Tempting Fate

Almost five years ago, I played a stupid game, and just like the adage warns, I won a stupid prize.

A lifetime supply of trauma.

Caught in the crossfire of an underworld battle that I wasn’t privy to until it was too late, I have found solace in the arms of my first love and peace in my connection with my fiancé’s best friend.

Between Zeke and Slash, I am over-protected, a little sheltered, but mostly happy. My dad’s motorcycle club acts as my buffer from reality.

The escapades of my friends and four brothers keep me entertained within my comfortable bubble.Life is simple.

Life is good.Until my violent ex-boyfriend is released from prison and our lies and secrets blow up in our face once more…Zeke leaves me.

Slash declares his love.And I find myself caught in the middle of another stupid game.

• Death of a parent (off page, mentioned in passing)

• Sexual assault against women (present day, on page, descriptive)

• BDSM elements (consensual non-consent)

• Self-harm (off and on page)

• Drug use (past, off page)

• Violence against women (off page and on page, present day, descriptive)

• Emotional manipulation/emotional abuse

• Miscarriage/pregnancy loss (present day, on page, descriptive)

• Stalking

• Love triangle (readers may feel some events constitute cheating)

• Abduction

• Addiction

• Mental health issues (undiagonsed and diagnosed)

Prologue

Lily
Aged: Nineteen

“Angel, angel… are you going to forgive Alex?” The woman trots alongside the barricade that’s been set up to separate us from the crazies lined up outside the courthouse. She yells her questions like a reporter, but I know she’s one of them. “Will you finally admit that you’re lying about him? That this is a love triangle gone wrong.”

“Fuckin’ psychos,” Sander grumbles from behind me.

“Needa be put outta their misery.” I squeeze Zeke’s hand to remind him that he can’t act on his lethal inclinations. “What kinda bitch thinks a rapist needs defendin’?”

“Sad bitches, that’s who.” Slash keeps his arm around my neck and my face pressed into his wide chest as he helps Zeke lead me inside. Sandwiched between my boyfriend and our gigantic bestie I can barely see a thing. “Like to see them survive the bullshit they’re throwin’ at little Cherub.”

Their determination to shield me from this mess is futile. After a year of attacks by the media, haranguing depositions from lawyers employed by Joseph Kingsley, invasive medical tests, and four major surgeries, I know that this isn’t the end. This is simply another interlude. A new way for Alex to taunt me.

Because he refuses to exit my life.

Notwithstanding his guilty plea, my tormentor has done his best to drag out the legal process. He’s fought his mental health diagnosis. Broken his bail conditions by sending me letters. Leveraged the blackmail photographs of Sander by anonymously releasing them on social media two days before training began. Ordered his group of female devotees to hound me. Sat down for print interviews and given magazine exclusives about the “truth” of our relationship and a convoluted explanation about how his guilty plea doesn’t actually mean he did what he’s been accused of.

About the only thing Alex hasn’t stooped to is setting the Maddison clan onto the Shamrocks. Thank God for small mercies, I guess.

Since my final surgery four months ago, and my permanent discharge from hospital, Zeke, Slash, and Toker have tried their hardest to keep me in the dark about it all.

To no avail—not in this hyper-connected day and age.

Even so, I appreciate their efforts.

Which is why I don’t have the heart to tell them that I’m aware of the tricks Alex is likely to employ when we’re face to face again shortly. This court appearance might ostensibly be for his sentencing, however I’m cognisant that it’s another opportunity for him to use the microphone the legal system has thrust in his face to beat me down emotionally.

His gang of female supporters have hardly been subtle about their plans for today.

Before I deactivated my social media accounts seven months ago, comments like the ones thrown at me by the woman sprinting alongside the barrier were a daily occurrence. As a girl raised to believe in the sisterhood, discovering that some women will sell out their sisters for a man’s attention has been a hard lesson. If it wasn’t for Nadia’s complete loyalty and the support of the Shamrocks’ old ladies, my faith in women would be gone.

