Satan's Property

by Celia Loren

  A Satan’s Sons MC Novel

  By Celia Loren

  A Hearts Collective Production

  Copyright © 2014 Hearts Collective

  All rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in any way without the expressed written consent of the author. The ideas, characters, and situations presented in this story are strictly fictional, and any unintentional likeness to real people or real situations is completely coincidental.

  Also From Celia Loren:

  Crushing Beauty (Harbingers of Sorrow MC) by Celia Loren

  Breaking Beauty (Devils Aces MC) by Celia Loren

  Wrecking Beauty (Devils Reapers MC) by Celia Loren

  Other Books by Hearts Collective:

  Impossibly (Dante’s Nine MC) by Colleen Masters

  Faster Harder (Take Me... #1) by Colleen Masters

  Faster Deeper (Take Me... #2) by Colleen Masters

  Faster Longer (Take Me... #3) by Colleen Masters

  Faster Hotter (Take Me...#4) by Colleen Masters

  Riding Dirty (Ruiners Motorcycle Club) by Abriella Blake

  DEDICATION

  I'd like to dedicate this book to all the awesome readers :)

  Connect with Celia Loren and other Hearts Collective authors online at

  http://www.Hearts-Collective.com, Facebook, Twitter.

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  SATAN’S PROPERTY

  A Satan’s Sons MC Novel

  By Celia Loren

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Clarksville, Arizona, four years ago...

  I carefully pin the last errant tendril of hair back into my low chignon, casting an appraising glance at myself in the floor length mirror. I smile back at my reflection—even I have to admit that I look pretty lovely. And good thing, too, it being my wedding day and all. My white satin dress falls just so across my body, showing off just enough cleavage at the sweetheart neckline. I considered a ton of dresses during my search for the perfect one. I wanted a gown that would show off enough to interest my future husband, Rooster, but not too much too piss off my overprotective father.

  Now, I know that most girls would describe their fathers as overprotective, but my is another story altogether. Lots of girls have stories about their dads being surly with prom dates and dismissive of potential son-in-laws, but that’s nothing. My dad’s the founder of one of the most famous motorcycle clubs in the country, the Devil’s Army. He founded the club with his army buddies, when they arrived home from Vietnam. Since then, charters have cropped up all across the western states. My father, Ox Avery, is in every sense a force to be reckoned with.

  He met my mom late in life. When she died, his already overprotective streak began bordering on downright obsessive. After much pleading and more than a few tears, I convinced him to let me get my Bachelor’s of Science in Nursing—on the condition that I would live at home while working toward it. Most dads would worry about their daughters meeting some scary biker, but my dad always wanted me to marry one of the Devil’s Army. He’d be much more horrified about me getting involved with some “douche bag frat boy.” His words, not mine.

  Dad was absolutely thrilled when Rooster, a member of the Devil’s Army a few years my senior, started showing an interest in me. I wasn’t sure about him at first. He had a reputation as a lady’s man. But damn if he wasn’t persistent. And his incredible looks didn’t hurt either. I’d always kind of had a crush on Rooster, ever since he became a prospect for the club when he was nineteen and I was fifteen. But I held him in the esteem reserved for rock stars and Hollywood hunks. I never in a million years dreamed he would choose me.

  And yet here I am, about to become his wife.

  I pin my veil into my up-do and pick up my small bouquet of baby’s breath. There. Now I look like a real bride. I feel my throat close up as I think of the one person I wish could be here today more than any other: my mom. She died when I was ten. Cancer. Everyone tells me I have her bone structure and my father’s features—her heart shaped face and button nose, his blonde hair and green eyes. I peer into the mirror, and for a second I can almost see her looking back at me. Though to be honest, I think my image of her is based more on all the photos I’ve seen, and less on my actual memories. With every passing year I remember less and less about her. I hope that wherever she is, she knows that I’m thinking about her today.

  A fat tear wells at the corner of my eye, threatening to spill over onto my cheek. I grab a tissue and blot it carefully, trying not to smudge my carefully-applied mascara.

  I hear a knock at my bedroom door and sigh. It’s probably Beth, my maid of honor. We’re not incredibly close, but she’s the old lady of Rooster’s best friend, Ace. I like her well enough, but she is so fucking pumped about my wedding, it’s a little much. Don’t get me wrong, I’m excited too, but she’s like a manic golden retriever about all this wedding stuff.

  “Come in,” I call, bracing myself for a volley of shrieks.

