by Isabel Wroth
Dillon's Universe
A Perdition MC Novel
Isabel Wroth
Copyright © 2021 Isabel Wroth
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
This book is intended for mature audiences only.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. The author does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.
Cover design by: Maria Spada
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
More Books By Isabel Wroth
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
Afterword
More Books By Isabel Wroth
The Sarazen Saga
Sarazen’s Claim
Sarazen’s Vengeance
Sarazen’s Betrayal
Sarazen’s Hunt
Sarazen’s Fury
Sarazen’s Pride- Coming Soon!
The Sarazen Saga Anthologies
Blood and Venom
The Etheric Travelers Series
Awakening
Perdition MC
Never Ever
Athena’s Raid
Ripley’s Saint
Dillon’s Universe
The Golden Bulls of Minos
Queen’s Ransom
The Valos Of Sonhadra
Shadowed
The Little Coven Series
A Little Green Magic
A Little Cosmic Magic
Portrait of Death
Unforgotten
Uncovered
Dedication
For my Dad
This book has been a long time coming, to be sure. I started this series five years ago when my Dad was still alive, and I largely based Top’s character and on him.
Right after I published Never Ever, my Dad was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer. In the subsequent years, as he declined, it got harder to write the book that had so much of his language and presence added to it.
I’d sit and try to write about something Top did or said as a fictional character, only to be reminded it was the same exact thing Dad used to do.
After he passed, it got harder to write, to relive those memories as wonderful as they were, but the books felt incomplete without Top’s presence within.
I’d start the story, then stop. Start again, have a healthy breakdown, and stop for a while. Then I’d get mad because the story wasn’t just right, or didn’t live up to my vision of how I needed Top to carry my Dad’s memories.
So, I put it aside and waited. This whole series is special to me, simply for the fact that I can use it to keep those memories of my Dad going and share them with you.
As an author, I appreciate all those who’ve been patiently waiting, but I especially want to thank you, my Ride or Die Readers who’ve been with me from the very beginning. From my first book, Never Ever.
As a daughter, thanks for being part of my Dad’s story. For keeping these memories of his voice, his larger than life attitude, and all his hilarious little quirks alive.
CHAPTER ONE
A creeping sensation across her skin of absolute wrongness jerked her out from under the thick blanket of sleep, and at first, Dillon couldn't identify the source.
Elka was quiet, not making any noises to alert her of any danger, but in the pitch black of the night, Dillon's heart pounded out a furious rhythm of inexplicable fear.
Then it hit her, one rapid-fire realization after the other.
She was on her back—she never slept on her back—and she couldn't move. She couldn't wiggle her toes, she couldn't curl her fingers into the sheets, and she couldn't speak or cry out for Elka.
At first, Dillon thought it was the drumming of her heartbeat in her ears, but the cadence was too slow to match the pace. Footsteps.
There was someone in the house—someone not screaming in pain as Elka took them down, which meant something had happened to her dog.
Dillon was frozen, paralyzed, only able to roll her eyes to the side to stare at the cell phone and the empty holster inches away on the nightstand.
Her gun was gone. Dillon knew she'd left it right there. She'd cleaned it before going to bed, and the smell of gun oil still lingered as proof.
Why had she gotten complacent and stopped sleeping with her weapon beneath her pillow?
Paralyzed like she was, would it have made any difference?
The footsteps were close now, right outside.
Struggling for a full breath, Dillon felt like she was choking on her pulse as a light appeared around the seam of her closed bedroom door.
She could hear the knob turn, followed by the familiar creak of the floorboards. It swung open, and because of the searingly bright light settled on the person's forehead, all Dillon could see was the shadowy outline of what had to be a man.
“Oh, good. You're awake.” For all the life there was in his unremarkable voice, he might as well have been using a computer program to speak. “I understand this must be quite distressing. Rest assured, I mean you no harm.”
The bed dipped as he sat down beside her, the light strapped to his head aimed directly in her eyes, and she couldn't turn her face away. She couldn't do anything but lay there and gargle in terror.
“This is oxygen. The paralytic I injected you with can sometimes make it difficult to breathe. Can't have you passing out on me.”
The shadowy man slipped a mask over her mouth and nose, pulling the elastic band over her head to keep it in place. A squeak came from somewhere beside her, followed by a hiss of cool, rubber-scented air.
A glare of light glinted off the blade of a wicked looking knife, and Dillon knew this was it. She was going to die, right here in her own bed despite all the steps she'd taken to protect herself.
