound fairy with a pixie cut and glittery shit on her eyes. But fairies are cute and childlike—she’s not. She’s fucking gorgeous, and all woman. There is a sense of power that surrounds her. She emits confidence. And every head in the bar turns when she crosses the floor. She’s just that damn demanding.
“You,” she says, taking a seat across from me—uninvited and not giving a shit. “Owe me a drink.” She kicks at the chair between us, and places her feet in it. Making herself comfortable, she leans back and narrows her eyes on me. “My favorite shirt is now ruined with the blood of another man. A man I might have been considering taking home. You know, now that I think about it, you owe me two drinks.”