The Arachnid Conclave: A Suspense Romance Novel (MC Saga Book 2)

by Brogan Riley

  The Arachnid Conclave

  by

  Brogan Riley

  *****

  A Suspense Romance Novel

  Copyright © 2018 by Brogan Riley

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Description

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Epilogue 1

  Epilogue 2

  Excerpt His Princess: Shadow Wolves MC

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Description

  An ambitious man.

  An innocent and pure woman.

  Love is unexpected.

  Love is wild.

  Love is beautiful.

  A cult threatens to tear them apart.

  He is a special agent.

  She is a biker’s daughter. President’s daughter.

  Chantal is unique.

  Soon, Dante learns that she’s not only different; she’s forbidden.

  The Furious Daggers MC will change forever.

  A Suspense Romance Novel.

  A sequel to ‘His Poppy: Furious Daggers MC’.

  Standalone. HEA. No cheating. For adult audiences only. Explicit and dark content which some readers might find offensive. Strong language. Graphic depictions of violence. Abuse. Reader discretion advised.

  Prologue

  Kathryn

  My eyes flick over the dead man’s face. He’s African-American, but his skin has a greyish-white tinge around the eyes and mouth.

  Such an innocent, robust life.

  My glance trails down the deceased man’s chest. A long cut stretches from his throat to his navel. It gapes like a volcanic chasm. I suspect it must have been inflicted with a blunt dagger.

  I tuck a few tendrils of hair behind my ear.

  My eyes sweep over the piece of rope around the corpse’s neck just before a forensic officer zips up the body bag.

  A camera flashes.

  I look up in the sky. It’s drizzling, and the cold misty daintiness moistens my face.

  My ears fill with sounds. Twigs are snapping under the forensic officers’ boots. Evidence bags are rustling. Two detectives are talking with the coroner.

  A cloud of vapour leaves my mouth as I shove my numb hands into the pockets of my navy trench coat.

  The corpse has no name. It looks a bit rotten.

  It looks so young. The man must have been barely twenty years old when he died.

  I look around the muddy clearing. I stamp my feet, my eyes fixed on Special Agent Lamon’s profile. He’s talking to one of the prosecutor’s people. Sheriff Caroline Mills joins them. She’s sixty-two years old but has a sharp memory and an even sharper tongue. Lamon looks over his shoulder and our eyes meet. I give him a slight encouraging nod.

  I draw in a deep breath. The swamp smells of decaying leaves and fish. It’s getting chillier and chillier. The autumnal leaves overhead rustle, and the sound resembles a dirge.

  The corpse has been marked like the three other bodies we’ve found here this month—two Caucasian men and an Asian. Four young men in total.

  He likes young men.

  Lamon walks over to me, his hand raised in greeting. He stops at my left, arm’s length away from me, and we both roam our eyes over the brown-green surface of the swamp.

  “You’re going to join my team, Agent Lamon,” I say.

  Lamon smirks at me. “Brian wants me to stay with his team. He said I was irreplaceable.”

  What a cocky attitude. I’m not surprised though. With his killer smile and brilliant intelligence, he has every right to be confident.

  I flash him a polite smile. “The transfer has already been agreed. You’re starting right now.”

  He nods, a damp, cold silence between us until he lights up a cigarette. “The scumbag must love making them wail.”

  “Indeed, he must.”

  Yes, the testicles are always crushed; the fingers are chopped off, and the back passage is ripped apart. Not to mention the cuts and burns all over the skin. The forensic reports are always clear on the fact that the victims sustain the injuries when they are still alive.

  I take a hit of my E-cig. “I like to see progress, agent. I tend to get rid of anyone who doesn’t give me good results,” I say, exhaling a pale grey cloud scented with apple and vanilla.

  “You won’t be disappointed, boss.”

  I know.

  Lamon is the best for this job.

  I put on my official expression, hiding my joy in the darkest abyss of my heart.

  No, wait. I have no heart.

  I love making them wail too. My knife is always very sharp.

  But recently, I’ve been too busy to attend the sacrificial ceremonies.

  I’m busy working my way up to become the director of the FBI. I’m busy cleaning away my rivals.

  We’re going to swallow the police from inside, bit by bit, in every country.

  We’re going to be the true rulers of the world.

  Power is so addictive.

  Money is even more addictive.

  Blood is intoxicating.

  Wailing youth? So damn delicious.

  Chapter 1

  Dante

  She props her elbow on the table, her expression unconcerned, but I see a flicker of fear in her big grey eyes framed by thick dark eyebrows. The girl looks like a she-wolf.

  “Listen, kid,” I start once again. “You tell me where Liberator is and I’ll forget you stole that necklace, okay?”

  I’ve been watching her for three months. She’s Liberator’s daughter, as good at vanishing as her father.

  She’s a pretty little thief.

  When she walked into that small jewellery shop and snatched the necklace, I saw my chance to grab her and use her to get to her father.

