AMBER

THE COLD SURROUNDS my body as I open my eyes. The lavish bedroom blooms with color—royal purple, deep red, and sunny yellow. Turquoise vases accentuate the others, providing a nice bounce between the four.

The windows blocked with white shutters that are locked tight. The only door—a double wooden—locked with huge cast black hinges. It looks old and heavy, well worn, and used. Moving slow, I toss my legs over the edge of the bed. The grey slate floor chills my feet as I step down.

The hangover is real as are the bruises.

I have no idea where I am. I walk to the bathroom and drop the designer panties someone put on me. They are soft and smooth and silky. I notice the streak of red and remember the horrific night I endured. Everything hurts. My arms. My legs. My face. My tits. My puss. Nothing spared in the sharing of the party favor.

On the marble bathroom counter, I borrow a toothbrush for a few minutes. Someone must have bathed and cared for me—protected me. I wobble back to the room and notice the locked cabinets, hooks for suspension, and racks disguised with pretty throws—the upscale dungeon for the elite.

The settee table offers a tray complete with a yellow rose, silver-covered plate, and a note. I lift the lid—waffles with strawberries and blueberries, eggs, and bacon await.

“Drink. Eat. Take the pill. I’ll be in later tonight to check on you.”

I stare at the small medicine cup containing the white tablet. I don’t have to ask. As much as I want a baby, this is not the way. I open a water bottle, pop the tablet on my tongue, and swallow. I am still on birth control, but it isn’t worth the risk. I imagine how this conversation would go with D.

“Some reckless thugs got ahold of me and now, I’m pregnant.”

“It could be mine or Raniero’s…”

“I can’t risk it, D.”

“Take the fucking pill, my little slutbaby, we will make our own.”

Breathing a deep sigh of relief, I know this will be the last thing he would be mad at. Hell, in the past week, I did far worse—like stealing Raniero’s ride, Serene’s car, unleashing the vermin from his cell, snorting coke, and popping candy. I think—this—he will forgive.

The other stuff, I am not so sure.

I manage to eat all the eggs and bacon. I take two bites of waffle and swish the berries into a bowl. I grab the water and berries as I need to take a bath. I want to soak off the past week.

Looking in the mirror, I have a black eye and a cut beneath it. My face is swollen; my lip is cut. I have bruising on my neck and arms. My fingers graze over the butterfly stitches on my face, and I wonder how long I slept.

What fucking day is it?

Everything is a blur. I remember seeing Nico. The woman, she calls him Nicki. I close my eyes and go back, trying to remember. I was so out of it—from the drugs and the assault.

My father is running the show again. He will kill and harm innocents without a single regard or care. He is a terrible, terrible man. My mind flips through the seven violators, and I see each one.

Flashing my eyes open, I make my way back into the bedroom in search of a pen and paper. I make detailed notes, so if I lose the memory. Sitting on the bed, I write down names, tattoos, scars, and what they did. I take a deep breath as I recall what they said…

“Let’s make her a Rampage bitch…”

Focusing on their names, I whisper, “Wrong. I am THE Rampage bitch.”

Fuck the bath. I will shower and wait for whomever my hero is. I need to get out of here quick; we have to stop Pock from doing anything else. I have a brief moment of feeling like an idiot in the shower. Or maybe just the whirlwind of emotions caught me. Leaning against the shower wall, I cry it out.

And then I scrub—hard.

It hurts, and I don’t care. I want nothing of those assholes left on or in my body. I grab a towel and dry my hair. The caretaker left clothes in the chair. Sweatpants, tank top, sport bra. No other panties. I hope I stop spotting. That fear leads me to the bathroom. Opening cabinets and drawers, I find makeup and perfume. Nice. I locate a tampon and attempt to get it in. It really fucking hurts, but I do it anyway.

I continue being nosey. I find a curling iron, nail polish, and old pink hair rollers all in mesh baskets. There are probably twenty baskets total. I rummage throughout them.

On my knees, I dig through the cabinet until I locate what I hoped to find—a box of hair dye. I need to look like myself again. I cannot handle this blonde right now. The box promises to be darker than my natural brown, a rich, dark chocolate. In the next basket, I smile at the scissors.

Yeah, I am a crazy girl.

D loves me this way.

I only hope he still does.

* * *

DALE

Feeling like a prowler, I snoop through the second story of Jack’s sprawling house in hopes of finding something—anything. Raniero and Iris are looking around, too. I find them at the bottom of the main staircase.

Pissed off beyond words, Sal shakes his head as Iris sobs. Tears run quietly down her cheeks as her lip quivers. For the first time, I see the fear in her. While I would typically find myself with a boner, I need to know what is going on.

“Talk to me, Kid,” I say, but he says nothing. Pacing in circles and flexing his jaw, he pounds his fist into the wall. “Sal… Tell me,” I command, pulling rank with the tone of his superior. Still he says nothing. As Sal’s eyes glaze over Iris, he lets out a guttural roar of savage anger.

In his face, I bellow loudly, “What the fuck is going on?”

Snarling, he growls, “She fucking let him go…”

“What?” I yell as he opens the door. I sprint downstairs, taking two at a time to find his explosive rig completely dismantled. Someone popped the code and disarmed the whole thing. Stomping back up, I grab Iris by the arms and scream, “You fucking let her take her father! Where did they fucking go?”

“I don’t know,” she whispers, crying as I drop her back down and clench my fists in anger. My nostrils flare, my jaw jolts, and all feeling ceases.

God, I want to hit her. I won’t. But I want to.

From behind me, she meekly whispers, “Sal told me she was coming here.”

