by Jessica Ames
Ravage
Untamed Sons MC - Book 1
Jessica Ames
Copyright © 2020 by Jessica Ames
www.jessicaamesauthor.com
Ravage is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or establishments is solely coincidental.
Editing by Charisse Sayers
Proofreading by Gem’s Precise Proofreads & Word Bunnies
Cover design by Desire Premade Covers by Jessica Ames
Beta readers: Lynne Garlick, Clara Martinez Turco, Emily Vaughan, Allisyn Pendleton
Cover image copyright © 2020
Please note this book contains material aimed at an adult audience, including sex, violence and bad language.
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All rights reserved. Except as permitted under Copyright Act 1911 and the Copyright Act 1988, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior express, written consent of the author.
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Contents
Author’s Note
1. Ravage
2. Sasha
3. Sasha
4. Ravage
5. Sasha
6. Ravage
7. Sasha
8. Ravage
9. Ravage
10. Sasha
11. Ravage
12. Sasha
13. Ravage
14. Sasha
15. Ravage
16. Sasha
17. Ravage
18. Sasha
19. Ravage
20. Sasha
21. Ravage
22. Sasha
23. Ravage
24. Sasha
25. Ravage
26. Sasha
27. Ravage
28. Sasha
29. Ravage
30. Sasha
31. Ravage
32. Sasha
33. Ravage
34. Sasha
Epilogue
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Also by Jessica Ames
About the Author
Author’s Note
This book contains themes of rape, child illness, murder, mayhem and other topics that may be upsetting. Reader discretion is advised.
To Raven, who made this book better.
Ravage
Verb: cause severe and extensive damage to.
1
Ravage
Screams mean different things. Over the years, I’ve learnt to recognise their sounds, and what they signify by the timbre alone. Judging by the squealing this dumb fuck is making, Fury’s having a little more fun than he should be. Time to wrap it up. My sergeant-at-arms can get carried away at times and if I don’t rein him back in…
Well, dead men can’t talk.
I push a booted foot off the wall and straighten, pulling my kutte back into place. I’m readying for the fight I know I’m about to have because once he’s out of the box, Fury doesn’t like going back in it. I used to think history was fun when it talked about berserkers—men hungry on bloodlust, so lost to it they didn’t know their own names. Seeing it first-hand, it’s a different ball game. Breaking through Fury’s fury is never easy, but I need Frankie breathing, which isn’t on the cards with Captain Bloodlust dealing from the deck.
As I cross the room, my footsteps loud on the concrete, the stench of copper is heavy in the air. It mixes with the thick, cloying smell of urine. The bastard must have pissed himself. Then again, if Fury was waving that pig-sticker around and carving bits off me, I might not think twice about pissing myself too—especially if I was hung up from the ceiling by my wrists and surrounded by men from a club with one of the darkest reputations around.
The Untamed Sons are not just my club, they’re my brothers. We don’t share blood, but our bond is deeper than that. We’re bound by a different kind of sanctity. I trust each and every one of them to have my back, as I would have theirs. I’d bleed for them, just as they would me, because that is what club is. It’s being part of something bigger than you.
It’s also taking fucking orders.
I glance across the room towards Daimon, who’s leaning against the wall, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, his expression blank despite the scene in front of him.
“Day.” I snap out his name and his eyes raise to meet mine.
I’m going to need his help. I’m a big bloke at six-five, but Fury’s got a taste of the rage in him, and bringing him down when his bloodlust is flaring is not going to be easy.
Daimon stubs out his cigarette. His shaggy dark hair falls into his eyes when he lowers his head and he has to brush it back out of his face when he looks up again, ready to do what I need.
Fury makes a guttural groan as Frankie squeals.
Shit.
I twist back around and snag Fury’s wrist just in time to stop him slamming his knife right between Frank’s ribs. Glassy eyes slide up towards me. His face is covered in blood, sticking to his eyebrows, to his beard. His bare chest is blood spattered, and clean. He doesn’t have a scrap of ink on him, other than the Untamed Sons insignia between his shoulders. They had to sedate him to do it. The guy might bleed a man without a second thought, but he’s shit-scared of needles.
“Why’d you stop me?” he asks, as if I just walked in on him balls deep in a club bunny, not bleeding Frankie, but then Fury has always got off on blood and pain.
“You remember the talk we had?” I hiss at him.
Daimon strategically hovers at his back, ready to strike out if necessary, which I’m grateful for. I can manage Fury on my own, but it doesn’t hurt to have a little back up.
Fury doesn’t make any attempt to move, though. He just stands still, his blood-crusted brows drawn together.
