His Rose: Liberty Pirates MC

by Brogan Riley

  Now, everything makes sense—the lily blossoms from a secret admirer on my kitchen table four times a year, my car always in perfect condition, and the poems under my pillow. I thought it was one of the prospects, but it was Lucas. He’s attempted to spend time with me ever since I can remember. Warmth washes over my heart.

  He throws his arm around my waist and pulls me into his lap. Our lips meet in a delicate kiss.

  Then I feel it.

  His love for me is strong and fierce. So young and rebellious.

  “You’re mine, Tara.”

  There’s a vow in his words as unyielding as a rock cliff.

  “I think I may decide to check out your husband skills,” I tease.

  I’m curious.

  Excited.

  A bit shocked but thrilled.

  We kiss deeper, harder. We’re not Lucas and Tara. We’re two souls. Two equals.

  I tear my mouth off his. “You have a crush on me, admit it.”

  “This is not some teen crush, woman. You’re the love of my life. I asked for your hand in marriage two days ago and your parents were very happy, you know.”

  “You did what?”

  “I did what had to be done. I’m a man of honour.”

  I’m stunned for a moment. Then I put my hand on the back of his neck and bring his lips down to mine. I kiss him frantically, tearing his cut off him.

  Martha’s death has taught me a lesson.

  You don’t push your happiness away. You grasp it and enjoy it. Life is so fragile. Why not do crazy things?

  We shake off our clothes and dive under the comforter.

  I have a young god beneath me. His body is all muscle. His lips are hot and eager.

  “I’m gonna wreck you, baby,” I say.

  “I’m all yours, sweetheart.”

  I lift my ass and impale myself onto his thick length. He gasps as I grind my hips against his. His big cock fills me, stretches me.

  “Enjoying your marriage so far?” I ask.

  “Yes, I love my marriage.”

  His eyes say it all.

  I will be loved, nurtured, and caressed.

  We kiss.

  His hands worship my breasts as his loving eyes devour my face.

  I think I have a weakness for young possessive men. For one possessive man in fact, for Lucas, President of the Liberty Pirates MC.

  I arch my neck back, moving my hips back and forth. Absorbing the fullness his cock is giving me.

  I ride Lucas until he moans his satisfaction into my mouth. I kiss it, devour it, and then give him more. He gives me his sweet words, vows, and the love shining brightly in his gaze.

  Epilogue 2

  Lucas

  I sweep my eyes over that barrack my sister calls her family home. Her boy clings to my leg. His name is Ashton Lucas. He looks like a little version of Seke.

  Tara’s rocking our baby girl in her arms. Her name is Tamsin Rose. She looks like me.

  Rose’s other boy hops in Seke’s arms. My sister is pregnant again. Happy as hell. I’m stunned each time my glance flicks over her. My sister is married and with a big belly. Married to my best friend, to my club brother.

  Seke and she deserve happiness. Life touched them both with guilt and with sadness so much.

  My mom was only a human. She tried to be a good parent but the problems of her life crushed her one day.

  My dad was only a human. He couldn’t find balance in life.

  Tara looks at the barrack with disgust, but she doesn’t say a word. I told her to keep quiet.

  My wife is as wild as a Valkyrie, but I’m learning to tame her. I love taming her in our bed.

  My eyes travel to my sister and her husband.

  Rose and Seke could return to the compound. That shit with two prisoners on the run has never emerged from the river. The case was closed a few months ago, according to the rat on our payroll.

  They keep saying they’re happy here. They keep saying this is their destiny to live in this middle of nowhere.

  Yes, they look very happy and fulfilled.

  “So, show me around,” Tara says.

  Our eyes meet for an instant. She’s furious but masks it with a sour smile.

  I mouth to her, “No.”

  She sighs and pulls our daughter to her chest. The little shit is four months old now. My little treasure. Tara is my treasure too. She looks more and more beautiful with each year that passes.

  We enter the barrack. Surprisingly, it’s very tidy on the inside. Peruvian blankets adorn the walls and wooden handmade furniture gives it a homey atmosphere.

