Page 1 of Savage Guardian

Pleasure surged through him, fueling each movement as he pounded harder and harder. The air around him filled with the sound of flesh slapping against flesh, grunts of pain, whimpers, and the coppery scent of fresh blood.

“I think he’s had enough, Hawk,” Odin drawled, his face devoid of all emotions as he stared at the man chained to the ceiling, dangling like a freshly flayed marlin, just waiting to be butchered.

His chest heaving from exertion, his knuckles busted nearly down to the bone, Hawk sneered at the man who’d thought he could steal from the Savage Raiders MC and get away with it. Well, that sure as fuck wasn’t happening, because Hawk caught him in the act, and the club Prez, Odin, gifted Hawk the chance to beat the truth out of him.

And so he did.

Shaking his hands to get the sensation back in his fingers, he smirked at the nearly dead man.

“AFK get the money back?” he asked, knowing full well that the club cyber genius was more than capable of hacking into John Harris’s accounts and retrieving the money he stole from their cash deposits. A total of one-hundred-thousand dollars over six months. Mr. Harris was the bank official they used to deposit the cash from their strip club and bordello, where they sold their exclusive strains of marijuana. Fortunately, pot sales were high, unfortunately, they weren’t strictly legal; they were still working through the red tape to get their hands on their grower and distributor licenses. Until then, though, they sold their pot under the table and behind closed doors at Delicious and Sex & Candy. All that cash money was apparently too much of a temptation for the overworked, underpaid bank manager, who dipped his hands in the MC pocket and thought no one would notice. Well, Hell Hound, the MC treasurer, noticed, and so did Hawk, when he had AFK hack into bank surveillance. It didn’t take long to see that the man who took possession of the black duffel bags of cash was pocketing a stack of twenties each time, then reporting the deposit two thousand dollars short, like the money just fell out of the bag in transport.

Too bad for John Harris, Hell Hound was a tight ass who kept meticulous records of every fucking dollar earned.

“Yep,” Odin replied, his gaze moving from the unconscious man to Hawk. “You ‘bout done, cuz I’m tired of watching this shit. I’ve got a hot piece waiting on me at the clubhouse, and I need a fucking drink after all this.” Curling his lip at the pool of piss on the floor, he grunted in disgust. “Have Raptor and Junkie clean this up, and make sure Mr. Harris gets home. Hopefully, he’s learned his lesson about crossing the Savage Raiders. If not, he’ll earn a hole in the desert.”

“Why not just dig his hole now?”

Odin shook his head. “He stole from us, yeah, but he’s also the best one for the job. He’s the manager of the biggest bank in Vegas. If he just disappeared, people would go looking for him. We don’t need that kind of heat. Leaving him alive, he’ll be wearing your knuckles for weeks, but at least he’s still in a position where we can use him.”

As president and founder of the Savage Raiders MC, the toughest, most powerful MC in the state, Odin had earned his reputation as a savage motherfucker, dealing out club business and retribution in the same hand. He’d also earned the reputation of being a fair man to those who deserved it, because he gave assholes like Harris a second chance. It was rare, though, so fuckers knew not to cross him.

Chuckling darkly, Hawk nodded. “Right, Prez.”

Two hours later, his blood still pumping from the beating he gaze Harris, Hawk strode into Up to No Good, the club bar, on the prowl for a piece of ass to tear into. He needed it hard, rough, and filthy—the adrenaline surging through him, demanding he find satisfaction for his animalistic needs between the thighs of a willing woman. Well, Up to No Good was the best place to find a bitch looking to ride a biker, because the bitches only came to the bar because the club brothers were there. If the women wanted an easy ride, they’d hit up the lame ass metro bar two blocks over, where douches in khakis and button-down shirts stopped in for a drink after their nine-to-five. No nine-to-fivers in Up to No Good. No easy riders, neither.

The club bar wasn’t a dive bar by any means, which made it popular for all kinds. It was nothing like the bar he’d slunk into when he hit Vegas for the first time ten years ago. Dipping out of L.A. with no clear destination, he stopped for a drink at a dive called Tipped right off the highway. He’d just wanted a drink, a way to numb the pain he’d been wallowing in. What he’d found was a biker bar, complete with a newly minted club president and his VP. Odin and Trouble had stopped in to Tipped to chat with the owner about buying the place. Historically, Tipped was the first piece of property incorporated under the Savage Raiders. Odin had taken one look at Hawk and saw something in him no one had seen before. Grit. That meeting had been written in the fucking stars, because Odin offered Hawk the chance to prospect, and Hawk and jumped in with both feet. What else did he have to do? He was broken, betrayed by those he’d trusted, and in desperate need of something new.

From Harvard business school to boot-licking MC prospect. His life changed in an instant—and he’d never been happier.

Now, catching the gaze of his club brother and the bar manager, Thor, he tipped his chin and headed toward the bar.

“Long night, brother?” Thor asked, his nearly black gaze asking what he really wanted to know:did you lay down a beating tonight?

Hawk smirked darkly. “Yep.”

Thor simply nodded then turned to grab the bottle of Gentleman Jack whisky from the back bar, and poured two fingers into a lowball tumbler, knowing that asking questions about club business in the busy bar was too risky. Too many ears, too many mouthy, greedy assholes around who’d be willing to spill secrets for cash. Besides that, Hawk was no loose-tongued bitch. And he didn’t drink bitch ass Irish whiskey, either.

With drink in hand, Hawk turned on his barstool to peruse the evening’s choices.

It didn’t take long to spot just what the doctor ordered right at the end of the bar, staring at him like she was hungry for hawk.

Long blonde hair, face done up like she was auditioning for a stage show, and tits so big they were practically bursting out of her top. With lips painted a sinful red, his cock jumped, eager to be stained the same color.

Tossing her his patented panty-dropping wink, he watched as the woman shuddered, her mouth dropping open, and her nipples hardening. The red top she was wearing hid nothing, especially since she wasn’t wearing a bra.

Crooking a finger, he signaled his interest, and her lips lifted in a cock-eating grin.

Throwing back his drink, he slammed the tumbler down, gave Thor another chin lift, then headed toward the door.

The woman followed.

Peeling the tight as fuck skirt from her body, Hawk was focused on getting her naked and fucking her until his dick was sore. The woman had brought him to her college dorm room—which was a first. Usually, he’d fuck his flavor of the night right up against the back of the bar, but he was feeling adventurous. Unsettled. Like the usual just wouldn’t satiate some unnamable, unknown longing. His mind on his needs—an orgasm or two—he barely noticed the music playing in the background from the open laptop on the desk in the corner.

Until the music changed.

Slow, sensual, haunting. A voice unlike any other he’d ever heard in his life began singing…began filling him. Like warm mist, blanketing him in sound and sensations. He shivered, his nerve endings like tuning forks, resonating. His breath hitched, his heart hammering.

What the hell was happening to him?

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