Had Elka even felt it when he killed her? She had to be dead. It was the only way her monster of a protection dog would have allowed an intruder into the house.
“You're no doubt worrying about your service dog. She's sleeping quite peacefully in the kitchen. I broke in while you were out running your errands and put a tranquilizer in her evening meal.”
&
nbsp; The knife-wielding specter of death gave a little chuckle, but Dillon heard no humor in it at all.
“Quite a magnificent creature, isn't she? Expertly trained, but her sense of smell isn't as acute as it should be. Hmm, this won't do. I won't get it right this way.”
The knife sliced through her shirt like butter, all the way up to the collar, and when he spread the two halves wide to bare her naked breasts, the reality of her situation only got worse.
Tears slipped unchecked from Dillon's eyes, and later it would strike her as odd, how tenderly he brushed them away before getting up to rifle through her dresser.
“He likes black, but we can't have him distracted. Ah, this will work.”
Her attacker came back and sat again, cutting her shirt completely off before lifting her limp, useless right arm up to slide the strap of her bra down to her shoulder.
He repeated the action with her other arm, settled the cups over her naked breasts, then slid his hands beneath her to hook it in place.
“There. Now, you're no doubt wondering why I'm here, why I'm doing this, yes? You’ll be relieved to know the answer is quite simple. I need you to deliver a message for me.”
The knife disappeared, replaced by a black permanent marker. The soft press of the felt tip moved across her skin, and confusion crept into the maelstrom of her fear.
“I'm a very busy man these days, Duchess, and therefore can't deliver a message myself. Even if I did, I doubt my old friend would take it seriously or obey my instructions.
"In fact, I imagine he'd do the exact opposite of what I asked with a renewed sense of vigor. This way, he'll understand the consequences.
“So, you're going to do exactly what I say. Otherwise, I'll come back here to your house, and no matter how many dogs you have, no matter the security measures you put in place, I'll find a way in.
"The next time you open your eyes, this room will be flooded with light and you'll see everything as it comes. Blink twice if you understand. Good girl. Alright, Duchess, listen up.”
*****
Sweat trickled along her scalp, the tepid droplets rolling down her spine, and even in the middle of the blazing Texas summer heat, Dillon felt like a solid block of ice.
Her poor dog had awoken from her drug-induced sleep long before the paralytic in Dillon's system wore off, roaring and snarling as she'd busted through the bedroom door like a battering ram, frantically searching for the intruder she could smell.
Dillon couldn't speak to comfort her service dog. She couldn't tell Elka everything was all right, forced to wait it out with her hundred and eighty-pound dog straddling her, viciously growling at the empty room.
Fear and desperation gave her the power she needed to get out of the car. Dillon waited for Elka to nimbly leap down beside her and approach the open garage, where several men sat with tools or beers in their grease-covered hands, surrounded by a spread of motorcycle parts.
Elka stayed at Dillon's hip, glancing up at her with intelligent amber eyes, on alert for the slightest signal.
Don’t Fear The Reaper played on the radio, the song nearly drowned out by the whine of an air compressor.
Dillon used to love that song, but she would never again be able to listen to it and not think about the man who'd invaded the sanctity of her home or promised in such vivid detail what would happen to her if she failed to obey him.
Don't fear the reaper...
Ha! Dillon was so scared, she could taste it in her mouth. Or maybe that was blood from where she'd bit into her cheek the entire drive down from Dallas, terrified every car behind her might be him.
Terrified those two times she had stopped and let Elka out to pee, he would show up and demand she get back in the car to get on the road.
Or shoot her from afar for deviating from his instructions by even the smallest detail.
“You lost, lady?”
Teetering on the edge of an absolute melt down, the masculine voice pulled Dillon back from the abyss.
Her hand tightened resolutely around Elka's leash as she met the cool gray eyes of the man staring at her with an odd mix of interest and suspicion.
He came toward her wiping his grimy, greasy hands with a towel. He even had a smudge of it on his left cheek, just across the trio of scars that bisected his eyebrow and ran almost all the way down to his jaw.
Like most people, he glanced down at Elka with no small amount of uncertainty, his eyebrow arching in response to the way Elka sat with no more than a lift of Dillon's index finger.
Her dog was an intimidating beast on a good day. She had the short, silky black and tan coat of a Doberman, the sharply pointed muzzle and cropped ears per-breed standard, and the protective temperament of a Doberman, mixed with the size and heft of an Irish Wolfhound.