  Tara lays Tamsin into one of the cots that stand in the living area and we drop onto an old sofa. Seke and Rose go to the kitchen and their boys disperse into their bedrooms.

  “Not bad,” I say.

  “He works as a barman,” Tara says as she gasps, “and she digs holes in the ground.”

  “They’re deliriously happy.”

  “They need almost anything.”

  “They need us to be happy for them.”

  She tilts her head as she purrs. “You’re sometimes so sexy mature.”

  Yes, my wife knows how to make my cock grow hard for her.

  My sister has been working for the local museum for a year. She brings some income in. Seke will take over the bar soon—the owner wants to retire.

  The club thrives. I’m a damn good lawyer after all.

  “The alpacas are cute,” Tara says.

  Yes, four alpacas, three cats and a Siberian husky live in this eccentric household as well. We met them all half an hour ago. The dog is as gentle as an old Labrador. The cats behave like spoiled little girls. The alpacas can do funny things. My sister is like a professional circus owner. She talks to her animals like they’re her children.

  We sit around an old table and eat a family meal. Then we chat, laugh, and drink pisco.

  Everything is as it should be.

  ***

  Five years later.

  Tara sits our youngest kid on her hip. “Thursday next week as always?”

  Pain jabs my heart. “As always.”

  Bianca starts crying. She always does when Tara comes to pick the kids up.

  It hurts more and more each time.

  “Maybe we could have a cup of tea together one day?” I ask.

  I always try. I will keep trying until the day of my death.

  “No,” Tara says. She wrinkles her forehead, pulling Bianca to her chest.

  “Why the fuck not?” I say in a sharp voice as my kids’ eyes turn to me.

  My kids’ eyes plead for me to fix that fucking unfixable mess.

  The scar on Tara’s cheek wavers. “I’m busy.”

  I feel my throat tighten. “A cup of tea, Tara.”

  She shakes her head. “No.”

  Tamsin starts crying. I want to kill. I want to torture him and then kill him once again.

  I kneel on one knee and stroke my daughter’s head. “Everything’s fine, Tammy. Mom and I need to be apart for some time, okay? But we’ll fix it, I promise.”

  Ryan rolls his fingers into fists. “I want to stay with Dad.”

  Tara’s chin quivers. “Your sisters will miss you, sweetie.”

  I move to the side and lay my hand on his shoulder. “You need to look after your mom and sisters for me, okay?”

  Ryan nods, his eyes glassy.

  “Thank you,” Tara mouths to me.

  I hug my kids and they leave the house.

  I feel like I’m dying.

  I die each time they leave.

  Something stiffens inside of me.

  Something becomes rigid inside of me and it starts burning.

  Tara is my wife.

  Tara belongs in my arms and in my bed.

  She’ll be mine again.

  I draw in a deep breath.

  Now, I have a job to do.

  In the basement of the clubhouse, a man is stretched out on the floor, tied to the hooks that protrude from th
e walls. He is still breathing, but his death is close.

  He is one of them. A scorpion tattoo adorns his arm.

  I’m still struggling to believe the words he said to us, the only words that came out of his mouth after we’d interrogated him for seven hours. The Arachnid Conclave.

  There’re rumours. And Rozvenin’s daughter is gone, has been kidnapped by those sick fucks, according to the Mafioso.

  Rozvenin is holding Justin’s daughter captive.

  The clock is ticking.

  Thank you for reading my book. If you enjoyed it, please consider leaving a review.

  Check out my other books:

  His Poppy: Furious Daggers MC

  Planned books:

  Lucas: Liberty Pirates MC (A Second Chance Bad Boy Romance)

  His Lily: A Contemporary Romance Novel

  Ricky: A Second Chance Mafia Romance

  Zeus: A Mafia Romance

  The Arachnid Conclave: A Suspense Romance Novel (A Sequel to His Poppy)

  His Cherry: Furious Daggers MC

  Their Violet: Furious Daggers MC

  Excerpt: His Poppy

  Chapter 1

  Liberator

  “Kill me,” the man whispers, his lips swollen and purple as though he’s already dead.

