WAYLON (Ruthless MC 1)

I open my mouth to argue, but Waylon's eyes suddenly switchblade to something over my shoulder, and he reaches inside his jacket.

What is he—

A gunshot rings out before I can finish forming that question.

Then the taller prospect joins his buddy on the bar’s concrete floor with a gun clenched in his hammy fist—he must have been about to draw it. Unlike the other guy, though, his eyes are popped wide open, and there’s a hole in the middle of his head surrounded by black burn residue.

Waylon shot him….I dimly realize with the sound of the gun blast still reverberating in my ears.

Waylon shot him point-blank in the face. Without blinking an eye, and with his hand still wrapped around my wrist.

Two wads of one-hundred-dollar bills land then bounce off the big guy’s chest. I don’t see who threw them down, but somehow, I know it was Waylon. And somewhere in the horrified recesses of my mind, I also know the exact amount of money in each folded-up stack. Five thousand dollars. Enough to cover the fee for each body on the floor. Guns, knives, and five-thousand-dollar wads— those are the kinds of things Waylon carries in his jacket pockets.

My stomach heaves.

Before I can fully process what's just happened right before my eyes, Waylon pulls me away.

His hand is manacled so tightly around my wrist. I have no choice but to stumble after him, my shorter legs barely able to keep up. Everything and everyone becomes a blur as he tugs me through the crowd.

I don't realize there’s a stage in this place until Waylon pulls me up a short set of steps.

When he stops us in the middle of the dais, I find myself standing above the crowd of bikers. They're not so raucous now. They all stare up at us, silent as a graveyard.

Someone's even turned off the music—not out of respect for the man who was just killed in cold blood going by their rapt expressions. But because they know that Waylon’s about to talk.

“Now listen here,” Waylon announces to the crowd underneath us. He raises my arm in the air, his hand gripping even tighter around my wrist.

I’m a captured animal, being held up like a trophy for all to see as he says, “Let’s clear up any confusion. This one belongs to me. If you want to know what’ll happen if any of you try to touch what’s mine, go see those two fucktards by the bar—Nest keep them on display for the next hour so everybody can take a look.”

I have no idea who this Nest is, but a voice with a Greek accent calls out, “Sure thing! This is no problem!” from somewhere in the vicinity of the bar as I goggle up at Waylon from under my arm.

What the hell? Is he seriously claiming me on a public stage? Does he honestly believe he owns me now?

A new panic sets in as I remember Persy’s words from before….and her PROPERTY OF tattoo. Just how long is he planning to keep me?

You’d think that under the circumstances, Waylon would wait around to hear how the crowd responded to that declaration. But no…

He pulls me back down the stairs before the room erupts in cheers and cat whistles. What kind of hell is this where people cheer the guy who just blatantly killed two men, then threaten to kill or severely beat anyone who touches the woman he’s treating like property?

He pulls me up another set of stairs before I can even begin to come up with an answer to that question.

These are taller, though, and lead to the roadhouse’s second floor. We crash into a bare-bones hotel room at the top of the steps.

I barely have time to register the single bed and the doorless bathroom before he slams me up into the closest wall.

He places a hand at either side of my head, bringing his body as close to mine as it can get without touching.

But I can feel its heat, and my nose fills up with his distinct smell of leather and engine.

I stare up at him, my heart beating like thunder. And my body…not quite knowing what to do.

He killed a man! He killed a man in cold blood.

But having him so close…every nerve in my body stands on edge. The same arousal that made me lose my mind in the church library clicks inside of me, like a gas stove sparking to light a flame.

“I’m sorry that guy touched you,” he says, his voice low and gruff. “That’s on me for not letting everybody know you belonged to me first thing first. A few of these prospects don’t know who I am. They have to be introduced.”

That’s what he called an introduction?

“You shouldn’t have….” My voice is shaking too much. I have to swallow. “You shouldn’t have killed him.”