When she was relaxed, Elka was as lovable and cuddly as a purse puppy. On edge, like she was today, the dog was a first-class bitch with the training of a K-9 officer.
One wrong move, and whoever was in front of Dillon would get their face ripped off if Dillon didn't give a command to hold Elka in place.
It took two attempts for Dillon to find her voice, so terrified she had to curl her fingers in Elka's collar, lest the dog react without Dillon's direction.
“No, I'm not lost. I need to speak with Nasa.”
The man frowned at her in confusion and tilted his head enough to make his dark hair swing down along the side of his face. He gave her an insultingly long look, his gaze momentarily caught at her midsection.
“You pregnant or something?”
Dillon couldn't help but wonder what kind of womanizer Nasa was for his friend to ask her that.
“What? No! It's an emergency. Is he here or not?”
The scarred man opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by the arrival an older man with a glorious mane of silver hair, salted with stripes of fading black, and a beard to match.
He brought the clean scent of pipe tobacco and Old Spice with him, exuding an aura of commanding calm that on any other day might have made Dillon feel at ease.
He raked his vibrant gaze over her just like the other guy, touching on the death grip she had on Elka's collar, Dillon's hastily donned outfit of cutoff shorts, and the zip-up hoodie she'd thrown on over her bra, to the worn sneakers on her feet, then back up in a lightning fast flick.
“Problem, Pen?” His voice was a deep rasp, roughened with what Dillon assumed was a lifelong habit of smoking.
“Not sure, Top. This lady wants to see Nasa. Says it’s an emergency,” Pen, the scarred biker, responded.
The older man's piercing blue eyes dropped to her belly and, with a testy little growl, Dillon repeated the answer to his unasked question.
“I'm not fucking pregnant. A man broke into my house last night, drugged my dog, and threatened to kill me if I didn't deliver a message to this address, directly to someone named Nasa.”
Whatever it was the older man heard in her voice or saw in her expression made him take her seriously. He gave a jerk of his chin and waved her forward.
“Alright. Come inside.”
Dillon's knees wobbled at the idea of walking into a den of men who associated with serial killers, but her voice was firm. “I'm fine right where I am, thanks.”
If he noticed the renewed surge of adrenaline and fear, Top didn't point it out. He did smile and give her a dry, semi-sarcastic reply, though.
“If you want to talk to Nasa, you'll have to come inside. He's got eyes on us right now, but he won't come out here unless he's got no choice. Nasa has a thing about being out in the open.”
Following the wave of Top's hand, Dillon saw there were about a dozen cameras with a clear line of sight to where she stood.
The urge to let rage replace the fear coursing through her was intense. As strong, or maybe stronger than the desire to turn around and get the hell out of here, but getting in the truck and driving off wasn't an option.
He had been very clear. Dillon was to follow hi
s instructions to the letter or suffer the consequences.
He hadn't said she had to deliver the message face to face, and if Nasa was watching, Dillon figured it was good enough. So, she let go of Elka's collar, glad when the men in front of her all took a step back, and unzipped her sweatshirt.
Later, she would remember how quickly the rest of the bikers descended upon her, forming a protective half-circle beside their leader.
It was that need to be angry versus terrified that had her defiantly throwing the sweatshirt on the ground, standing there with her shoulders back despite the way she trembled, letting everyone get a nice long look at what was written in bold black ink across her chest and belly.
Dear Nasa,
Stop searching for my little bird, or you'll have more than one Ghost haunting you.
It was a message Dillon would never forget, and now that it was delivered, now that the eyes of twenty men were glued to her chest in a less than flattering fashion, she considered her task finished.
She didn't even think about retrieving her sweatshirt, or care that all the strangers behind her would see the twisted lattice of ugly scars across her back as she spun on her heel and ordered Elka to watch her back.
It was a neat trick the dog trainer and Dillon had worked on for months, and one Dillon never truly appreciated until this moment.
Dillon's command of, “Shest” urged Elka to face the men behind her and walk backward at Dillon's thigh, while Dillon walked away toward her truck. Joshua assured her anyone considering coming up behind her with Elka facing them would think twice.
Dillon heard a door bang open behind her, and every muscle in her body tensed in preparation to whip around and face the threat, but she didn't have a gun.
All she had was Elka, and once the dog left her side, Dillon was open to attack. She couldn't stop. She had to get to the truck and get the hell out of here, fast.