“I got carried away.” I watch the demons sink back down, the blue of his eyes returning. He drops the blood-soaked knife on the floor and Day picks it up.
I squeeze his shoulder letting him know it’s okay.
“Go and grab a smoke.”
“Boss—”
“Not up for negotiation, Fury. You’re done.”
He looks disappointed, which doesn’t surprise me. He has an astonishing work ethic for a psychopath. I watch him leave the room before my attention goes back to Daimon, who merely shrugs.
“You patched that crazy fucker in,” is all he says as he pulls out his packet of cigarettes and lights a new one.
He’s not wrong, but even so, would it kill him to be a little more supportive?
With a sigh, I turn back to my current predicament: Frankie Germain. I shrug out of my kutte, hanging it on a hook near the door. Time to get to work.
Ten minutes, and eight cracked and bleeding knuckles later, I emerge from the basement with the answers I need. Daimon exits behind me, the smell of nicotine following him as we step out from the pits of the clubhouse. I lock the door behind us and wait for him, watching as he scrapes his hair into an elastic band at the nape of his neck.
“Let him stew down there for an hour or two
, see if he’ll spill anything else. Then find Levi and Titch and get rid of our problem.”
Get rid of Frankie, I mean. He’s a liability. Arsehole knows too much and he’s got a big mouth.
I know he’ll do what I ask, so I don’t wait for his agreement. Instead, I head down the maze of corridors to the common room and push through the doors. When I step into the bar area of the clubhouse, I’m hit with the heavy bass of some old rock tune and the din of voices talking over the music. It’s noisy tonight. Then again, it’s noisy most nights. My brothers like to party and they like to do it hard and loose.
I head for the bar, ignoring Noelle who tries to climb me like a tree as I pass her. Usually, I’d give the tiny half-naked blonde some attention, but tonight, I’m not in the mood. She must sense this, because she backs away quickly, moving on to find another target. I should feel bad, but I don’t. She’s just another club bunny wanting to get her teeth into a biker. They’re all the same. They want a taste of rough and my boys are more than happy to give it to them—for the night at least. You don’t take bunnies home.
I slide onto the first empty stool at the bar and raise two fingers to crook at the prospect behind it. Kyle is barely eighteen and he peers at me with eyes as black as his fucking soul and as dark as his skin. I like the kid, though. He’s tough as nails and he’ll make a hell of a brother—if he survives the prospect term.
Sin, my vice president, right hand and my little brother, found him at an underground fight club. He’s got a lip piercing that I suspect my road captain, Titch, did pissed up one night. He’s quiet and unassuming—unless he’s fighting. Then, he’s a demon.
He strides over to me, tossing the towel he was wiping the bar with on the side.
“Whiskey, kid. Make it a home measure.”
Kyle nods and goes to make the drink. I lace my fingers together on the bar and glance around the room. This is my kingdom, my domain. It’s a beat-up shithole of a place that smells of weed, cigarettes, stale beer, and pussy, but it’s mine. I fought and bled to win and keep this slice of London. This patch of town belongs to the Untamed Sons and I’ll bury anyone who tries to take it from me. I’ve buried more people than I can count over the years who thought different.
A tumbler with four fingers worth of amber coloured liquid in the bottom is slid in front of me. I lift it in salute at my bartender.
“Cheers.”
It’s about an hour later and another two tumblers of whiskey before Daimon comes to sit next to me. He orders a pint, before he says, “It’s done.”
I don’t respond. There’s no need to. I knew it would get done because I know my men. They’re loyal to a fault.
Which is why I go on alert when a ripple of discomfort goes through him before he rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably. Day’s smaller than me by maybe a couple of inches and I’ve got brawn on him as well—hardly surprising, I’m usually the biggest fucker in any room—but Daimon’s a decent fighter and he’s not someone to underestimate. I might be larger, but I have no doubt in a fight we’d be evenly matched.
“What?”
“There’s a small issue…”
If he’s fucked something up, I’ve no problem taking a fist to his face. He’ll have no problem letting me either. That’s the way of our world. The dynamic power balance that keeps things in check. The plod thinks we’re a bunch of disorganised thugs that ride bikes and peddle powder. They couldn’t be more wrong.
He doesn’t say anything, despite starting this direction. Instantly, all my synapses tingle and snap to attention. I’m not going to like where he’s going with this, am I?
“Day?”
“Fuck,” he spits out the word. “I don’t want to tell you this, Rav, but forewarned is forearmed, right?”
I really don’t like where this is going. “Spill. What’s going on?”
He drops his hands from behind his neck and meets my gaze. “I saw Sasha last night.”