“Ya, I fucking told you she was coming!” He flies off the handle with his thick Bostonian–Gone–Texan drawl, using his hands in exaggerated fashion. His inner Italian surfaces, which would also be fucking sexy as hell if I didn’t want to kill him with his next words. “I didn’t tell you to let her take her dad!”

Leaning down slight, I smack his hand and sneer, “You what?”

“She took my bike from The Church and came here,” he admits solemn. “I never thought she would take Pock.”

Like a tattletale, Iris adds, “And he told me to send her to take Serene’s Camaro…”

“You fuckin what?” My eyes are about blow out of my head. My skin matches my ginger hair. I am so furious with these two immature brats. These kids are in so much trouble, I swear I am going to rip off my belt and whip both their asses. “Where is it now?”

They both look at one another blankly as I head through the house and snatch his truck keys off the counter. They follow like little ducklings to the truck as I toss the Raptor into off-road mode, and we traverse through the hilly fields, rocky terrain, and tall grass. A partitioning fence exists, separating the two properties. “Get out and open that fucking gate.”

Raniero bounds out and swings it open. I am so fucking mad I want to hurt them both, knock their heads together, and leave them for the carrion to pick apart. I haphazardly swing into the drive as Sal jumps out and punches in the code to the garage.

Under the canvas cover, Serene’s car is there. I toss the heavy fabric on the roof, open the door, and slide into the driver seat. Taking a whiff, I smell my girl, sending a shiver through my spine. There is a straw wrapper on the floor board. I grab the paper and feel under the seat, finding her phone.

Amber.

Punching in the passcode, I flip to her messages—two failed to send.

“In Arkansas, I am sorry I couldn’t say goodbye. I took the car. Thank you. And Sal, you should know my bulldog is romping around with your bitch.”

“SOS. With Pock. Help.”

Godfuckingdammit. I throw the phone, expecting it to hit the ground and bust into pieces. Sal’s well-trained, quick reflexes intercept the toss, and he hastily reads the messages.

“What the fuck?” he yells, switching his glare between Iris and I. His hands re-erupt, this time in my face. He focuses in on me with a dreadful gaze. “You been fucking my girl, Hoss?”

“Not like that, no,” I excuse, shooting Iris a secret blink of guilt.

Hands fly as he Sal rages, “Then how exactly do you explain this fookin message?”

God, talk about flipping the hot seat.

“I went to Jack’s one night…” I casually mention. “Iris and I….”

“Stop!” His boiling point almost runs over as he threatens, “Get the fuck out of here. Both of you! Go! Now!”

His fist impacts my cheekbone before I can say another word. We are not playing anymore. This is real. We are going to kill each other if left to our own devices. I return with my own fist, nailing him square in that pretty jaw line as our words turn to spite and our monsters arise from their dark lairs. We rarely see the light of day, even more unheard of to have an onlooker.

Rawling him up, I seethe with hate, “You sent Amber to Arkansas, you fucking prick!”

“I did no such thing!” he squawks from beneath my grip. We are in a hold, each throwing punches and firing off our arsenal of scorn and deceit. He gets away from my hands and barrels a punch into my nose. “You fucked my angel, you god damn motherfucking bastard!”

“You fucker!” I lament with tears in my eyes, “You broke my goddamn nose!”

Iris scurries out of the way, dodging the dance with us as Sal shoots out of the garage to his truck.

“Fuck both of you,” he hollers, flipping us off as I jump on his back and throw him to the ground. “Get the fuck off of me!”

Pinning him to the cement, I seriously beat the crap out of him until he jabs his knee right in my kidney. I grab his shirt, ripping it from his body. We are both bruised and bleeding and breathing heavy as we stalk one another in circles. His inked, sweaty chest undulates with debris and lacerations. My hard as steel biceps pump with rising blood vessels. I am so much bigger than him. I have six inches on him easily. The problem is also his blessing—he’s fast as fucking lightning.

“You,” I say, pointing at him. “Sent Amber to take over Rampage.”

“She…needed…to!!!!” Sal says slowly, egging me on, “You big dumb oaf!”

Rushing towards his stocky frame, I run to tackle him and howl, “You only wanted her to do it to get back at your father––you fucking pansy boy!”

I will regret that.

He snaps the blade from his jeans and does some radical roguish move that I couldn’t even begin to compete with. As he dances all around, I grab the back of his belt and hoist him over to me. He lashes out like a wild beast.

“Listen to me!” I say, trying to calm him down.

He swings and misses, flailing about like a monster with a blade. He is fucking insane and going off the deep end. His mind is programmed to kill. I know this. I am not dealing with a simple barroom brawl, taking it to the lot skirmish.

Sal will kill me.

He has been threatened, his next check box is destruction. In this case, me.

I am sure the high and mighty’s at Sibyl will be happy to know their training is doing him well.

Iris is crying hysterically, bawling her eyes out as the man she loves has literally gone ape shit crazy. His eyes reek ominous and full of vengeance as I try to maneuver him around to get the blade, but as I do he ends up cutting my hand open. The cut is deep.

Motherfucker.

I stay calm because it is what I do when shit goes wrong. It is an art, finding patience in the chaos. If I could only locate it in the dungeon, I might have a fighting chance at winning more than Amber’s golden arch. “Listen to me,” I bark off again, hoping he will hear me out. “Lucas Salvatore, calm your shit.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I don’t want to do what I am about to do. If I call his trigger, he is going to fucking spiral into a whiskey bottle and dank pussy. I know it, but I am running out of options. From behind him, I hold his body close to me and whisper in his ear, “Pixie.”

The knife clinks onto the driveway, and I let him go as he sulks to the ground. He is gone and I know it. I’ll have to spend months getting him back to normal.