  My eyes sweep over the greyish-purple coil around his bruised throat. It’s a piece of his gut. The smell of blood coming out of the chasm in his old round belly hits my nostrils like a nauseating whiplash.

  The man is lying on the ground. His greyish body is naked and stretched out like a starfish. Blood is gushing from the wound between his thighs. We chopped off his dick ten minutes ago.

  A cloud of vapour leaves my mouth as I move back and nudge one of the LED lamps with my boot. Priest lays his hand on my shoulder.

  “Number six,” he says.

  “How much time is it gonna take?”

  “Twenty hours at least.”

  The man cries out like an old woman until his voice halts and then a few gurgling sounds come out of his mouth. Steam rises from the hole in his belly and the stench causes me to cough.

  He deserves such a death because the girl was only fourteen.

  The girl almost died and is damaged for life.

  Monsters like this man deserve to die in the way that he is. They deserve to suffer for many hours, agonize just like their victims.

  They think they’re untouchable. They’re wrong.

  We’re gonna hunt them down and punish them.

  Number six will be dying for twenty hours. Good. That was my plan for him.

  We move back and watch the scumbag from a distance. Priest lights up two cigarettes and passes one to me. The man’s cries and pleas tear at the night air.

  The sky is black cloudless perfection. Three mountains are silhouetted in the distance like dark giants as they witness the justice occurring in this deserted forgotten place.

  “Go home,” Priest says. “I’ll finish up here.”

  “You sure?” A cloud of smoke leaves my mouth.

  “Go before I change my mind.”

  I bow my head at him, crushing the cigarette under my boot.

  I turn around and walk down the path that meanders through the rock formations. It leads me to a devastated stone house. It’s our storage space. I step inside and wash my hands in a bowl. The silver glow of the moon is the only source of light. Time stops for a moment. I’m frozen.

  Her face flashes through my mind.

  I shake my head and rub my palms on my jeans. A delicate sense of loss surges through me. I kill it off.

  I step out of the house, jump on my motorcycle and start the engine. The machine roars, the sound filling me with pride, and I shoot into the dimness of dawn.

  Three hours later, I stop at the cabin I bought two years ago to shower and change my clothes. Then I head home. Selene is waiting for me.

  I walk into my kitchen late in the evening. My eyes flick over the canvas that hangs on the wall above the oak kitchen table. I bought it two years ago. I couldn’t resist the subtle magnetism of red poppies in a wheat field, an intensely blue sky above them, a summer breeze captured by the painter as if it was real.

  Memories flash through my mind.

  She was like a poppy flower indeed—delicate and wild. Addictive.

  I miss her so much sometimes.

  Selene’s concerned eyes sweep over my face. She says nothing, just pours me a shot of vodka. I empty it in one gulp and slam the glass down on the table.

  Selene opens the oven and takes a pan out.

  “Later,” I say.

  She shoves the pan back into the oven and stands in front of me. Her burning eyes lock on mine.

  She helps me remove my cut and drapes it over the back of the chair, her movement full of respect. Her tiny hands slip under my hoody and massage my chest in circles.

  “A bath or a shower?” she asks.

  “A bath.” I slide my hands down her back and squeeze her ass through the satin fabric of her nightdress. “But not now. Later.”

  I feel her hand slip under the waistband of my jeans as her fingers close around my cock. It grows hard with her touch.

  She always knows what to do. My sweet Selene. My sweet little wife.

  Her eyes flick over the canvas and her hand trembles as she squints out the window.

  “I need you,” I say.

  She nods. Her lips curl into a delicate smile. She strokes me up and down with her hand as she unbuttons my jeans. My stiff cock springs free. She kneels in front of me. Her mouth wraps around the head of my cock and she works me gently, her wet little tongue causing sparks of electricity to surge through me. That’s what I need—her sweet obedience, her tempting youth, her love.