Because Alex’s female supporters are vicious.

They call themselves “the chosen Cherubim”. There’s more than ten in the main group, along with twenty or so other members who float around on the periphery. Most of them have grown their hair long like mine and dyed their hair blonde or purchased wigs to get the same effect. They pile their hair into high, messy buns, stick blue contacts in their eyes, dress in tight, low-cut tops, and body-hugging jeans, and pose with Harley-Davidson’s they couldn’t even start, let alone ride.

It’s their “Jezebel ensemble”.

Apparently, their clothes and behaviour are supposed to shame me into freeing their leader.

As part of their public shaming, they film themselves reading Alex’s letters to me, all the while displaying a “Property of The King” patch on the vests they wear. With disturbing regularity, they post the videos online and in the social media groups they run. Sometimes they even take out full-page adverts in the paper to “set the record straight”. One of them runs the “Angel watch” blog that reports my movements. A few of them regularly meet with Alex at the mansion where he’s supposed to be on tightly regulated home detention. Every interaction is filmed, edited to make Alex look like the victim of my maliciousness, and distributed to as many public sources as possible.

It’s a circus. One I can’t seem to avoid, especially when they hide out on my university campus and ambush me as I leave class. None of the dozen restraining orders I’ve been granted have been upheld—not a surprise since Joseph Kingsley runs the police. My legal team, led by the Shamrocks legal eagle, Gabriel Abaddon, tries to keep me out of their sight but these women are relentless.

And so is Australia’s media.

Too many so-called journalists, those self-purported professionals whose job it is to spread the truth, have shown their arses to count. They’ve brought into the whorish daughter of notorious biker uses the #MeToo movement to take down the upstanding son of anti-corruption politician narrative being pushed by Alex’s team. And when that hasn’t been enough fodder to keep the clickbait hounds raging, they’ve added new rumours to the mix.

Day after day; they manage to stoop a little lower.

Rehashing Slash’s case.

Spreading lies about Sander.

Accusing Zeke of being the man responsible for my assault.

One of the Sunday night current affairs shows even aired a special where Alex was interviewed about his version of events. The programme, for which Alex was paid to sit down, one on one, with a pre-eminent interviewer who once worked as a lobbyist for Joseph, confected the story of a man on the cusp of being wrongly incarcerated by the lies of a young woman who’d been brainwashed by “purity culture” and her need to remain virtuous for her “biker betrothed”. In fact, Alex alleged that it was Zeke who beat and raped me as reprisal for my “unsanctioned” love affair with an upstanding politician’s son, and that the Shamrocks had covered up their violent sergeant-at-arms crime by forcing me into pointing the finger at Alex.

Apparently, it was a win-win for the club. They stopped their club from fracturing and destroyed Joseph Kingsley, the anti-corruption candidate, before the upcoming election where the rumour was that he planned to run for Premier.

If Alex’s story was a movie script, it would be thrown out of the writer’s room for being too contrived. Unfortunately, the citizens of Western Australia are lapping up the charade and tuning in for more… in between baying for my blood and ringing into talk-back radio to demand the police shut down all motorcycle clubs.

Hence the reason why the men escorting me into the courtroom today aren’t wearing their cuts. The Black Shamrocks MC are public enemy number two—I’m number one, of course. We’re hunted by the media and looked down on by the same communities we’ve supported since the end of the Vietnam War with toy runs at Christmas for the kids who’d otherwise miss out on a present under their tree and poker runs to fundraise money for those in need. Even more of a problem is the attitude other clubs and criminal organisations have toward us.

The Cerulli Famiglia have threatened to ally with the Maddison clan against us.

The Ten Thousand Sons Triad are moving product through our ports without fear.

The Bishops of Bloodshed are pushing into our turf, using the public and political scrutiny we’re under as a shield from any reprisal we would once have rained down on them.

