Page 7 of The Vipers and Their Venom

Nathaniele glances to one side. “Domenic is my son, and he’s also learning the ropes.”

“Why? You sick?”

The man is blunt, like my father. Baba always gets right down to business.

“No,” Nathaniele says easily. “One day, though, many years in the future, he will inherit all of this.”

The biker kicks the gravel with a heavy boot. “Hmmm. My daughter suggested this place to me, and when I looked into it, I begrudgingly agreed. After all, you are somewhat unique and serve our kind of demographic.”

Nathaniele glances to the side, and then back to the man in front. “To be honest, this is the first time we’ve had any One Percenters here, but all of our world are welcome.”

While ninety-nine percent of the motorcycling public follow the law, there’s the one percent who don’t, like this gang, I assume. They wear the one-percent patch to show the world who they are.

“Yeah, but we aren’t quite of your world. Not entirely.”

The whole time the men have been speaking, none of the others have moved from their bikes. The girl, who I keep glancing at, is getting twitchy. Her fingers drum on the gas tank in front of her, and her foot taps the peg.

“You’re enough a part of it for her to be offered a place here.” Nathaniele jerks his chin to the girl.

“There’s one condition, or we turn around and ride out of here.”

Nathaniele sighs and shifts his weight slightly from one foot to the other. “Go on. I shall see if I can meet it.”

“I want her to study what she wants. Math is her thing. I saw that the women here don’t study the same curriculum because they’re expected to marry and be homemakers. I want more for Vani. If she comes here, she gets to receive a proper education.”

Nathaniele clears his throat. “First, let me assure you that our females do get a proper education. Second, Icangrant your request, however it does mean she’ll be taking some of her classes with only men in the room. Are you going to be okay with that?”

The biker laughs, white teeth glinting against dark beard and tan skin. “She spends her time mostly among men now, and they aren’t easy, but she holds her own. Anyways, any man here touches her, and I’ll have his balls as ornaments for my desk.”

Oh, shit. He did have to go and say that, didn’t he?

I might have lied to myself when I said I had no addictions. I do have one little temptation in life. Ialwayswant the things I’m told I can’t have.

Every. Single. Fucking time.

“Okay, then,” Nathaniele says easily, “we have a deal.”

“Good.” The biker holds his hand out, and Nathaniele takes it, then they shake.

When they’re done, the biker turns and flicks his fingers.

The girl swings one glorious thigh over the bike and stands straight. She pulls her helmet free, and a cascade of dark curls falls out of the confines and caresses her shoulders.

It’s like I’ve been punched in the chest, the air vanishing from my lungs. I stare, my eyes practically popping out of my head like an old cartoon character.

Even in her chunky biker boots, she’s only around five-foot-three, so she’s maybe five-two barefoot—and boy, do I want to see her barefoot … and naked. Her curves are breathtaking, asis her face. She has full, pouty lips that just scream to be kissed, and a button nose. Best of all, unlike the prim little princesses here, she dresses like the bar girls I like, and I can see ink peeking out of the neck of her t-shirt. Her jeans, biker boots, and leather jacket combo look great on her feminine curves.

My mouth waters, and when big brown eyes flick my way, I let myself hold her stare before I glance away and stub my cigarette out.

She walks over to her father, her hips swaying and her hair snaking around her shoulders. She’s like my very own medusa. She won’t turn me to stone, but I might lose my balls if I touch her.

It might be worth it.

I almost laugh at the thought. I bet Saint would fucking love her. He likes to take pretty things and corrupt them into something dark, and despite her ink, her sassy way of walking, and her clothing, her big, innocent eyes tell me this girl isn’t as tough as she wants to appear.

People think his nickname is Saint because of his surname, Laurant, being so close to the clothing brand—plus he never met a piece of expensive clothing he didn’t like. But his moniker has a deeper meaning. He’s called Saint because he’s the fucking devil himself in disguise.

Saint, like his twin, is beautiful. I’m not so insecure in my masculinity that I can’t see that. The twins turn heads wherever they go, but they’re fucked up. And Saint? He’s the one who’s really a mess.

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