Page 1 of Raiden

Chapter 1

Ella

As 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’tgetan 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 himapart. 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 smartenough 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 myhusband, effectively ending the stare down.

No one approachesme. 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.

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