The New Trinity, or La Trinitat Nova as they are better known, have called a sit-down to discuss our ongoing membership in their guild. As the first and final word on literally everything, political, financial, social, and spiritual, possessing the Trinity’s approval is both protection and validation. Without it, we are no better than the Maddison’s.

To say that the Shamrocks are on the cusp of war would be an understatement.

We’re heading toward total annihilation of our fifty years of tradition and brotherhood with a mad man at the helm and three of the biggest criminal organisations in Australia breathing down our neck. My father used the club’s distraction over my assault to pull off a coup. He usurped Hades’ role as president, using his terminal cancer diagnosis as an excuse, stealing Zeke’s legacy in one fell swoop. After pleading for change and vowing to mentor Zeke so he could take his rightful place “once he’s older and wiser”, Dad and his slight majority have made it clear that they are willing to take the Shamrocks in the exact opposite direction our founding six set out in the original constitution.

The Shamrocks are splintering, and I can’t help but blame myself for it.

If only I’d stayed away from Alex…

“Mr. Kingsley, will you stand up please?” the justice orders in a solemn tone after she bangs her gavel twice.

I blink fast, my eyes stinging as I realise that I’ve gotten lost in my head once again. Somehow, Zeke and Slash have managed to help me unconsciously navigate the media at the front of the courthouse, the crazies, the metal detectors and bag check, and take a seat on what I’ve come to think of as my side of the courtroom. Although I know my absentmindedness is becoming dangerous, my brain remains incapable of doing anything productive other than worry about all the problems my bad decisions have caused.

At that thought, a shiver of foreboding runs the length of my spine.

My stomach flip-flops.

What if Alex walks away scot-free?

God, I hope not.

Sandwiched between Zeke and Slash, I rub my palms along my thighs, then I cross my fingers and slide my hands under my legs to hide my superstitious behaviour from Zeke.

“Shoulda put a bullet in his head,” Sander grumbles from behind me. “Motherfucker shouldn’t be breathin’ the same air as you, let alone lookin’ your way.”

“Hush,” Nadia warns him. I shoot her a grateful look over my shoulder and she offers me a tight grimace. “We don’t need the bailiff to drag you out again. You made the six o’clock news last time.”

Slash chuckles under his breath, then he shows me his fingers.

They’re crossed like mine.

“Hoping’ for an early birthday present,” he murmurs.

Thoughts of my recent nineteenth birthday, the first anniversary of Alex’s attack try to push to the forefront of my mind. I refuse them access. The scars on my thighs and lower belly are enough of a reminder without allowing my traitorous brain to remind me how weak I am.

When Alexander pushes to his feet with an easy grace he has no right to possess, I blindly seek out Zeke’s touch. He links our fingers and pulls our intertwined hands onto his lap. Resting heavily against my boyfriend, I try my hardest to keep my breath steady and my body from shaking as the justice skims over the document in front of her.

“We can go outside, if you want?” Slash whispers. Careful not to startle me as he reaches for my other hand, he slants an expression filled with empathy my way. “You don’t needa be here for this.”

“I do.” After dragging my gaze from the back of Alex’s head, I offer my worried friend a loaded look. “Won’t be able to sleep, eat, drink, breathe unless I hear the outcome with my own ears and see it with my own eyes.”

With a sharp nod, Slash concedes my point. He turns slightly to use his chin to direct my attention to Sander. I angle my head, my mouth runs dry when I find my twin dashing at his eyes with the back of his hand. Nadia loops her arm around his neck and pulls his face to her shoulder. Next to her, Slash’s mum, Crystal, sits ramrod straight. She holds up her “Justice should be blind” sign and glares at any of Alex’s supporters whenever they make the mistake of meeting her eyes.

I offer her a watery smile when Crystal slips Sander a tissue and orders, “Shoulders square, chin up.”