  Her full lips curl into a pitying smile. “I don’t know any Liberator.” She arches her eyebrows and then purses her lips as a child would.

  Fuck me. She has a beautiful mouth—heart-shaped and as shiny as rose petals on a spring morning.

  I grunt quietly. “Like hell.”

  Her lips part, forming a seductive ‘o’. Fucking hell, I feel edgy. Fucking hell, I want to kiss those tempting lips of hers. No, I want to crush them with mine. I want to bite them, suck them, lick them.

  Heat rushes to my dick.

  I’ve been interrogating her for an hour. She hasn’t told me anything useful so far.

  She’s been smiling, rolling her eyes, yawning, trying to seduce me with those perfect lips of hers. Because that’s what her smiles and o’s mean, right?

&nbs
p; Focus, Dante. The kid is a suspect.

  The kid is only eighteen, or so she says. I don’t know her real age or her address. I know she called Liberator a dad and the woman accompanying him a mom while the three of them were shopping in town five days ago.

  The three of them wore sunglasses, and the woman wore a blonde wig.

  They always wear sunglasses and hats or bandanas. We hear their names but we never see their faces. I know Liberator is a massive man, that’s all. They wear cuts with the logo that reads ‘The Furious Daggers MC’. Liberator and his men are shadows, mirages in the desert, deadly ghosts, all of them wanted by security services in five countries. Nobody knows where the club is based. They appear and disappear as though the laws of time and space don’t restrain them. They always slip away. There’s always a maze of streets they can use to their advantage. There’s always a maze of underground passages. A woman with an enormous pram. A stall that falls over. Yep, they’re very inventive.

  “I just want to talk to your dad,” I say.

  I’m trying to be a good cop, gain her trust, but she’s unyielding.

  My men cuffed her just after she walked out of the jewellery shop. She didn’t cry, didn’t panic, didn’t beg. She was a sweet, obedient girl.

  “I have no dad.” She rests her chin against her palm, boredom radiating from her face.

  I like her. She can be a tough little bitch when it’s needed.

  “It’s important, kid,” I say.

  “What’s so important, sir?”

  Her long brown hair waves like a waterfall of dark chocolate. She’s really pretty. No, not pretty. Beautiful.

  As cute as a fawn.

  Yeah, there’s something unearthly and wild about her.

  “I just need to talk to him,” I say as I put on my most threatening expression.

  She rolls her eyes, but two fingers of her right hand twitch. “You’ve mistaken me for somebody else, sir.” A sweet smile crosses her face. Her eyes flutter. “I’m a college student. My mom is a sheriff.”

  “Like hell. She’s not even your aunt by blood, let alone your mom.”

  She shakes her head. “Cops these days,” she mutters and sighs with her palms facing the ceiling.

  What a skilled little actress.

  Agent McAdra and Agent Brooks must be enjoying her performance. They’re standing outside the interrogation room and watching us through the one way mirror.

  My eyes dart over to the handcuffs placed by the recorder. A dirty fantasy enters my head. She’s cuffed. She’s naked and bent over the table. I’m pounding her from behind. I’m making her eager to cooperate because she’s chanting yes yes yes.

  I clear my throat as my dick forms a bulge in my pants. “A one to one meeting, Chantal.”

  Fuck. Focus, Dante.

  “With me?” Her eyes widen like the depths of innocence.

  For a moment, I want to corrupt that innocence of hers.

  A memory flashes through my mind, bringing cold clarity to my head. My goals are as crystalline as always. I rise to my feet, move toward the side table, and switch off the recorder.

  Okay. I’ve run out of ideas so I decide to be a bad cop. “You’re going to spend the night in the cell, young lady.”

  She shifts in her seat, her hands clenched in front of her stomach. The black fabric of her hoody enhances the pallor of her face. Yes, her cheeks are whiter than snow now.

  Chantal

  Just don’t lose your shit. It’s only a tiny necklace. Nobody gets punished with a death sentence for such a minor crime.

  Fiona will get me out of here as early as tomorrow morning, I’m sure.

  My throat pulses.

  I will never ever steal anything again, dear God, just don’t let me rot in jail.

  Dante’s dark blue eyes bore into me, as cold as icicles. “Ready to end up behind bars?”

  “Ready.”

  A smirk raises the corners of his asymmetric lips as the scar on his perfectly shaved cheek wavers. How old is he? Thirty-five? Thirty-seven? His short black hair is thick and shiny, no greys, and he’s well built like he’s been working out his whole life. He’s an FBI agent after all.

  I’m scared of him. I know cops must be tough and intimidating, but there’s an air of menace around Dante. I’m pretty sure he can turn into a stone cold killer when it’s needed.

  He rises to his feet in one smooth motion and smartens up his navy jacket. Loosening the collar of his white shirt, he thrusts his chin out.

  My eyes sweep down his strong neck, fixing on his Adam’s apple. Heat fills my veins and my stomach flutters.

  “Move,” he says.

  I shudder.

  Fuck me. His words are as sharp as swords. Dreadful.

