Viper (Hell's Handlers MC 9)

“I don’t like to give false hope,” he’d said with a beaming grin, “but you can go home and rest easy. You’ve been a champion patient, Cassie. There is no doubt in my mind you’ve kicked this.”

She and Jazz had held each other through gallons of tears while sitting in Jazz’s car. They hadn’t exchanged words. Cassie knew Jazz had been thinking about how Viper should have been the one there receiving the good news.

And while Cassie had wished with every fiber of her being that he’d been by her side to receive the incredible news, she knew he heard it from wherever he may be. And she knew he was overjoyed for her and the gift she’d received.

She was so proud of him. Proud of the way he’d saved Jazmine’s life in such a selfless manner. Even if part of her wanted to rail at him for allowing himself to be taken from her, she couldn’t deny her pride in her hero.

How many people would save another’s life, sacrificing their own without a second’s thought? Not many. Most weren’t brave or honorable enough.

But then, Viper had always been a hero. From the moment she met him.

CHAPTER THREE

1982 - WASHINGTON

No matter how tightly Cassandra huddled into herself or how vigorously she rubbed the parts of her arms and legs she could reach, she couldn’t seem to infuse any warmth into her body. The house wasn’t frigid, at least not compared to how the outside had felt, but it certainly wasn’t toasty. And after what had to be a full twenty-four hours of being unclothed without a blanket, she was chilled to the bone.

Not that these men cared about something as trivial as her comfort. No, most kidnappers weren’t overly concerned whether their captive was cozy.

God, she’d been kidnapped. And sold off like some kind of auction item. Straight out of a fucking movie, only no one here was acting.

The overwhelming panic hovering just beneath the surface of her skin threatened to overtake her. Cassie rested her forehead on her bent knees and fought to steady her breath as she thought of waves on the beach, rolling into shore and flowing back out. It’d worked this far to keep her from losing control of her emotions. After her mother had died in a car accident when Cassie had been eight, she’d started having episodes of difficulty breathing and heightened anxiety. One day, a teacher had found her hiding out in the bathroom at school, near full-on panic attack. She’d taught Cassie the breathing trick. She’d used it ever since when she needed to clear her mind and manage severe stress. Who knew how long it’d be before the technique lost its efficacy, and she freaked out?

She’d been so stupid; a damn cliché. She was the reason stereotypes about naïve rich girls existed. Apparently, she also happened to be precisely what some sickko was looking for. A dumb, spoiled, sheltered rich girl who’d never had sex, and had no clue how the real world worked.

Well, whoever he was, he’d gotten her. Well, some asshole who worked for that slimy Wayne had drugged her drink and snagged her from a bar, and the buyer would get her in a day or so.

And he’d break her. Or so the bikers kept saying as they laughed and pawed at her mostly naked body. Wouldn’t take much; she was so near broken already she might shatter before the buyer ever got his hands on her.

Maybe whoever purchased her would be disappointed if she broke too quickly, and he’d return her. Was there some kind of trial period? A trade-in credit if she didn’t work out? A harsh laugh escaped into the quiet room. There was that naiveté again, like a bright light blinking on her forehead.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Another ragged and inappropriate burst of laughter escaped her. God, she was really losing it.

“The fuck you laughing about?” a deep, irritated voice asked as the door flew open.

A beefy guy with a flaming red mohawk and freckles galore stood in the open doorway. He was one of the ugliest men she’d ever seen, with a deformed nose and cauliflower ear on both sides of his head. A long scar ran straight across his forehead as though someone had tried to scalp him. Whoever he was, his face had been through the mill. Looked like this guy had replaced Legs as her prison warden at some point in the hours she’d been there. How many hours, she had no freaking clue. The men didn’t exactly leave a clock or anything in the room. Too bad the bikers were smarter than they looked.

“Nothing,” she mumbled, keeping her eyes trained on the enormous booted feet filling up the doorway.

The biker, whoever he was, grunted. “You ain’t got much to be laughing about right now, bitch.”