Raiden (Satan’s Angels MC #2)

Chapter 1

Ella

A s of an hour ago, I’m officially the wife of the enemy.

At least I got to do it in a ceremony befitting a biker princess, wearing a leather dress and a ripped-up denim vest, my hair flowing free, rocking dark make-up and black leather stiletto boots that go all the way up to my knees. I didn’t have to cram myself into a white dress and have every little girl’s fairytale version of a wedding. Even as a little girl, it never looked like the typical starry-eyed day with all the mush and a big church. Ever since I’ve been old enough to really understand marriage, I’ve always thought I’d never do it. White knights are so fucking overrated and my noble stead? It’s made of metal, growls and rumbles, and I’m more than capable of riding off into the sunset myself.

This princess never needed a prince, but regardless, I’ve got one now.

The kids were put to bed hours ago, so the debauchery has been well underway for quite a while. That’s maybe too strong a word for the alcohol and laughter, the hazy clouds of potent weed and cigarette smoke thick in the air. This renovated warehouse turned biker clubhouse might look like any other, with exposed brick, scuffed hardwood floors, big beams in the ceilings, a lounge, living space in the back, and big gathering rooms that only the officer’s usually see the inside of, but the living large gets a two on the rough and hard scale.

Here, the men are friendly. No one has shot or stabbed anyone. A big, burly looking man with one eye and a beard might be sprawled out on the leather couch in the corner, two of the barely dressed club whores giving him attention, but even that’s tame compared to the Berserkers clubhouse.

There are no hard drugs, no brawls, nothing getting destroyed, and the women? Even the club whores, who are so low on the scale they’re barely seen as human in other clubs, aren’t being mishandled, nor will they be even as the night wears on, more alcohol is consumed, and already rough men turn into even rougher bikers.

I don’t think what any club does is right or wrong. I don’t get an opinion on that. It is what it is. But you should know what you’re signing up for when you hang around, prospect, patch in, or get involved in any way, in any club business. I thought they were pretty much all the same.

And then I became part of a peace offering and found possibly the one exception to the biker’s unofficial handbook in the whole country.

My god, it’s boring. Satan’s Angels MC? For an outlaw club they’re like damn choir boys. Santa’s Angels would fit better.

Though I suppose it could have been worse…

Beyond the pool table and the gathered crowd, through the haze of blue smoke, the rowdy laughter, empty drinks and full ones scattered around, leather and denim and heavily inked bodies, I lock eyes with my white knight.

He’s the least like any biker in this room. His dark hair, aggressively shaved low to his scalp and lack of a beard set him apart. At last he’s inked, the black scrolling over his hands and up his neck like a lover’s caress.

It’s about the only lover’s caress he’ll be getting.

This is an agreement of a marriage, but I won’t be humiliated by letting club whores near my man.

I glare at any of the women who try to hover around him until they fuck off onto an easier target. Raiden finally catches me doing it and levels me with what he probably thinks is a hard look.

The assumption is obvious. I’m the enemy. Daughter of their rival club’s president. but ironically, also a half-sister to their own president. As a woman, my mission can only be one thing, seduce for information. What other end goal could there be?

A few of the Angels would probably have a good laugh if they ever found out that I don’t even know what my father’s endgame is.

I keep glaring right back, arms crossed, and head tilted, giving off the perfectly self-assured, haughty vibes of the princess I am. He stares back with a drink in his hand, not knowing what he got himself into.

I watch his jaw twitch as I blatantly appraise him. It’s not the first time, but he’s worth a second and even a third look. He holds himself too stiff. Like my little half bro, he’s too principled and upright. He considers himself a moral fucking paragon. Despite the rigid posture and attitude, I’ve been well briefed, and I know that he’s done prison time. Five years. It’s obvious from the jailhouse tattoos on his knuckles.

I trace the ink with my eyes before I let my gaze move up to his strong wrists and corded forearms, then up to the bulge of his inked biceps disappearing under his black t-shirt. Virtuous or not, he was strong enough to hold his own in prison, tough and smart enough to survive.

