Page 53 of Doc's Decision

We're all coiled tight, ready to unleash hell to get Sera back.

I adjust my own gun at my hip, feeling the heavy, reassuring weight of cold steel. "Born fuckin' ready, brother. Those shitstains who took Seraphina ain't gonna know what hit 'em."

My mind flashes to Mandy for a split second.

Her soft curves, the way her hair is getting more natural by the day, and the way her blue eyes dance when she smiles at me...Fuck.

I shake my head to force her out of my mind.

I can’t be focusing on the woman who’s damn well stealing my heart right now.

I have to focus on the task at hand.

There will be time for me and my woman later, once Sera is back safe and sound, where she belongs.

Damon roars, stomping towards the doors. "All right, time to mount up!"

Once we all make it outside, he continues. "We ride hard, no stopping 'til we reach the location. And when we get there..." His gaze sweeps over us, feral and full of vicious promise. "We do whatever we need to get her back."

I swing my leg over my Harley, the bike purring to life beneath me like a wild animal ready to hunt.

My brothers fan out around me, an armada of pissed off bikers dead set on one goal.

The clubhouse disappears behind us as we roar out onto the open road, a pack of wolves racing toward our destination.

Destination: Seraphina’s grandfather’s place.

He’s our best bet in finding her.

Before long, the gates of the ritzy neighborhood loom ahead, all wrought iron and snooty as fuck.

I can practically smell the money oozing from the manicured lawns and pristine mansions beyond.

Gramps sure knows how to live large.

Then again, what else should I expect?

Seraphina does come from a family of billionaires.

We roll to a stop at the security booth, engines rumbling impatiently.

A rent-a-cop in a cheap uniform eyes us warily, hand twitching toward the phone.

Damon leans forward on his handlebars, pinning the dude with a glare that could melt steel. "Bernard residence. Now," he growls, voice brooking no argument.

The guard swallows hard, adam's apple bobbing.

He fumbles for a button and the gates slowly creak open.

Smart man.

We rev through, Harleys snarling like rabid beasts as we prowl past the cookie-cutter mansions.

The Bernard estate sits at the end of the winding road, all stately columns and pretentious landscaping.

As we pull up out front, gravel crunching beneath our tires, the huge oak doors swing open.

A prim and proper butler steps out, not a silver hair out of place.

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