  But instead of Beth, my dad walks in, his leather cut draped over something that’s squirming in his hands.

  “Violet,” he breathes, arrested in the doorway, “You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you, Daddy,” I smile, “But can I ask what’s wiggling under your cut?”

  “Oh, right,” he says, snapping out of his proud papa moment. He plucks up his cut, revealing a white and brown puppy with big, soulful eyes and perky ears. I squeal unabashedly—my completely involuntary reaction to anything adorable.

  “Is he for me?” I ask, breathless, as the puppy runs happy circles all around me.

  “Sure is. Think of him as a starter grandson,” my dad winks.

  “Oh my god, Dad. One thing at a time,” I laugh, putting my bouquet down on the bed. I peer down at my new baby and notice that he has one green eye and one blue. “Looks like he must have some Husky in him,” I observe, running my fingers through his downy fur as he licks my face. Makeup be damned—I could never resist a puppy.

  “An pal of mine’s bitch had a litter, and this was the last one who needed a home,” Dad says, ruffling the puppy’s fur, “I think there’s some Husky, some Doberman, and a whole lot of mutt in there. What’ll you name him?”

  “Hmm, how about Scout?” I suggest.

  “Scout. I like it,” Dad nods.

  We watch Scout sniff around his new home, laughing as he tries to eat my bouquet off the bed. He’s going to be a handful, this one.

  “So. You ready for this?” my dad asks, holding out his arm.

  “Ready,” I answer, smiling. I feel a swarm of butterflies fluttering around my ribcage. I hook my arm through his, and he leads me down the hallway of our ranch-style house—the place where I’ve lived my whole life.

  My overly enthusiastic maid of honor darts out of the kitchen in her airy, light blue dress.

  “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, you look so freaking beautiful I want to throw up! Is that a puppy?” she says in one breath, glancing behind me with a frown. Scout is prancing proudly behind us, sure that all the fuss is about him.

  “I’ll explain later,” I tell her, “Can you give the guys the signal?”

  Beth claps her hands excitedly and dashes out of the k
itchen through the French doors that lead to the lawn. The guests are seated in white folding chairs, our entire Devil’s Army family. I watch as Beth waves to Rooster and his groomsmen. They’ve gathered behind a row of pine trees, no doubt enjoying a drink or four before the ceremony. Grinning and loopy, they walk toward the billowing canopy that stands at the end of the aisle.

  My dad’s best friend Grill, a Devil’s Army brother, is already standing beneath the canopy, arms folded. He took an online course to become a officiant so he could oversee my wedding. The kookiness of this biker being a wedding officiant does not escape me.

  I watch as the best man Ace playfully jabs Rooster in the ribs as they take their places under the canopy. Good goddamn, Rooster looks handsome up there. He’s slicked back his dark hair for the occasion, and he’s wearing his cut over a black button up shirt and black pants. It’s as fancy as I’ve ever seen him dress. I must really rate.

  Beth pushes play on the mp3 player we’ve attached to some speakers, and an acoustic wedding march begins to play. She gives me a thumbs up, and the guests all rise and glance back expectantly. The other bridesmaids start down the aisle, a line of light blue dresses, and Beth brings up the rear.

  A blur dashes around my feet as Scout streaks out the door and onto the grass. He bounces joyfully around the chairs and down the aisle, tongue flopping out the side of his mouth. The guests laugh in surprise at his antics, and Scout runs out past the canopy, rolling on his back in the grass.

  My dad glances down at me, and I’m surprised to see that his eyes are shining with tears. He quickly swallows them down, and leans over to kiss me softly on the forehead. Then he leads me out of the French doors into the bright May sunshine, and down the aisle to where my future husband awaits.

  Chapter One

  Present day...

  I glance at my alarm clock for the millionth time—3:31 AM flashes back at me in angry red pulses. I kick my legs in frustration under the sheets. Fuck. I’ve been trying to sleep for two hours, but the Sandman just isn’t showing up. And he isn’t the only man missing from my home tonight.

  Scout raises his head from his spot at the foot of the bed to whine at me. You might not have been sleeping, his look seems to say, but I was.

  “Sorry, buddy,” I murmur, reaching down to scratch his ears. He flops back down onto the mattress, pacified.

  Nowadays I actually sleep better when Rooster isn’t here—which is, admittedly, most nights. But tonight I just feel so damn restless. My already-nagging insomnia worsened when Rooster convinced me to drop out of school last year, just a semester shy of graduating with my nursing degree. I swear, I can feel my brain atrophying inside my head now that I’m not taking classes. Working part-time at the reception desk at the club’s auto-body repair shop isn’t exactly stimulating, intellectually.