He’s got a stern face and lips that don’t look like they’re used to smiling. His sister is my half-brother’s woman, and how they came from the same genetics pool, I have no idea. She’s tiny like a child while he’s tall, broad, and powerfully built. Lark has petite features that I suppose make her pretty enough, but her brother is craggy with a strong brow and burning coffee dark eyes. He’s cut from cheekbones to jaw out of marble, that kind of stone statue handsome that makes women weak because who doesn’t want a man hewn from something as elemental as the earth itself?

Want has little to do with anything. He’s my husband now, like it or not.

It’s his wedding and this is a biker celebration, or at least, it’s supposed to pass for one, and Raiden Gardiner doesn’t get left alone for long.

I’m good with names and I’ve been here for a week with my own men, brought to amalgamate into the ranks of Satan’s Angels to ensure peace between our clubs. The man who approaches Raiden with the dead blue eyes and the air sucking aura about him is Gunner.

Raiden ousted Gunner for VP, but apparently and unbelievably enough, the spot was being occupied until he grew balls enough to take it. The way this club operates is unfathomable to me, but Gunner appears to greet Raiden without hatred. His smile, though chilling, looks real.

The other who walks over to flank Raiden on his right is Bullet. He owns the only range here in the middle of Buttfuck, Nowhere. Our man Smoke might technically be his enemy, but they’ve already bonded over guns like kids comparing favorite toys. The blond Hollywood-looking beast who ambles up to the three of them, pool cue in hand, is Atlas.

They talk, Bullet and Atlas throwing back their heads in easy laughter until an older man, Preacher, joins them and blocks my view of my husband , effectively ending the stare down.

No one approaches me . Women have to stick together, a sisterhood with strong bonds, but I doubt I’ll be welcome among the ranks of the old ladies. Lark, queen of this club, has avoided me so far other than to give me hostile looks, and the real leader of the old ladies, an older woman called Seer, leathery and rocking the biker babe look like a real queen, hasn’t bothered to reach out.

Tired of being on display and putting on a hard exterior, I head over to the bar in the corner.

Crow, a huge man dressed all in black with long black hair and a beard he must dye to match the unnatural shade, stares me down as the crowd parts to let me through. He grunts at me.

I nearly roll my eyes but decide to play nice. “If that’s code for ‘whattre ya’ havin,’ a gin and tonic would be nice.”

His lips pull back in a mean grin. It’s adorable that he thinks he can intimidate me, these choir boys have nothing on my father’s men. “Got gin, but no tonic.”

Oh. He’s confusing an MC princess with a regular prissy one. I smile sweetly at him. “Then I’ll have what everyone else is having.”

He pours two fingers of whiskey into a glass and shoves the tumbler across the bar’s beat up surface. Not beat up enough. Everything in this place is so well cared for. It’s like they’re just pretending at being bikers until they go back to their real jobs.

I can see why this place stifled my father.

I shoot back the contents of the glass and let the burn travel down my throat. It’s smoother than the cheap whiskey at my father’s clubhouse. Expensive. My eyes don’t so much as water. I’m thirty-three years old and I’ve been drinking long enough to appreciate a good craft.

“Another?”

I lift my shoulder in a shrug. “Why not?”

Crow pours me half a glass this time and if he expects I’m going to throw that back to prove a point, he’s going to be disappointed. I’ll comport myself with dignity, thank you very much. Always have and always will. I know my limits and I won’t be flat on my ass by the end of the night.

I can’t say the same for my new husband, who, now surrounded by quite a crowd, is tossing back with them like there isn’t going to be a tomorrow.

Ahhh, thank god. At last, something biker about him.

The crowd parts for me like I’m carrying a lethal disease. I catch Lark, in her flowery dress and her flowing beachy blowout, watching me from Gray’s side. It’s pretty damn clear she doesn’t like what she sees. She’s not the only one who holds me responsible for my dad’s crimes. Probably every other wrong in the world too.

I smile at her, not mocking in the least, but her scowl only twists further.

