Page 67 of The Biker's Forbidden Virgin

“Nisa,” I grit out. “Something’s wrong.”

That’s all it takes.

The room shifts. My brothers move fast, chairs scraping, jackets thrown on. The Chrome Creed doesn’t hesitate.

They know what riding onto Hands of Hell property means.

It’s a declaration of war.

It’s a suicide mission.

But I don’t care.

I can’t sit here and do nothing while she’s in danger.

Outside, our bikes roar to life, the sound cutting through the night like a war cry. The scent of gasoline and adrenalinethickens the air as I grip the handlebars, my pulse slamming in time with the engine.

I take off hard, the wind biting at my face, my brothers falling into formation behind me.

Nisa’s out there.

And I’ll burn the whole goddamn world down before I let her go.

CHAPTER 37

TRICKS UP HIS SLEEVE

Nisa

This place is nothing like the Chrome Creed clubhouse.

It feels like a low budget BDSM dungeon or something like that.

The prospect shoves me through the double doors of the clubhouse without so much as a second glance. He didn’t bother to give me his name, and I didn’t bother to ask.

The scent of stale beer, sweat, and something more metallic, something wrong, hits me first. The bright red floors shine under the dim, flickering overhead lights, but it’s the walls that make my stomach tighten. A darker red, stained and uneven, like blood that was scrubbed away but never quite disappeared.

Chains and handcuffs dangle from rusted hooks along the walls, their metal glinting in the low light. Some are clean. Some aren’t.

And then there are the photos.

Faded, curling at the edges, nailed haphazardly between the restraints. The faces of fallen bikers stare back at me, some young, some old, all of them claimed by the Hands of Hell. Their legacy is soaked into this place, into these walls, into the air I breathe.

I glance at the women moving through the room, the sweetbutts. None of them meet my gaze. They keep their heads down, eyes fixed on the floors, hands busy with whatever task they’ve been assigned. One scrubs a table, knuckles tight and white as she scours at a stain that probably won’t ever come out. Another gathers empty bottles, moving like a ghost between the men.

I wonder how many of them chose to be here.

I want to help them. I want to tell them they don’t have to live like this. But I know better. I can’t help them. Not now.

A whistle cuts through the thick air, sharp and mocking.

“Damn, fresh meat.”

“Hey, sweetheart, come sit on my lap.”

Laughter follows, dark and mean, but I don’t stop walking. I keep my head up, my shoulders back. I won’t let them see me flinch.

Then I see him.

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