“You should go,” I say to Iris. Her expression is one of pure terror. I can understand why. He’s a handful, this one. Poor thing can’t even speak, she is hyperventilating. Snot and tears and Jesus, they are a pair. “Go home.”

Realizing I cannot do that to Raniero, I put her ass on the back of his bike and roll away with Sal still slumped down. He’ll be that way until I get back. No rush. No worry. Hell, he will probably be there until tomorrow. Maybe even next week. He is so fucking broken, and Iris didn’t have a clue. I drive us on the main road and stop us safely at the side door.

“I will be back to check on you later,” I reassure, hopping off the ride and giving her hand a comforting squeeze. “I have to go grab some stuff before I go to Arkansas.”

“Is he…”

Caressing her hair, I interrupt, “Sal will be fine. I promise you. He has issues.”

“Are these issues always so…debilitating?”

“Not always,” I console. There isn’t much I can say to make it better. She witnessed things inconceivable by most. His trigger word implanted shortly after his wife, Kaci, died; Dom, Jack, and I agreed it was for the best.

I have only ever had to use it one other time.

“You need to have your hand checked, Sir,” she muffles from beneath a shower of tears. I shred the bottom of my shirt and wrap it around the wound, more so for her benefit than mine.

Guess I figured out how to make the bitch cry, put a broken Raniero in the mix, and she bawls like a fucking babe.

Being a gentleman, I walk her to the door, give her a hug and kiss, and send her with specific instructions. I know she will follow them because he has trained her to be quite responsive. Say nothing. This never happened. If questioned, play dumb. Go inside, take a shower, have a glass of wine, and go to bed.

Striding away, I accept the routine, knowing she will follow it. I ride over to my sister’s farmhouse and everything collapses as he and his truck are long gone.

I have lost Raniero.

I have lost Amber.

There is only one thing left to lose. I take the bike, stop by the house, and grab my gear. I am going to see my baby Mae at Dana and Rach’s up in Austin. Before I leave, I send seven texts to Sal’s phone. The brothers in the collective always sent seven, in hopes that one would make it.

“Iris is back at Jack’s. I am going to get Amber in Arkansas.”

“I am sorry for everything. I never meant this to get so fucked up.”

“I am an asshole, but that girl you own has one sweet puss.”

“You are a fucking madman with that blade.”

“I love your crazy ass. I cannot imagine you not being my partner.”

“The Pixie adored everything about you, but Chicago has got it going on.”

“Chicago. Chicago. Chicago. Over five years, Lucas—never forget.”

Unexpectedly, my phone flickers with a response. I click it open as tears come to my eyes.

“That research in the box—there is more at the loft in the closet. You know where the keys are. Before you leave for Arkansas, you need go to Houston and get the envelope marked DLA.”

Shaking my head, I text back quick before heading to a doc in the box. “Can you not just tell me now?”

“Negative, Hoss.”

Stroking my beard, I ask,“Where are you?”

“In Chicago,” he moans.

Pulling out of the drive, I hoot and holler, “Woohoo! Go, Nero!”

* * *

AMBER

After a day spent reading a random book off the shelf, I decide at 4:32 PM to do something more. It would be easy to dissolve into the mental loop of what has happened, but as I trim my bangs, dropping the hair into the sink—I know I don’t have time for that. I must figure out who has me here in the swank dungeon, do whatever they ask, and find my way out. I have work to do; my friend needs me.

From back in the days working the bar in New Orleans, I understood how badly Sal needed to separate himself from his legacy. I even did some research on his family. His father was born in Sicily, came to the states as a young man and built Raniero Fisheries. He always knew what he would do. The fishery held nothing more than a viable front for his other more lucrative and expensive tastes. He delved into every imaginable seedy venture he could and managed by—luck or payoff—to avoid the law.

He had four daughters late in his life, when on the fifth and final try, Lucas Salvatore came about. The only son, he was expected to take over the family business. Just like I would be handed Rampage. Our similarities drove our connection deep—beyond the bedroom—to a place of genuine appreciation of what the other stood up against. Failing was simply not an option.

For him or for me.

As the older one, I felt an obligation to lead the path of our plight. Maybe if he could see me going against the grain and succeeding at dismantling my father, he would believe he could do the same. Our fathers – Jerry and Cesario—weren’t much different besides the leather jacket and custom tailored suit. They each bore the same amount of criminal intent and flourished in the underworld. It seems strange to me now that Sal wears the leather jacket while I prefer my fashion plate dresses. We went to the opposite sides of what our fathers were, yet in doing so, our assimilation with one another grew.

Perhaps beyond the bounds.

I understand why D is jealous of Sal. He should be—it will keep him alert and on his toes—but I never intended for him to feel threatened by the relationship between Sal and I. I have no intentions of going to be with an Italian every night. I do not want him like that, but I do need him, guiding my path and keeping me on the straight. The thing about our fathers is—it would be so easy to become them. Natural evolution of self.

I think about running his band of thugs, the same men who raped me. I would be rid of those seven and start a new, more trustworthy circle. I would remove myself from the trafficking industry, which has made Pock so much money it is ridiculous. I was not the first girl taken and sold on that card table, but I damn sure want to be the last. And the first step to insuring that is in cutting my hair.

D will hate it.

The blonde makes me feel like a bombshell, which is fine—unless you want to be taken seriously. These men see the hair, the cleavage, the war paint, and immediately assume easy. I will be neither easy nor soft.

I finish trimming my bangs and begin the process of coloring my hair. The change is quick and I start feeling better with the dark gunk spread across my scalp. While I wait for my timer on the small alarm clock in the bathroom, I decide to take the bath, shave my legs, and everywhere else they were as well. The numerous packages of disposable razors and shave gels prove useful. I wish I had found talcum powder, but this will do for now. Clumps of hair swirl about in the water and I return to my thoughts of how to take down Pock. It is consuming me now as I ignore everything else and put my focus solely on taking him down.