I leave it at that and change direction, heading to a corner and a wall so I can observe and sip my whiskey and contemplate if my blind obedience to my father is even worth it.

As outsiders, we’ll never be truly accepted here. My marriage, until the time it might be lucky enough to be annulled, will be worse than loveless. My half-brother, Tyrant, wants it to appear legit. He’s so golden boy whipped and worried about goodness, he actually told me in a private conversation earlier this week that he wants both of us to try.

I’m not sure why my dad bothers with this place. Sure, they’re making bank running product to and from Canada because of their unique proximity to the border, and they pretty much own this city, but what’s so shit hot about Hart to want possession of this shithole in northern Washington? Every single person in this club seems colorless. I’m used to a vibrant world, rough and brutal, but full of every other sort of feeling too.

I remind myself that I don’t have to like being here. I just have to follow my father’s orders and trust he wanted me here for a reason.

Hours pass. I’ll hand it to the men, they do get a bit rowdier. There’s even minor nudity. Some guy getting a blowjob in the corner. I don’t look twice to see who it is. It gets louder. Another notch on the scale. I’m still so bored I could die. I want nothing more than to go to bed. I’m tired of being stared at, tired of the hostile looks. It’s getting old already.

Thankfully, my hubby is being forced to celebrate with his club brothers. I give it another half an hour until he needs to be tucked into bed and since I’m supposed to be putting on a show of being a wife, I’ll be the one to do it and then I can leave.

I count down the minutes, my feet burning in the spiked heels because I haven’t sat down all night, my mouth dry because I finished the drink Crow poured me long ago. When Raiden stumbles away from the pool table, I take my cue and saunter across the room to do my wifely duties.

“You look tired, hubs ,” I say as I reach his side. “Let me take you back to our room and tuck you into bed. You can sleep and I’ll come back out and continue celebrating our lovely nuptials.”

“Are you insane?” Apparently, the drink’s washed away his prez’s orders. “Sow your seeds of venom somewhere else,” he spits. “Nothing will break up Satan’s Angels.”

I have impeccable self-control, so I don’t laugh right in his face, but I’ll admit it’s a struggle. “No? Where’s your prez?” He slipped out with his woman quite a while ago.

“Checking on his daughter. Checking security. You and your bastards have left us little choice.”

“Charming.” I wrinkle my nose. “You’re drunk. I’m taking you to your room and if you ask me nicely, I might even hold your hair back as you puke your guts out.” Hilarious, because he has none. He doesn’t appreciate the humor, nor my effort to not purposely raise his hackles by referring to his much larger quarters here as our room again.

“Witch.”

He’s so easy to provoke. I shouldn’t take delight in it, but fuck, this night has been boring. “Oh yes, because I’m a woman.”

“Don’t accuse me of being misogynistic. I’m addressing you only. I don’t trust you. I’ll never trust you. Walk away right now, Widow. It’s been a rough month and I’m not ashamed to tell you that I’m struggling. You want to push past that line that we can’t come back from, you keep right on going.”

That’s a level of transparency I didn’t count on. It’s unbelievably disarming and now I’m the one at a disadvantage. “We just vowed to live free and hard, to be outlaws together, to respect and support each other until motherfucking eternity.”

“Would that it would get here tomorrow.”

“Such a token poet.”

“I’m better with numbers.”

“Me too. I understand the odds aren’t in our favor.” Jesus Christ, why can’t I just stop?

“Be careful, Widow,” he seethes, his danger only slightly dampened by the fact that he’s so pissed he can’t see straight. “You’re standing neck deep in enemy territory. Don’t get comfortable. You won’t be here long.”

That’s quite contradictory, but then again, he is drunk. He storms off, almost walking a straight line.

I let him go.

Fuck it. I’m going to bed. My hard, uncomfortable twin bed in a tiny room far away from any of the officer’s much larger, lusher quarters.

Except, I’m still standing here, watching.

Raiden doesn’t make an advance on any of the club whores, but they see him, and they want him. He’s beautiful in his own hard way and he’s the club’s VP. They all know the marriage meant nothing, so they’re not afraid to approach him.