To his credit, Sander does exactly as he’s told. When he glances my way, I pretend I can’t see his red-rimmed eyes. With a squeeze of my fingers, Zeke steals my attention from my twin. He looks around the courtroom, at anyone but the man my father refuses to grant him the permission to kill, and I follow his focus. The long benches on the prosecution side are filled with my supporters. On the other side of Sander, my three younger brothers fill out the row. Behind them, the old ladies of the Black Shamrocks MC offer their silent but solid support.

Row after row, from my spot at the front, to the double doors all the way at the back, is occupied by big men in dirty denim and long-sleeved T-shirts—stripped of their Shamrocks cut and colours. From prospects to lifers who’ve been in the club longer than I’ve been alive, from the Perth chapter to those from the East Coast, the Shamrocks have turned out to support me. Each man has had his life turned on its head by my bad choices, yet they’re all here.

Sitting with me.

Encouraging me.

Protecting me.

Unlike my father… and Charlie.

As soon as thoughts of Dad push their way into my head, I shove them back out. I don’t have the bandwidth to process his betrayal, not that any level of comprehension will help me understand his reasons for secretly sanctioning a union between me and the heir to the Maddison clan.

It doesn’t make sense.

It’s never been part of the biker life.

Arranged marriages are more the bailiwick of the mafia and the Trinity.

Even then, the women involved are aware they’re being used to create a blood bond.

Not that it makes any difference.

It’s over now.

Dad might’ve won some battles, but he lost that fight. I’m free to choose my own partner, and I’ve made it clear that I choose Zeke. I’ve been in love with him since I was thirteen, and despite some bumps in our road to togetherness, he loves me in return.

Dirty as I am.

Broken as I am.

Zeke has made it clear that I’m it for him.

As my mind tries to bombard me with memories of Alex’s attack on my eighteenth birthday, I force myself to focus elsewhere. I take in the stark contrast between the rough men on my side and the well-dressed politicians, businessmen, weeping socialites, and other supporters sitting behind Alex. The difference in our social standing has been well documented by the converging press. The sides of this trial are delineated with or without the presence of the Shamrocks patch. When the man accused of violent rape and grievous bodily harm is the only son of the Minister for Police and his victim is the daughter of an MC president, unfavourable comparisons are expected.

I’m the dirty biker whore who took down the crown prince of Western Australia.

Alex is the unfortunate dupe caught in my lewd net.

God forbid the truth gets in the way of a clever soundbite.

“Face forward, Mr. Kingsley,” Justice Thompson demands. “I’d hate to hold you in contempt at such a late stage.”

My head snaps to the front of the courtroom. I lock eyes with Alex, who’s turned around to look at me. My heart stops. My lungs empty. I’m frozen in place as he awkwardly blows me a kiss using his handcuffed hands, then winks. Next to me, Zeke growls and makes to stand. I shake myself free of the weird thrall Alex creates and stay my man with a strong squeeze of his closest thigh.

“Gonna kill him if he looks at you again.”

“No, you’re not,” I tell Zeke, even though I’d love nothing more than Alex to die. “That’ll only make things worse.”

“It’ll make me feel a fuckova lot better.”

While the justice clears her throat, and scowls at Alex as he slowly resumes facing her, I lean into Zeke and whisper, “I won’t lose you, not to him, not to whatever revenge his father decides to cook up to pay us back for damaging his family’s reputation and destroying his chance of becoming the state’s Premier, and definitely not to my father’s games. There’s a reason why Dad won’t sanction Alex’s death, so until we know what it is, you’ll use your brains and respect my call for restraint.”

The muscle in Zeke’s jaw works as he stops himself from saying what he really thinks to settle for placating me. “I’ll—” Slash makes a rumbling sound that vibrates his chest and Toker matches it with one of his own from the other side of Zeke. “—we’ll respect it, sweet thing, doesn’t mean we agree with it.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“For the rape of Miss Lilianna Scarlett Mayberry.” As the justice continues speaking, we all face forward. “The offender is sentenced to imprisonment for a term of five years and seven months. The non-parole period is one of two years and four months and will include time served as of this date.”