The truly sucky part is if I would have done what Raniero suggested in the first place, leaving him to rot in the cell, I would have already owned Rampage. Pock would be “dead” to them, and I could have strode into their encampment as their leader instead of their captive. It’s too late to go back now, what’s done is done. I wanted to believe I could have a father.

Apparently, I have no one.

I work my way over the mound once more. Careful to not nick the skin. I run the blade under my arms and over my legs and pull the plug in the tub just as my alarm beeps. I rinse everything down the drain—my hair and my blonde—as I am reborn by my own choosing to be strong, assertive, and forthright. I will take what is rightfully mine and spare no expense in doing so. My relationship with D assures me of this. He would rather fund me than lose me.

I step out, dry off, and go to the closet. The clothes reflect the decades and I wonder how old my savior is. There are tiny bell bottom jeans and flowing shirts, gold lame one pieces, turtle necks and brown pants, ripped tank tops and jeans. I finally settle on the most current piece I can find—a sexy black suit. It’s tiny, but fits perfectly. Snug in all the right places and without a shirt underneath the deep v-line suit, it provides just the right amount of reveal. I find a cute pair of black shoes with pointed toes and several straps across the arch.

Quickly, I return to the bathroom. I dry my hair and curl it. Fastening it up into a sexy bun, I do my makeup—not light or heavy, but just right. I apply some perfumed powder and douse my skin in the same scent before I go dress. I do not try to find undergarments. With my tiny frame and medium sized rack, I can still get away with no lift. I pick up everything and straighten the room. The bed is made, the candles are on, and I click on a cd, turning it low. I grab the book I was devouring and sit in the leather chair as I wait to find out who I owe my life to.

The book is good, but my mind keeps wondering to the unknown. The woman came in with Nico and took charge with an unforgiving attitude. I wish I would have seen her face, so I knew who I was about to deal with. Maybe she was just the interception with Nico. Maybe this house belongs to his family. What if Delarte Cristos has me? A merger with Cristos could prove powerful and beneficial to us both. I take a deep breath as I hear the lock release.

The door opens up, and I am stunned and shocked and completely unprepared to see my future sister-in-law. “Serene?”

“Hi, Amber,” she welcomes, closing the door and coming closer. “Apologies for being late, I had an appointment.”

“Whose house is this?”

“It’s mine,” she informs with a genuine smile, holding out her hand. “You are at the farmhouse. And this is my bedroom.”

I audibly—quite loudly—gasp. My mouth drops open, and my hands turn clammy as they tremble with an uncontrollable anxiety. She isn’t just Serene. She is Cardinal-S. Pro-Domme. High powered and uncrossable. No one messes with Serene unless they want to suffer her wrath which could mean any number of punishments.

And if all that isn’t enough, she owns Raniero.

And is Dale’s fucking sister.

Her familial ties to Juliet are strong. With a wicked sense of loyalty, she guards what is hers and rejects any notions of strangers coming into her personal, private circle. I am shocked I am here.

Sitting on the edge of the ottoman, I am distracted by how beautiful she actually is. Yes, I have seen her before, but never in a casual setting without the fetish garb. Her long strawberry blonde hair curls around her shoulders enhancing her vibrant ice blue eyes.

“I know you’re nervous, but I would like to bring an offer to the table. One you might not have considered,” she says. “I cannot stand your father, and I am in the process of seeing to his demise at this very moment.”

“You sent Sal?”

“I did,” she acknowledges with a nod. “You know I am on the Sibyl team, but I need him out of the way for more personal reasons. When I take over Rampage, I will be dissolving the whole thing with the help of Dom in Nola and Cristos in the East. Of course, that means you will benefit financially. If you agree to my terms, I will take over the owning the operation, but I would like you,” she imparts with a smile as she clasps my hand. “Sweet Lady Mae—to run the show of Red Crow.”

You what?

* * *

DALE

The baby in my arms is the only reason I have to not leave and go blow the fuck out of Pock’s compound in the Ozarks. She is sleeping so peaceful and perfect. I long to keep her this way as I rock her back and forth. I realize the implications of my thoughts. In order to truly protect her, I must eradicate Jerry “Pock” Allen from our lives. As long as he is breathing, Amber’s life is in danger. The choice between destroying Pock or leaving Amber is an easy one. But I do not take it lightly.

Setting my princess doll in her crib, I smile as her lips twitch and she brings her hand to her face. She is everything precious. And I will do anything to keep her that way.

Opening my pack, I go through the gear. There can be no room for mistakes. No errors. I strip my shirt off and put on my vest. While it’s another layer in the May heat, I cannot risk a quick shot that could leave me dead and Mae without a father. I check the mags and ammo. I am going to Arkansas with one specific purpose—to kill Amber’s father. He no longer deserves to breathe the same air as my darling girls.

I kiss Mae once more before making my way out. I pass Dana and Rach in the living room. “If anything happens…”

“If anything happens, we will call Aimee and get to the safe house,” Rach assures me, shaking my hand firm. “Don’t worry about a thing, man. I got this.”

Hugging Dana, I kiss her on the head. After Mae and Amber, my sisters have my heart and devotion. It goes without saying what I would do for that punk partner of mine.

Walking outside in the moonlight, I toss my gear in the saddlebags. From the shadows on the side of the house, Jaid appears. I am stunned and startled.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Straddling over the bike, she implores, “You’re not going alone.”

“I don’t need the extra weight. Besides I am headed to Houston first.”