One specifically, a messy strawberry blonde with fishnets, tiny shorts, and a barely-there scrap of a shirt, throws herself in his path.

It’s a good thing for him because that whiskey finally hits bottom and when he throws his arms around her, it’s more about staying vertical than it is desire.

If I was a lesser woman, I’d cause trouble out here. Give Raiden exactly what he’s egged me onto. I’d act like a true bitch, a rose that’s all thorns and no sweet softness underneath, drawing blood whenever I can, wherever I go, but that’s not me.

Kindness is the most valuable currency because it can’t be bought. It has to be given and it’s always sweetest when least deserved. That’s the woman I was born to be, raised by the best woman in the world, so goddamn it, I’ll suck it up and be better than I want to be.

“Hey, babe.” I saunter over, throwing my arm around Raiden’s back to peel him off the poor girl who is really struggling. “Thanks for the help. I can take him from here.”

“Yeah,” she says, stepping out of my reach, clearly expecting a petty smack for trying to put a move on my man.

“What’s your name?”

“Trisha.”

“Thanks again, Trisha. Have a good rest of the night, yeah?”

She walks away looking dazed, like I really did hit her. Great. Now I know what’s being said about me is far worse than reality could ever be. They’ll be disappointed when I don’t live up to my level of nefariousness. Their ignorance doesn’t and won’t define me. I can be who I am here just as well as I could anywhere else.

My dad knew I wouldn’t lose myself. He could have picked someone else to do this, but he sent me.

That thought gives me a renewed burst of strength. It’s a damn good thing because Raiden leans against me heavily. I’m tall and strong and I bear his weight because I have no other choice. Dropping him seems like the worst kind of insult, even though the thought of doing it makes me smile internally.

Since I’ve been here for a week getting settled in, I know which room belongs to which man. Along with names, I have a good memory for details. It probably helps that I spent almost nine years in college getting a feel for storing up information.

The burn of that truth is worse than any whiskey and leaves a sickness in my gut that nothing will wash away. It’s almost a blessing to be able to turn my attention back to the man half crushing me.

At least Raiden can walk. It’s not so hard to steer him out of the lounge, where whistles and shouts follow at our backs and echo down the hall.

Reckless used to be VP of the club. He’s standing outside Gray’s door. It’s pretty obvious from the loud moans what’s going on in there.

Raiden hears it too and literally gags.

Fuck if I’m getting puked on tonight. I ignore the grizzled old biker’s scornful looks—he was my father’s second when he was president, so his fuck you, viper glower feels a little bit more potent than it should—and shove Raiden against his own door across the hall.

He puts in his code even though he’s hammered and stumbles in. He makes it about four feet and hits the floor like a bag of meat.

“For the love of…” I leave the door open so Reckless can see I’m not torturing my husband. If he’s poisoned, he did it to himself. There’s a brief smirk from Reckless, then his face turns stony again.

I don’t ask for help, and none is offered so I drag Raiden upright and slap him hard. He mumbles something, his big hands coming down to clamp fiercely on my thighs. The electric tingle that shoots through my body is entirely unwelcome. He grinds his back against the wall, barely conscious, but clinging to my thighs like a motherfucker. I look down where his fingers are gripping hard enough to bruise.

“Careful, Ray .” I use his sister and Gray’s pet name for him. Like magic, that sobers him enough to focus on my face with brutal intensity. “You’re in danger of seducing your own self right now.”

A few inches more and his hands would be in places they have no business touching. Another wave of heat bubbles up from my belly, cutting off further harsh words. His hands don’t feel awful. They’re rough, warm, and solid. He stares back at me, and I tell myself it’s just the alcohol dilating his pupils. It’s not exactly news that getting drunk makes people horny. At the moment, he can’t separate the feel of my skin from the fact that I stand for everything he hates.

I tear away, stumbling back. It feels wrong being here in his room. I’ve heard it mentioned he has a house in town, but with the threat my dad’s club represents, most of the men are sticking close to the clubhouse.