  I rise to my feet as the chair scrapes against the floor. “You’re not gonna cuff me, sir?”

  “No, you’re no match for me.”

  I need to be tough and fearless. For my dad, for my mom, and for my siblings. “I’ll behave.”

  “I’m sure as fuck.”

  I turn around, my eyes sliding over the blue walls, as the brown door swings open. I shudder again and my heart jumps up into my throat. My eyes fall upon a woman in her forties. The badge hanging on her belt reads Agent Monica Brooks.

  “We can hold her up to twenty-four hours,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone. “The jeweller has just asked for dropping the charges against her.”

  I look over my shoulder.

  Dante’s face doesn’t betray any emotions. “Twenty-four hours is a long time.” His eyes slide over my face and he winks at me.

  I wink back even though I’m so frightened I want to throw up. I rub my sweaty hands on my ripped jeans and tap my feet. My biker boots scrape against the grey floor.

  “Changed your mind?” Monica asks as her honey-brown eyes flicker with amusement.

  I clear my throat. “No. You?”

  Dante chuckles.

  I wish I were a bloodthirsty vampire and could bite into his main artery.

  I draw in a sharp breath and then I get hiccups. Monica bursts into laughter as her shoulder-length auburn hair waves and her asymmetric bangs obscure her wise motherly eyes.

  Dante laughs and I freeze because the sound is not monstrous as I expected. No, it’s genuine, deep, and warm. More than that. The sound of his laughter is beautiful and tempting.

  I flick my eyes over his face. Our glances collide like two snaps of lightning, connect, no merge for a split second as two flames would merge, and it feels like we’re somewhere else. One of his dark eyebrows crooks up. Heat surges through my chest. I blink a few times and he’s a calculating monster back again.

  I hiccup.

  A wave of embarrassment burns up my chest.

  “Move,” Dante says.

  Chills go down my spine at the ice in his voice.

  A containment cell. Fuck.

  I huff out and pull forward. My feet thump against the green floor as the agents follow me like two hangmen. I keep moving along the corridor. I pass a wide glass door, my eyes flicking over two police officers sitting at a desk. They raise their heads and shoot me cold glances. Okay, I’m a criminal worm to them.

  The artificial light emitted from the strips on the white ceiling creates a ghastly atmosphere that seeps into me and races my heart.

  Be brave. They’re not going to decapitate you. Your dad might though.

  Dante

  The barred door closes with a rasp. Chantal sweeps her eyes over the walls and drops onto the bed. Her tiny hands rest against the navy chequered mattress. She stretches out her legs and her ankles cross. She turns her face to the side and glances at a pillow and a folded grey blanket placed at the foot of the bed. Her lips form a line.

  An old whore with blonde hair is occupying the bed opposite Chantal’s.

  “Did you steal a bottle of milk, sweetie?” the whore rasps as the many bracelets on her wrist ring out as if in some fucking celebration.

  “No, it was only a neck
lace,” Chantal says, her voice stirring. She stiffens then moves back on her bed, tucking her feet under her bottom. “A tiny necklace. I’m a very tiny criminal.”

  Fuck me. She really is adorable.

  “If you changed your mind,” I say, “call me. Cindy, the black-haired warden, knows my phone number.”

  Chantal salutes me even though she’s clearly losing her shit. Her eyes turn back to the whore. “I’m Chantal,” she introduces herself.

  “Belle,” the whore says as she rises to her feet and staggers to shake hands with the kid.

  I pull forward but something yanks me back to the barred door. “Cindy will bring some food later in the evening.”

  “Thanks,” the kid shrieks. She sits, cross-legged. Her eyes sweep over the blue washbasin before they lock onto mine. “Where is the toilet?”

  “Behind that blue door to your left,” I say, raising my hand and pointing my finger to the door.

  Chantal exhales with relief. Belle shoots me an amused glance.

  Fucking hell. I feel like I’m torturing a harmless animal.

  I should go, but my feet seem to be glued to the floor. “You need anything else, kid?”

  “No, thanks.” Chantal drops her head.

  I’m angry for some mysterious reason. “More blankets?”

  The sound of her sweet hiccups wafts through the air. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “A teddy bear,” Belle says and blows me a kiss.

  I shoot her a glance that causes her to shrink into herself.

  “I’m too old for teddy bears,” Chantal says, but sounds like a big one would do her good. She bobs her head. “I’m fine, so thanks again, sir.”

  I pull back and forth as though some fucking string is connecting me with Chantal.

  “Alright, have fun, kid,” I finally say.

  “You too, agent,” Belle rasps and her coughing fit follows.

  I turn around and pull forward.

  A strange sense of loss sits on my chest.

  No fucking way. She’s an outlaw.

  My species and hers? They never mix.

  She’s forbidden.

  Chapter 2

  Chantal

  God, I hate him so much.

  No, I don’t. Hatred is a dangerous emotion. My mom always says so. She’s the kindest, the most loving person in the world, so she must be right.