“Holy fuck!” Sander exclaims as Alex’s side recoils in shock at the sentence. “He’s actually goin’ to prison, not a psych ward?”

“Keep calm,” Crystal chides. She lays a hand on my shoulder and everyone sitting around me pretends to ignore the way I startle at her light touch. I swallow hard, biting my tongue so I don’t scream at her to get away from me while my skin crawls beneath the pressure of her fingers. “The second charge is the big one.”

“Not sure how beating someone half to death is worse than raping them half to death,” Nadia mutters. “Fucking men and their bullshit laws.”

Crystal grumbles something under her breath that sounds like agreement.

“For the aggravated grievous bodily harm of Lilianna Scarlett Mayberry, the offender is sentenced to imprisonment for a term of eight years and one month. Due to the mitigating factors presented by the defence, I have used the guidelines provided to offer a special dispensation for good behaviour and the completion of an appropriate mental health program whilst determining the non-parole period. In due course, the non-parole period for this sentence is no less than four years and eleven months. This will be served concurrently with the previous sentence, however time already served will not count.”

“Less than five years,” I murmur under my breath. “Five years until he comes back for me.”

“He won’t get within spittin’ distance of you ever again,” Zeke promises.

I want to agree with him, but I can’t.

Alex is a monster.

Evil personified.

And everyone knows that evil monsters don’t just fade into the darkness in the face of defeat. Monsters aren’t quitters. They don’t have the capacity to accept defeat. Instead, they bide their time, lick their wounds while they plot and plan, grow more devious by the day, until they invade the light and drag their obsession back into hell with them.

My monster will come back for me.

When he returns, I need to be strong enough to defeat him.

Chapter one

Lily

Three and a half years later

I’m reaching the point in my cross-stitch where I want to throw in the towel. With my propensity to skip around the pattern to stitch the same colour all at once, I always find that I’ve miscounted when I go back to fill in the more unique colours. My sloppiness irritates me, the need to rework parts feels like an indictment of my incompetence. Of course, it doesn’t help that I can hear Serena’s voice in my head, chiding me for my impatience, every time I have to redo a section.

Serena Abaddon is the oldest club princess from the Black Shamrocks MC Philadelphia chapter, and after her visit to Australia for my eighteenth birthday, we fell into the habit of sending each other pieces of handcrafted, one-of-a-kind, adult art.

And by adult art, I mean cocks.

Embroidered cocks.

Watercolour cocks.

Knitted cocks.

Clay cocks.

My mother started the Moscato and Monet club for the old ladies back before I was born, and I kept it going after she died. When I introduced the American old ladies to the club during their Australian trip, we stuck to watercolour, paint-by-number pieces that I sourced from an online adult superstore. Serena is the one who took the original incarnation of the old ladies club global and started the competition to see who could create the most unique piece of cock art.

She won our last battle with a hand-painted ceramic tea kettle that had a, shall we say, unusually decorated, spout. It was a housewarming present sent to Zeke and me, one that had us laughing at six in the morning when I poured a cup of tea without realising what the pattern looked like when it was tipped on an angle until it was too late.

My creation is a collage of dicks—circumcised and uncircumcised; flaccid, hard, and ejaculating. The design is being stitched to a piece of satin that another club princess, Ziva, is going to glue to Serena’s graduation cap for me. The presentation of the mortarboard will be filmed for me, so I can revel in my win, even though Serena is likely to wear it with pride, since that’s just the type of girl she is.

Totally unflappable.

Perfectly poised.

The opposite of me.

“Now I just need to get it finished in time,” I grumble to myself.

On the muted television that’s lighting up the early morning dawn, Klaus Michaelson expertly dispatches someone who’s displeased him. Most likely a family member—which is an inclination I find myself battling more and more as my brothers get older. I allow my gaze to drift from my cross-stitch to the screen a second before the piece of satin is gently snatched out of my grasp and I’m pushed backward on the couch.