Raiden’s room is spotless. The queen bed is made up with military precision, the folds crisp and square, the white blanket uncreased. I guess those five years in prison really did a number on him. There’s not much in here other than two wooden dressers, a bookshelf with various books on accounting and financial theory—which briefly cause me to raise an eyebrow, a floor lamp, and a black nightstand with a lamp on there.

“Love what you’ve done with the place.” I find a yellow plastic cup in the small bathroom, toss out the toothbrush, and fill it with water.

He’s practically comatose, but I set the water beside him and nudge his shit kicker with my pointy boot. “Love the digs, hubs. You’ve worked wonders with your new room. I especially appreciate your choice in artwork.” I point to the blank walls.

I can literally see my mom in my mind, frowning at me. She told me my sass was a great thing but using it like a weapon would get me into trouble. That, from a former club whore and all around badass in her own right.

“Raiden.” I nudge his foot harder. He makes a gurgling noise and nearly tips forward. “Fuck! Reckless?” Even though he’s posted at Gray’s door, he steps into the room. He was probably listening and watching the whole exchange anyway. “You should get him upright. Make sure he doesn’t choke if he pukes.”

“I don’t take orders from you.”

This time, I don’t even try to stop myself from rolling my eyes. “Whatever. Let your VP potentially die then. What do you think your prez would have to say about that? Maybe you should go ask him. Wait. He wouldn’t like getting interrupted while he’s plowing his woman in there, so you should probably just suck it up and use common sense, yeah?”

That’s the wrong thing to say in every way, but I’m not the least bit intimidated when he strides across the room and gets up in my face.

The force of the big man’s anger rolls through the room. “You’re so high on your own importance. You’re nothing but a little girl who things she’s better than she is, trying to be big time.”

“That so?” I spit back, unsheathing my claws even though my mom would tell me to be the bigger person. Wait. No she fucking wouldn’t when it comes to a man trying to intimidate and demean. “At least I don’t go around stabbing my former prez in the back instead of working things out to his face. If anyone’s high on anything, it’s all of you, on your own so-called goodness. I think you all need to get over yourself and stop worrying about being little Sunday school bikers and get real. If any of you owned a set of testicles that descended at the rate of a real man, I wouldn’t even be here now, but I am. So… deal.”

I give Raiden’s boot another nudge and whirl around, ready to make a dignified exit, but Reckless isn’t finished with me. “I can’t wait until Raiden throws you over his knees and takes his hand to you to teach you some manners, you mouthy little cunt.”

Like I’m a woman in the world and I’ve never heard that word before.

Still. It’s a clear as fuck challenge that I’m not going to let slide.

I turn very slowly and give my best death glare, which is quite effective on regular people, but never did anything but make my father’s men laugh. Usually, I’d laugh too, and we’d make a joke of it that we could all enjoy. Humor is far more effective than anger. I should do it here too, but for the life of me, I can’t think of a single retort.

Fact is, if Raiden or any other man touches me against my will or in force, they’re dead. I’m above making threats, and Reckless didn’t say he was going to do it himself. He left the disciplining of the recalcitrant wife to the husband, like it’s Victorian times.

“Watch yourself, darlin’,” I sass back, flipping my long hair over my shoulder like his words didn’t wrap their thorns around me. “This mouthy little cunt likes to spank back.”

“I’m not watching him and anyone who’s not on guard duty tonight is too drunk. That’s your honor.” Maybe Reckless isn’t so bad, because as he brushes past me, he actually winks. “Ma’am Dominatrix.”

Well, shit.

It’s harder to get put in your place if you don’t get proper ammunition for it. That nickname will probably be all over the club by morning. Bikers have a rough sense of humor, and they won’t use it to hurt Raiden, just to rankle me. It’s better than Widow, that was the name my father’s men gave me. My real name is Ella, but it’s been years since anyone called me that.

I flop down on Raiden’s immaculate bed, satisfied with the ass-sized imprint I make in it, mussing up the perfection.

Everything about this place and everyone else can go to hell and while it’s sinking and burning, I’ll be out of here, living the damn good life I was trying to build for myself before I came here, and it all went to shit once again.