“You and I both know it has nothing to do with weight. You’re afraid I will be in the way.”

“Wrong, bitch,” I scowl, sticking a helmet on her head. I know there is no getting her off the seat. “You are one more person I have to watch after.”

“You don’t have to watch after me. I can handle myself,” she says as we pull out onto the road. I say nothing else, plotting Pock’s demise. She touches me as little as possible despite our secret rendezvous. It’s weird and discomforting. My johnson has been in this girl. Maybe I am flawed, but I expected that she would be warmer than she is.

We stop outside of Houston at a small dive of a hotel. “I’ll go check us in,” she asserts. “Be right back.”

Grabbing the gear, I nod towards the all-night diner. “I’m going to go get us something to eat.”

Everything with Jaid runs like a flowchart—if this, then that—structured and routined. There is no impromptu, no coloring outside the lines. In a way, I find her isolationism boring. Though watching her tight ass walk into the reception area, the Dom inside of me wants to crack her hard, exterior shell.

Maybe because Sal has.

And what Sal has, I want.

I should order the standard mission fare—burgers and fries, but feeling the need to go beyond the border, I order us breakfast. Omelets with cheese and ham. Sides of hash browns. And packets of ketchup because she looks like the type. I grab the bag and two coffees and meet her in the parking lot.

Taking a cup of coffee, she says, “Room #121. On the other side by the pool.”

The room is simple—bed, bath, television, and ice bucket. No swanky accommodations here, but it works. “Did you get two nights?”

“I have us checking out late at 3 PM.”

“Good girl.” I didn’t mean to say it, but sometimes these things just fall out of my mouth. Hopefully, it won’t lead to a domino effect.

“I am going to shower,” she says, dropping her jacket and jeans. In tight little white panties, that fucking ass might be the death of me and chubs. I peel off my shirt, and vest. Clicking on the television, I find the national news station and take a sip of my coffee.

I haven’t heard from Sal since our fight and I shoot him a quick text. Heaven knows when he’ll respond. I called his trigger and although he seemed fine afterwards while—in Chicago—I am not convinced he wasn’t faking the whole thing. I worry he will cross the line from sane to insane; he will be neither safe nor sound.

I set my phone down as my eyes roll over Jaid, wrapped in a towel and drying her hair with another. Her dirty blonde tresses tease the curves of her breasts. And fuck, if I know I shouldn’t be thinking it, but I can’t help it.

She says, “Water is hot.”

So are you.

Dropping both towels—oh fuck, man…really?—she licks her lips and pulls her white tank on and grabs another pair of panties out of her jacket. “How many pairs?”

Bending over, she tilts her head in my direction. “Hmm?”

“How many pairs of panties do you have in the jacket?”

“Oh, um…” she says, counting. “Four total. You need a pair?”

Yeah, the used ones to wipe the cum up after I jerk off.

“No,” I laugh and smile. “You gonna eat?”

“Fuck yes! I am starving!” She bounces over like an energetic cheerleader. I close my eyes and wish I hadn’t seen that. She is like half my age or some shit. This is so wrong. Opening the plastic container, her expression wiggles as a smile comes across her lips. “You have ketchup?”

Told you.

She proceeds to rip all seven packets and douse the entire meal. Her tongue flicks out as she licks her finger and says, “You want some?”

“Nah,” I reply with a grin, studying her moves.

She eats like a beast. I mean puts that shit away. I only eat half of mine, mostly because I can’t take my eyes off of her face, her skin. Maybe everything was a mistake and all those little hiccuping errors were actually warning signs of an impending doom between Amber and I. Maybe we were destined to fail from the beginning. Can you love someone that much and still need more?

She does… Every time she kisses Master Raniero.

Jaid wipes her mouth with her finger, and then wipes her hands on the napkin. She is a strange, beautiful creature – wild and temperamental – and I want to fucking tame her. Flooring my sensibilities, she asks with a straight face, “You wanna fuck, Hoss?”

* * *

AMBER

Responding naturally, I inquire, “What’s the price?”

“Price?” Serene quizzes as I stand up and walk across the room. I need a drink of water or wine or maybe even whiskey.

With my back to her, I try and regain my composure. I pivot back slow, assessing everything she is and brings to the table and cautiously walk closer. “There is a price for that kind of position. What do you want from me? I want to know. I need to know what I am signing up for.”

“I am eradicating Rampage, ceasing its existence with the help of Sibyl, Dom, and Cristos,” she informs, clasping her hands. “I want you to run my new venture Red Crow.”

“And what do you want from me?”

“I want you to wear my collar temporarily. And I want you to seriously consider rethinking how you handle your relationship with Dale.”

“You’re not going to ask me to break it off?”

“Absolutely not… Lady Mae.”

Confused by her request, I furrow my brow.

“Let me explain. I need to get you mentally to a place of empowerment. In order to do that, I need to make sure your emotions are kept in check.”

“Like you did Sal…” I smart off callously.

Waving her hands up, she nods, “Yes, exactly like I have done with Sal. He has some complications, which I am sure you know of, and sometimes, he must come to me for an adjustment.”

“You mean a whipping against your hay bales,” I conclude as my head tilts.

Providing a quiet answer, Serene smiles. “You must be the gold standard for which all members of Red Crow believe they too can achieve. I cannot have you buckling and bending for just anyone—he has to be worth it.”

Defensively, I rebuke, “Are you saying Dale isn’t?”

“I am saying… Juliet is about to go through a transitional period for the next couple years, and I’d like to get you on the board. For that matter, him. In order to do that, you are going to have to prepare. Because of Sally’s tutelage, you are ready for growth. Dale isn’t.”

“Who him? Dale him or Sal him?”