“Good mornin’, metukà shelì,” my fiancé tells me in a growly voice as he pins my arms over my head. Above me, Zeke’s hungry gaze roams my face. His pupils contract, his multi-coloured irises take on a lusty light. He bites down on his full bottom lip, shaking his head. “Fuck you’re beautiful.”

It’s coming up on five years since Alex raped and beat me, yet I still can’t accept compliments without hearing his voice in my head adding his commentary. Informing me how unworthy I am. Calling me a Jezebel. Telling me that he’ll always be in me. Reminding me how easy it is for men to deceive.

The smile that I offer Zeke is genuine.

It’s also a lie.

He makes me feel beautiful.

It’s my mind that tells me I’m ugly.

“Yeah,” I say as I strain against his grip. In an effort to drown out Alex’s voice, I use one of the distraction techniques my therapist taught me. “Does that mean you’ll bow down before me?” Lifting my head as far as I can, I nip at his lightly bearded chin with my teeth. “After all, you’re the one who tells me beauty like mine deserves to be worshipped.”

“Like this?” Zeke uses his free hand to slide the hem of the t-shirt I’m wearing toward my collarbones. Once my upper body is exposed, he dips his head and the longer tresses of his bronze-brown hair flop forward over his forehead. He twirls his tongue around my left nipple. The sensitive flesh tightens, my skin electrifying when he runs his tongue across the valley of my cleavage to lavish attention on my right breast. “Is that the kinda worshippin’ you want, sweet thing?”

“It’s a good start.” Zeke chuckles at my breathy tone. “But I’m sure a talented man like you can do better.”

“Better, she says,” my fiancé teases me with a smirk. “That sounds like a challenge, Lily. And you know I never back down from a challenge.”

Lowering my gaze, I regard him through my eyelashes. “You have fifteen minutes before I need to be in the shower. Gabriel’s called an early meeting.”

“A challenge with a time limit. Looks like my woman’s really layin’ down the gauntlet this mornin’.”

Before I can respond, Zeke is moving above me. He makes quick work of securing my hands above my head with the t-shirt that I stole from the back of the chair he uses as a half-way house for his clothing before they’re dirty enough to be added to the laundry hamper. The panties I’m wearing are ripped at the waistband, then tied around my ankles, and he has my arse in his hands as he pulls me to the edge of the couch.

“Zeke?” I hate the fear in my voice. The same terror that I know he can see in my face. “I don’t know if—”

“Keep your eyes on me.” The take-no-prisoners tone he invokes is exactly what I need. “Trust me, metukà shelì… I’ll take care of you.”

His Hebrew endearment makes my heart race even faster.

Being Zeke’s little sweetheart is my favourite role in life.

“I know.”

His eyes narrow when I hesitate.

My bomb-proof man never looks unsure of himself—especially when it comes to dealing with me and my trauma-induced quirks. Today, though, his throat works as he peers down at me with a strange glint in his eyes. It takes me a second to decipher his expression, but when I do, my heart sinks.

I’ve made him uncertain.

“Say it again, sweet thing. Tell me you trust me like you trust no one else.”

“I trust you, Zeke.”

This time, my answer is immediate. I don’t hesitate, responding in a breathy rush, not because I’m trying to hide the truth that my faith in him has wavered—it hasn’t—but to show him that I have complete confidence in his ability to protect me.

It’s me I don’t trust.

My mind.

My choices.

My thoughts.

Destroyed. Dangerous. Disgraced.

What if I make a bad decision that puts Zeke at risk this time?

“Eyes on mine.” Zeke’s demand shatters the shame spiral I’m caught in. His fingers bite into the soft flesh on the inside of my thighs as he pushes my legs open. Exposed to the morning air and his ravenous gaze, I squirm. It’s too intense. Being bare before the man I love. Exposed to our emotional connection. Trapped by the trust I promised him. “Let me worship, Lily. Let me show you exactly how much I love ya, metukà shelì.”