  I grip the back of her neck with my hand and shove my cock deeper into her sweet mouth. She gags as her throat squeezes me, bringing me to the brink. I emit a low growl.

  I need it rough and she knows it. She yields herself to me.

  I thrust into her mouth three more times, gagging her. Tears shine on her cheeks as I moan my satisfaction. She swallows every drop of my cum.

  A light knocking on the front door tears me out of my euphoric languor. I curse under my breath. I button up my jeans and go to open the door.

  I pull the ornate door handle and the door swishes open.

  My eyes fall upon a female figure. The woman clears her throat as she puts a hand on the gun attached to her belt.

  “Sheriff Fiona Michaels,” I say. “What a surprise.”

  “You’re in big trouble,” she says.

  I raise my hands in a gesture of surrender.

  Poppy

  Seven years earlier.

  The pebbles scrunch under my bare feet, the sound threatening in my ears. Cold penetrates the marrow of my bones. I start panting like a wounded animal.

  I am wounded.

  I am a thing, lower than an animal.

  They would have killed me if I hadn’t jumped, so I jumped. Fell off the cliff. Eternal peace filled me for a second and then my body hit the icy fury of the ocean’s waves. Blackness obscured my vision and mind.

  I didn’t die.

  I thought I would, but I didn’t.

  I fought. The coldness of the water was merciless. It jabbed and stabbed. Burned like it was acid not the ocean’s water.

  I emerged from the deadly greyness and kept fighting.

  Every step is like torture, but I move forward. If I stop, I’ll die. I know this even though I know very little.

  God, help me. You’ve been my best friend since forever. I need you.

  There’s nobody here. No God. No people.

  The grim wind grows in strength as the brightness of the grey sky threatens to crush me.

  I open my mouth and call out, “Somebody, please, help me.” It comes out in a quiet screech though.

  I fall to my knees. Black and red flashes dance in front of my eyes.

  It looks like I will die.

  So be it.
r />   I have no strength to fight anymore.

  They punched me and kicked me and laughed at my pain.

  My stepmother had told them to do that to me. She’s always hated me. Now, that my father is dead, she’s the queen of his pharmaceutical empire.

  I have no family.

  My father grew up in foster care and then a middle-aged couple adopted him. That was when he was fourteen years old. His adoptive parents are long gone.

  Sabine was supposed to be a mother to me, the loving mother that I never had.

  Sabine was a perfect actress, and I was a naïve kid. She fed me with her lies so I didn’t see her evilness until I finally did one day.

  Another wave of pain lances through me, knocking the air out of my lungs. The metallic taste of blood in my mouth makes me retch. I curl up into a ball and wheeze. Cold droplets of rain splash against my forehead.

  I don’t feel any emotions. It’s quiet.

  I realise I want to live. I want to enjoy my silly tiny existence.

  I want to be happy.

  I draw in a sharp breath.

  I will fight and I will survive.

  I jerk my hands up, but my mind goes blank.

  Jackson

  I enter the bar that belongs to the Grim Dwarfs MC and the smell of tobacco envelops me, teases me with the promise of relaxation. Tank, the club’s president, flops from the bar stool and walks over to me, waving his hand in a greeting gesture. He slaps me on the back.

  “Long time no see,” Tank says, his green eyes gleaming.

  “You haven’t changed, brother,” I say. “Ugly as always.”

  He emits a raspy chuckle and hugs me. His long silver beard scratches my face.

  I slap him on the back, pull away, and see Marion, his old lady, walk out of the kitchen through the black ornate door at the left flank of the bar. Her generous hips sway gracefully as her long brown hair waves. She’s fifty years old but looks forty. Gorgeous forty.

  “Jackson,” Marion says in a deep melodious voice, her brown eyes full of joy. “Come here, honey. I need to hug you, pretty boy.”

  Tank’s six boys rumble their greetings. I wave my hand to them in response and Marion grips my arm. She pulls me towards the bar top. I see Tank’s daughter Alexandra sitting on the green worn out couch. She flashes me a flirty smile.