“Sal’s position is already secured via his relationship with headmistress Anna Ford. I would like to get Dale on the board, but he needs some finesse. He can’t act like a crazed lumberjack with that beard and go ballistic in a cell. He will scare the students.”

I take a deep breath. In my heart, I know she is right. It hurts like hell. But I accepted him as he was out of love. “I won’t lose him again.”

“Then let me make it worth it,” Serene imparts, rising up. “If you trust, I will have D polished into the Dominant a—submissive and woman—such as yourself deserves.”

“And you think if I have the balls to run a session, I can fly your Red Crow.”

“Correction, I know you can,” Serene assures. “Two high powered women running a club…my influence and your skills…”

“You are talking about flipping the tables,” I assess. “I will assume you will start from square one. How are you going to clear it out and protect the space while we rebuild?”

“We aren’t rebuilding in Arkansas. We are building here. We will be women owned and ran. I didn’t say we would only have women members.”

“You seriously believe there are that many bikers who will listen to a woman? Are you aware of the kind of woman you are going to have to bring in to control it?”

“And I am looking at her…”

“I will not allow subscribe to my father’s sex trafficking and other dirty deals. Nor will I bend for anyone—not for Daddy Raniero, Dom, or Cristos. I am not paying off anyone for protection,” I add. “If you abolish Rampage, it leaves a terribly large gap.”

“Dom and Cristos want Rampage gone as much as I do and have offered their services. They both owe me and will keep any large rumblings silenced; they will take over the space. The buildings are even coming down. No one is rising up in Pock’s space,” Serene assures with a vindictive glare.

Feeling a bit overwhelmed, I snark, “Where are you headquartering this pussy palace?”

“We will headquarter in Little Bee, a half hour west of here. I want to use your land in West Texas as our first rescue center. There are plans to implement four more over the next year.”

Shocked, I reply, “My shot-up house in West Texas as a rescue center?”

“Yes, we aren’t talking your typical biker gang. Forget what you think you know,” Serene almost begs her request. It is unusual and I take the moment to let it all sink in as she corrects, “It’s not a pussy palace…”

Taking a breath, I notice the intense fiery passion the red-head is known for, but in this instance, it isn’t flaring in a dungeon or out by the hay bales. She wants this, it is important to her and the fact that she is choosing me to run it means something greater. I expected her to walk in here and burn every bridge to her and Dale, instead she is crossing it, waving a white flag and offering me salvation in the most unlikely of circumstances.

“Over the years, I have met a recurring problem, and I want to cease it existence. Every time Sibyl dismantles one of the networks, it leaves hundreds of women displaced. Red Crow will serve as a service oriented foundation and club, caring for the abused, neglected, and mistreated. Women and children like you once were. We will take in women from other clubs, trafficked targets, survivors of sex abuse, drug addiction, and rebuild them from the ground up,” she implores with excitement.

She has my attention and I smile. “Go on. Tell me more.”

“I have worked my ass off for years. I have seen some horrific things go down. I don’t want any more women feeling lost. They end up going from wearing one patch to another to another—all for the need of protection. They don’t need another man’s patch; they need their own. I want to save, not harm.”

“So, it’s a last chance saving grace…” The thoughts of change bring a nervous energy to me as I snicker, “Who is the red and who is the crow?”

With her startlingly beautiful face, she giggles. “I am Red. You are Crow.”

“I thought you hated me,” I mumble. “Why do you believe in me so much?”

“Because you are me,” she reveals, reaching out and touching my hands. “I never hated you. Hell, I tried to take care of you as much as D did when you were in New Orleans. It’s why I had Dom watching over you. You aren’t quite young enough to be my daughter, but I will protect you like one.”

Glancing up, I blink several times at the compliment. Cardinal-S doesn’t favor many people, the fact that I am one of them goes straight to my heart. Only a fool would turn down Mistress Serene.

And I am no fool.

Clearing my throat, I ask, “Who will be taking on D? Because I don’t know many people he will work with.” As I say it, I know—there is only one.

She smiles wide. I see the familial resemblance between her and Kaci and my Dale, and it warms my heart. “I could use Jack, but they have never meshed well. I was actually thinking about letting Sal do it.”

My brows lift and I laugh as I boast, “… You’re serious?”

“As fuck,” she banters with a flick of her very adorned wrist. “Sal has a way with people. He’s been assessing what all D needs. A lot of people only see this sex machine on the stage at Juliet, but he has a lot of spiritual shit going on and ability to see the bigger picture without getting too emotionally involved.”

Taking a deep breath, I nod, “And what about Iris? He is sunk with her…”

“You mean his Buttercup?” she snarls like the animosity is real. Perhaps I am reading it wrong and it’s merely concern for her favorite golden boy. “Oh, I don’t know. They have a lot of friction—which enhances the sexual tension—but I worry she will push him too far and he will lose control.”

“That’s an honest answer.”

“But… Sal is obsessed with that girl and I doubt she will be leaving us anytime soon.” She isn’t happy—that much is clear—and I have to wonder why. “So, we deal with whatever comes between the two.”

Biting my lip, I pose the next obvious question, “And who will be overseeing my growth?”

“I actually have a plan for you,” she says confidently. “I would like to get you with a variety of Masters, so you can get a greater feel for the spectrum.”

We sit—knee–to–knee—and I let my mind traipse through the perplexing web she spins. I hate to say how much sense it all makes. But what she fails to see, I do.

If Sal takes on D to soften some of the rough edges, I know other razor sharp points will form—jagged and gritty—not polished at all. I hasten away from the thought as I fear soaking through my pants.

The moment passes and I ask the question I am not sure I want the answer for. “Do I want to know what is going to happen to my dad?”