Unarmed, naked, and on his knees before me, Zeke is as vulnerable as I am. It’s rare to see him without his cut and at least one weapon strapped to his body or within reach. His lack of defence soothes me. Reminds me that our trust goes two ways. I’m the only person he reveals his full self to, he’s the only person I allow to see my brokenness, which helps me shake off Alex’s poison to concentrate on the man who would literally kill for me.

When Zeke dips his head to press the flattened tip of his tongue to my clit, my hips jerk, my butt lifts from the couch. His grip on my thighs tightens, holding me in place, forcing me to accept every touch. Lapping at me with his tongue, working me over with dedication, the powerful man kneeling between my legs trails his fingertips over my skin. He tap-dances along my hip bones, runs his palms over my abdomen to cradle the underside of my breasts.

All the while, his tongue doesn’t stop moving.

He licks my clit, making shapes that curl my toes.

He spears my entrance, and I jolt at the sensation.

When Zeke’s thumbs flick over my nipples, I curl upright. His big tattoo-covered body stops me from moving, my arms caught in the knotted t-shirt, my ankles bound by my tattered panties. After he nips at my clit with his teeth, one hand drops between my thighs. A light spanking of my clit is the only warning I get before two fingers are pushed inside my overstimulated body. My walls clamp down on his fingers, the tell-tale tingle of an impending orgasm builds in my lower belly.

“That’s right, sweet thing. Keep your eyes on me,” Zeke croons. His breath is warm where it flows over my sensitive flesh. He pumps his fingers faster. I arch my back as my thighs start to tremble. “Yeah, Lily. There ya go. You’re gonna come. Aren’t ya, sweet thing.”

“Zeke,” I whimper his name as he drives me toward the abyss. “God.”

“Come on, Cherub, you’re almost there.” My walls spasm, gripping his fingers tight as my hips move of their own volition. The rhythm of his thrusting hand gains tempo. I throw my head back as far as I can, moaning when Zeke tweaks one of my nipples and hums over my clit. “That’s right, sweet thing. Ride that wave. Come on my hand.” The sounds I make as I tumble over the edge of blossoming bliss into ecstasy would be embarrassing if I was conscious of them. “Good girl, Lily. So beautiful. Flushed and needin’ a hard fuck.”

Before I can come back down to earth, Zeke frees my limbs, then sweeps me from the couch and tosses me over his shoulder. He carries me through our living room, down the long hall, and into our bedroom. I expect to be thrown onto the bed and covered with his body, but he keeps moving. The sound of the shower being turned on is the only clue I have to the location of my promised second orgasm before Zeke steps under the waterfall and then I’m lowered to my feet.

“Gonna fuck you now, sweet thing.”

Trapped between Zeke’s body and the cold tiled wall at my back, I smile. Pressing my palms to his cheeks, I pillow my breasts against his chest and plaster my body to his. I make him angle his face so I can kiss his forehead, then I press my lips to Zeke’s.

“I love you.” After running my teeth over his bottom lip, I kiss him a second time. “To the moon and back.”

“Fuck the moon, metukà shelì. I love you to Neptune and back.” He grins at me. “It’s the furthest planet from earth.”

“You got that little fact from Hunter, didn’t you?”

The humour in Zeke’s gaze doesn’t match the faux urgency in his voice when he tells me, “Never wanna hear you mention that little shit when I’m about to put my dick in you.”

“I’m getting dick, am I?” I tilt my head to the side, then slide my hand between our bodies. “This dick?”

“This dick,” Zeke responds, tipping his head back when I work him up and down with my hand. “Definitely this dick, only ever this dick, sweet thing.”