Five little words guaranteed to make my head explode.
Only one of those words is needed: Sasha.
That fucking bitch.
In my thirty-two years of life, I’ve never felt this kind of anger towards a woman, but Sasha has the ability to make those monsters surface. I take a breath and count back from ten, but no amount of counting it out is going to fix this shit.
I had no idea I could become so entwined with one person that she could become my reason for existing. I had no idea how much it would shred me when she was no longer in my life.
“You okay, Prez?” Daimon peers at me and points at my eye. “You’ve got this twitch thing—”
“Where?” I grind out.
He grimaces. “Oh, man, come on, don’t torture yourself.”
“Where?” I repeat.
“She was coming out of the hospital on Gillespie. The past is best left where it is.”
Usually, I would agree, but Sasha isn’t just my past. She’s my present, future, and everything in between. Why in the hell is she back in town? When she left, she didn’t look back, and I didn’t expect to see her again—not on my turf. She’s either stupid or brave coming back here. I don’t know which, but what I do know is she can’t be here when I am.
“Do you need a minute, or ten?” Daimon asks, leaning against the bar.
The patch on the left breast of his kutte reads ‘Treasurer’, just as mine says ‘President’. Yeah, this daft arse is my money man. He’s in his early thirties but most of the time acts like he’s in his early sixties. I don’t care, though, because he makes the pennies and the pounds disappear and reappear in legitimate ways. He keeps all of us out of prison doing it. The leather vest he wears is worn around the neckline and arm holes, but it’s not as battered as mine, but then I’ve got a few years on him. Even so, he’s one of my best men.
Right now, though, I want to punch his stupid face in.
“Was she alone?” I grit out.
“Yeah.”
I shouldn’t ask. I shouldn’t care, but I do anyway. “Did she look…”
“She looked fine,” he finishes my unspoken question.
My hands go behind my head, my fingers interlocking at my nape. “Fuck. What’s she doing here?”
“Do you want me to find out?”
I point at him. “You stay away from her. Everyone stays away from her. That’s an order.”
“Rav, come on. You can’t mean that. I know she did you dirty, but she’s Priest’s kid—”
“I don’t give a fuck. He’s dead. She’s got no reason to be here anymore. I see anyone talking to her, being around her, I’ll kick them out of this clubhouse myself.”
I don’t wait for his response. I turn and walk away before I say anything else I’m going to regret, but fuck, knowing Sasha is back in town is messing with my head. I head straight for my office, needing to be alone to digest this shit.
Sasha Montgomery.
Fuck me.
That’s a name I didn’t think I’d hear again. Not ever. Not with how she left. Coming back is ballsy, but then again, she always has been. It is one of the things I love about her—loved about her.
2
Sasha
Being back in Kessington is giving me palpitations, although I don’t let any sign of that show on my face. I’ll never show my fear. To show fear is a way for people to take advantage, and I had that happen to me once. I’ll never repeat it.
Even so, everywhere I look, I’m sure I see bikers or hear the rumbling of pipes, but it’s all in my head. I haven’t seen any members of the Untamed Sons since I came back to town—a town I thought I’d left behind for good.
It doesn’t give me warm or happy memories being here.
The borough of Kessington is no different from any other in London. It’s got its share of good and bad people. There are high-rises that line the horizon and most of the high street has moved onto more affluent parts of the city, leaving boarded up shops tagged with graffiti. At some points in the day the smog from the traf
fic is so bad it’s like moving through a fog, so living above the smog is considered prime real estate.
It’s also home to the Untamed Sons, a motorcycle club with a reputation so dark, it’s said hell spat them back out. They rule Kessington with an ironclad fist. No one operates in the borough without their say so. Those who do disappear fast.
There was a time when this was home. It was all I ever knew and all I ever wanted to know. My life was as entwined with the Sons as Tyler’s was. He was always destined to become president, just as I was destined to stand at his side as his old lady. That had been the way we envisaged it from before Ty was old enough to even ride and I was too young to know what being an old lady entailed. Now, I’m twenty-eight and have lived a life most people double my age never have.
But I broke the cardinal rule. I walked away from the president of one of the most notorious MCs in the country and I did it without any hesitation. At the time, I needed to disappear, to leave my life behind. I didn’t consider the damage, what the fallout would be. I didn’t consider how much my actions would hurt Ty.
Then the fear came, because while I knew the old Tyler would never hurt me, I wasn’t so sure about the man who was morphing into ‘Ravage’. He was a different beast, one I was still finding my feet with. Now, I’m not sure what he’d do to me if he sees me.