“Probably not,” she replies. Her direct answer hits home. “But you will have an opportunity to say goodbye.”

Reflecting on the end, I whisper, “You’re not killing him?”

“Oh, I am definitely killing him, but not until he meets my draw. You need not worry about this. Rampage will be taken care of properly, and I will make sure you get every penny you are owed.”

“I don’t really want the money…” I pass it off because I hate the idea of the blood on my hands.

She chuckles. “Are you sure about that? There is forty-two-mil that we have located so far.”

“What?”

“He is a bigger player than what everyone thinks,” she informs as her eyes sparkle with the revealing tidbit. “The Boston family has been funding his endeavors.”

I cannot breathe. I am suffocating. Daddy Raniero and Poppa Pock are in cahoots. I am falling fast. The ramifications of their reach is far greater than I ever imagined.

“Cesario wants his son… He will do anything to get him back,” she responds, walking to the settee table and pouring a glass of wine. She takes a generous sip and lights a cigarette. “I have fought far too hard and far too long to let Sally go down like that. Many people have.”

“And Dale?”

Her lips press to the butt as she exhales, “He was put with Sal to watch after him.”

Standing up, I rush over, pour my own glass, and light my own smoke. “He is his bodyguard?”

“In a way… Yes. But make no mistake, Sal is damn good at his job. The problem isn’t that, but while he is busy doing that job someone needs to be watching his back. I insisted upon all of this when we sent him to Sibyl. It was in the original negotiations. Sal would go for training, but Dale would be his protector.”

My assessments lead me down a road I am not sure I want to go. “You’re going after his family?”

She declares, “We are going to try.”

“Who is we….”

“Myself, Dale, Dom, Jack, Cristos, and…with Sal there is seven of us.”

I am no fool, and I can also count. “That’s only six?”

“The other member wishes to remain anonymous,” she confides, puffing on her smoke.

I pour more wine into both of our glasses. “Why?”

“Because they don’t want Sal to know they are involved in the dirty dealings of his inheritance,” she reluctantly whispers. “His life has been a mess since day one, and he has been running from it long enough. It’s time to stop the pain.”

Hastily, I respond, “Iris?”

Serene says nothing, but I have a good idea.

“You realize going after his family is a bad idea, unless you plan on taking the whole thing,” I mention, sipping my wine. “Oh, shit…”

Her ice blue eyes blink up, cold and aware. The power move to the big leagues. She knows the risk. And she is asking me to be part of it.

Setting the glass down, I stub out the smoke and lower to my knees as my eyes flicker up. I will play because if I don’t, I will be left out. I will starve. Die of hunger. Besides, I really enjoy having two Masters. And I can’t imagine how much fun being the plaything in training will be. “Let’s play dirty, Red. Real dirty.”

Lady Mae is my name.

And if I keep chasing carousels, I know the crown will be mine.

* * *

DALE

Uncertain how to answer her question, I grab my coffee, phone, and get up. I go outside and smoke a cigarette. I am weighing the options of fucking the little tartlet. And by fucking, I mean whipping the shit out of her ass and sticking my dick someplace it does not belong.

For whatever reason, I text Amber. I know Sal has her phone. Maybe he will respond. “If you see this, write me back, fucker.”

Huffing, I go back inside and slam the door. “Get your shit. We are going to the loft.”

Jaid asks, “Now?”

“Yeah. Right fucking now. We will sneak up the back and avoid running into anyone.”

In less than an hour, we pull up outside Banks Arts & Co. I have had the key for the place since the shit hit the fan. We climb the four flights of service stairs. It is dark and creepy just like me.

The recently renovated loft smells of fresh paint and wood. Sal redid the whole thing. He brought in old lumber for the beams running across the middle. He reconstructed walls.

The entire place is a mammoth-sized dungeon of kink, full of the latest equipment. Some he designed—like the hydraulic cross on the wall. I questioned the apparatus at first. If your sub is up—twenty feet suspended—how the hell are you going to whip them?

He informed me I failed to see the whole picture. Sometimes, the best discipline was none at all. At first, the notion stumped me, but I was beginning to get it. The cross wasn’t about whipping, but for viewing everything going on below—a slow, maddening torture. Only Sal.

Practice patience.

Heading to the new bedroom, I leave Jaid in the main area to contemplate his deviance. The romantic bedroom brims with white and pink and lace and everything a girl could want. I unlock the closet door and push the code—091987 or Iris’ birthday—into a pad on the vault door behind it

What can I say? He’s paranoid.

The organization in the closet is remarkable. Boxes, file folders, and other containers all marked with codes. One half of the closet contains the word Chicago. The other half is a mixture of his past cases, some important. I find the box marked Crow and pull it down.

The history of my girl resides within these papers. I locate the envelope and shove it into the inside of my jacket. I am not opening it here. Not now. I don’t need to give that hot ass another reason to comfort me. I want to not recognize the names on the boxes as I cannot help but look around. Near the top, I find a box marked Pixie, but before I crawl down into that rabbit hole I force myself to leave.

His wife. My niece.

Taking a page out of the Raniero play book, I close my eyes and say a prayer. Please keep Amber safe and out of harm’s way. Damn Kid spends more time on his knees than a well-used hooker. I wonder if he has found forgiveness.

As I return to the main room, Jaid only remains in her panties, going back and forth in the custom sex swing. Talk about needing forgiveness.

Thick black ropes on either side lead up to the ceiling as she floats back and forth with her arms and legs free. The wrist and ankle straps are present and dangling free. Her hair swishes behind her as she points her toes like a ballerina and soars high. Who the fuck puts a damn swing in the middle of the living room? Who does that?