My teeth are cruel as I nip at the cords in his neck and the soft skin above his collar bone. My grip on his hard length increases, my thumb brushing the sensitive underside of his circumcised head on each up stroke. I jack him off with longer pumps, edging him in the way he hates to love. When I lick my way along his collarbone, from his shoulder to the notch at the base of his throat, Zeke growls. I slow down my ministrations, lowering my head to press a kiss to the tattoo of my name where it sits right over his heart, then I catch his pierced left nipple between my teeth and tug hard.

“Fuck,” he hisses.

“You ready to fuck?” I ask with amusement when his hips buck as I jack him off. “Or would you rather come on me?”

“Sweet thing.” Zeke knocks my hand away. His fingertips bite into my hips when he turns me around and kicks my feet apart. I don’t have time to catch myself against the wall before he has the head of his cock notched at my pussy. “Gonna fuck you so hard you see stars.”

And with one swift pump of his hips, he makes good on that promise.

It’s hard.

It’s fast.

It’s wet.

It’s savage.

It’s perfect.

“Zeke. Zeke. Zeke,” I cry out his name as another climax ratchets its way through my body. Neon colours burst in my vision when I screw my eyes shut to ride out the waves of oblivion. “God. Yes. Fuck.”

His hand snakes up to cup my throat and he pulls my head back to rest on his shoulder. “Good girl. Grip me with that tight cunt while I fill you.” The staccato pumps of his hips punctuate his words as he reaches his own orgasm. “Fuckin’ hell, sweet thing. Love the way you take every inch of me.”

Once he’s caught his breath, he kisses me until I’m panting, then turns me so I’m under the water. My grin is wide when he leaves me alone to finish my shower. Conscious of the time, and cognisant that missing an early meeting with Gabriel would be career suicide at this point, I hurry through my morning routine at warp speed. Once I’m dressed in a pencil skirt and silky shirt, and my damp hair is gathered into a knot on the top of my head, I stagger past Zeke. With my handbag slung over my shoulder and one of my heels in my hand while I attempt to slide my foot into the other, I’m a flustered mess.

Zeke bites back a smirk as he butters toast.

I narrow my eyes, daring him to laugh.

Smart man that he is, my fiancé choses to humour me.

“Here you go, sweet thing. Ladies first…”

I snatch the piece of Vegemite toast Zeke hands me, clamping it between my teeth as I lean against the wall to put my other shoe on. My man grins at me over the top of his coffee mug while I swallow down my breakfast with the least amount of chewing possible. Once Zeke has exchanged my uneaten crust for a travel mug of coffee, I stop to take him in. He’s almost dressed for the day, sporting his usual black jeans, Shamrocks t-shirt, and boots.

Looks like he has club business today.

“Don’t you need your laptop?” he asks while I eat him up with my gaze. After I nod, Zeke tosses his cut onto the kitchen table next to me, then passes me a second piece of toast. “I’ll grab it while you eat.

His carelessness has caused an envelope to slide out of the inner pocket of his leather cut. At the sight of the familiar handwriting, I recoil from the missive like it’s a bomb. My entire body shakes as I grab the pen I unconsciously tucked behind my ear as I got ready and use it to push the envelope back into the worn Black Shamrocks MC vest.

I can’t bear to touch it, not knowing that he’s infected it.

If I was brave, I’d tell Zeke that I know Alex still writes to me.

But I’m not brave.

And I don’t want to be brave.

Not yet… at least.

So, my fiancé can continue to intercept Alex’s poisonous missives and I’ll pretend that I have no clue that my monster still hunts me. It might be the coward’s way out. It might even backfire in the long run. I don’t care right now because I understand Zeke’s choice to keep the letters from me. I understand his need to protect me from the things he can control. Because we still have over a year before Alex is free. More than seventeen months to create a plan. More than a year to get brave. More than enough time to ensure that when he comes for me, I’ll have an army at my back.

Because I know I can’t beat him alone.

I also know that Zeke can’t take him on without me at his side.

Alex is too smart.

Too dangerous.

Too desperate.

He’s been defeated once… that means he won’t underestimate us when the next round in our war commences.