Some sadistic bastard, that’s who. He is trying to kill me.

Her sensuous curves portray a beauty in strength and grace as she grabs the ropes and lifts her body high into the air. “You were a gymnast…”

“I was supposed to be a gymnast,” she informs, grinning down at me. “What I ended up being was an academic with a fetish for sharps.”

Wrapping her foot around one of the ropes, she twirls like a crazy girl, spinning out of control. It’s fucking gorgeous. She is fucking gorgeous. I have a strange feeling the sadistic bastard put this here for someone special—her––because I cannot imagine Iris ever doing something so daring. “How many times have you been here?”

“Do you really want the answer to that question?” she smiles, laughing. “I have been fucking him for five years. Everyone tends to forget about that bit. Kaci brought us together.”

“Kaci brought a lot of people together,” I mutter.

Lifting a brow, she asks, “Can you catch?”

“Hold on.” I strip off my jacket, shirt, and vest.

“Don’t fucking drop me,” she warns, pirouetting around the rope.

Snarling at her darling body, I smugly ask, “Would I do that?”

“You might,” she contends, grabbing the other rope and swinging her body back and forth. “So you can have him all to yourself.”

“I don’t really want him,” I argue.

“No one wants to keep him,” she says matter-of-fact. “He is like the toy you take out and play with every few weeks. You have more fun than you can handle until you realize, it’s not possible to hold that kind of high and keep that many good times in life. So you stick it back on the shelf until it jumps out at you—or in my case—grinds his dick on your ass to remind you how freeing it can all be. Here I come!”

She lets go and she is falling fast. I have a brief millisecond of fear that I cannot do this. I cannot catch this girl. She will fall. And I will fail.

Life as we know it will cease to exist.

In that moment, I hate her. I hate Raniero for putting this damn death trap in here. Keeping my arms out, I feel her body plop into my hands.

Rewind. I will fail.

The problem penetrates into my soul, but by now I am so pissed all I want to do is punish her. Fuck the consequences. I toss her over my shoulder as we move to the padded table and I throw her down with a thud. The fucking thing is huge—the size of a queen bed—and covered in black leather. An incredible piece of furniture displays her writhing body like art.

Chubs is wide awake and so is my savage as I rip my belt off.

She pounces up on all fours, shaking that hot ass in my face. Taunting me. Teasing me. “You are something else, you know that?”

“I know I want you to be my sugar sauce for the night,” Jaid says with a wink as she rolls her hips around and around. “We had such a good joy ride.”

Joyride.

This will cost me, but I pay the fare.

Fuck the belt. I toss it to the ground. And dive my face into her cunt. She is wet and delicious. Never stopping her gyrations, she rides my tongue like a fucking vibrator. She comes quick and hard as I bite that ass. Her disciplined squats are evident and the round fullness turns my dick to stone.

I am nibbling and sucking her skin like sweet, ripened fruit, melting on my tongue. I swat her firm ass with my hand and before I know it, I am licking the bitch’s ass and finger fucking her slick puss from behind.

Her ass will be a mess by morning. Hand prints. Bite marks. Cum stains. I want to stick my johnson in that tight little hole. All of my inside voices scream at me to just do it. Get on with it. Bang that fucking hole into next week.

Grabbing her hips, I thrust inside of her wetness first. Her wicked, wild tightness slicks my shaft, begging for mercy as we fuck hard and primal. The thick intensity between us involves nothing more than sex.

I have what she wants. She has what I need.

There will be no aftercare in our uproarious sex fair. Our wounds will be our own to tend. We accept this because the lust has overcome us. We have no choice. We are strapped in and on the ride, and the only thing left to do is open our eyes, let go, and fucking scream.

I am the asshole and the Master.

The devil and the bastard.

“You want to come on that dick?”

“Yes, Sir…please,” she pleads, wanting more and taking the full length of my rod. She bounces round and round, her jiggling in front of me as pre-cum goes spilling from the tip. I may lose my load if she doesn’t slow this thing down. And fuck if I want that to happen.

I am going to pay for this; it better damn well be worth it.

“Slow down, girl,” I growl, popping her ass like my hand is the paddle. That one will welt. I can tell who trained her. She works like my slut. I am impressed not by either of the bitches, but by his Mastery of them.

I think about flipping her over, but if I do I lose sight of the hot ass and that just won’t do. I want to ask her why she is doing this. She stands to pay the price for our admission to a sexual damnation. Where does her loyalty belong?

I fuck Iris. Sal fucks Iris.

I fuck Jaid. Sal fucks Jaid.

I fuck Amber. Sal fucks…Amber.

“Godfuckingdammit!” I pull my dick out quick and text both phones again. Jaid curls in the middle of the bed with a smirk on her face like she knew it all along. I want to fucking kill the bastard. I grab the bottle of whiskey and light a smoke. I burn through two more and nothing from Sal on either phone. I grab the last resort phone from my jacket pocket, the work phone—a call on that line is an SOS. He will answer it.

“Yo,” he says, breathing heavily.

Raging, I threaten, “Where the fuck are you? And where the fuck is she? Don’t tell me you don’t fucking know.”

“Finishing your dungeon,” he replies. “I’ve been here all day.”

“You’re at my house? Prove it.” I hear the phone beep with a picture. Fuck. I hate it when he tells me the truth, I feel like a complete douche. “Where is Pock?”

He calmly states, “I assume in Arkansas.”

“And where is Amber?”

He coughs and says, “I am not permitted to disclose that information.”

I can tell by the way he says it who has her—my fucking sister.

“Look, Hoss…you need to know something.”

“They got to her…” he comforts as I click the line.

I am the asshole and the Master.

The devil and the bastard.