  Swinging my legs onto the carpeted floor, I shove my hands through my hair in frustration. I feel downright pathetic, moping in my unsexy pajamas. Sometimes I just want to hop in my car with Scout and take off. Go anywhere. Never look back. But every time I start to dream about escape, the cold realization of my situation hits me. I have no money. No degree. Don’t know anyone outside of the Devil’s Army. Don’t have a way out of this shit storm I currently call a life.

  I screw my eyes shut as I feel a wave of helpless sadness threaten to overwhelm me. I’ve learned to swallow my heartache by necessity, and I do it again now. I climb back into bed and crawl down to where Scout is curled, burying my face in his familiar fur. He’s now sixty pounds of solid muscle. I can hardly believe that my dad gave him to me in this very room just a few years ago.

  Rooster and I moved into my parents’ house after we were married, and stayed once my father passed away. The master bedroom is at least thirty percent larger than this, my childhood bedroom, but I just couldn’t bear to make that my bedroom with Rooster. I still avoid going in there. The dull ache that I carry around with me becomes a stabbing pain whenever I enter my parents’ old room.

  I hear a growling noise coming from the street and stand up, padding down the hallway toward the front windows. Scout jumps off the bed and lopes along behind me. He’s a good guard dog and he doesn’t seem alarmed, so I’m not either. Besides, you’d have to be a pretty dumb-ass burglar to try to break into an MC president’s house. Come to think of it, this has been the home of two Devil’s Army presidents now—my dad and Rooster. All the more reason for home invaders to stay away.

  Pulling back the checked gingham curtain, I peer out into the night. Behind me, Scout circles a spot on the rug and lies down, uninterested. I hear a soft, seductive giggle and glance toward the driveway. In the yellow glow of a streetlight, I watch my husband bend another woman over the hood of my car.

  My mind reels, but my body doesn’t move. There was once a time when I would have run out there screaming at my husband, expletives flying out of my mouth left and right. But that time is long gone. After the fifth mistress or so, my heart hardened against Rooster’s transgressions. As far as I know, the cheating didn’t start until after my dad died, but I’ve come to understand there’s a lot that I don’t know about my husband.

  With perverse curiosity, I watch my husband drunkenly grope this woman—probably some Devil’s Wraith sweet butt he picked up at the clubhouse. Bringing her back to our home was especially fucked up, even for him. I wonder if he actually wants me to see this. I wouldn’t put it past him. He gets a kick out of hurting me.

  They stumble around in the darkness, and I watch him stick his tongue down her throat as he pulls her miniskirt up over her hips. He grinds against her, and I’m repulsed to feel my own heartbeat quicken. It’s been months since he’s touched me, or showed any interest in me at all. I can’t believe that still hurts me, but it does. The last time we had sex was depressing as hell. He’d come home wasted and lasted maybe two minutes. I’m not sure he even remembered doing it the next day.

  The first few times Rooster and I slept together, the sex was overwhelming and intense, awesome in every sense of the word. My husband was a bit rougher than the men I’d had in the past, but at first I didn’t mind. But once he knew he could have me whenever he wanted, he lost interest fast. And that’s when his aggression really crossed a line—a line we haven’t retreated from since.

  Rooster turns the sweet butt around and roughly pushes her up against the hood. He presses himself against her, and I feel my body aching for his touch. Anybody’s touch. I wouldn’t be above cheating on him if anyone would actually go near the wife of the Devil’s Army’s psychopath-in-chief.

  I hear soft mewling cries from the woman and grunts from Rooster as he finishes inside her. I watch for a second longer to see if there’s any evidence he’s used a condom. Nope. Guess there’s a positive to his no longer wanting to have sex with me—I won’t pick up any nasty diseases from his escapades. He zips up and pats her coolly on the ass. The way you’d thank a horse for a nice ride. The woman heads toward a car idling down the street as Rooster picks up a bottle of beer at his feet and heads toward the front door.

  “Shit,” I whisper, stealing quietly back down the hallway. I jump back in bed, pulling the covers over me. There’s no point in talking with him about this latest betrayal. What’s another affair, really? Frankly, I’d rather just avoid talking to him altogether.

  The front door slams, and I hear Rooster pissing in the hallway bathroom. Probably all over the seat, and probably on purpose. He loves leaving messes for his wife to clean up. I shut my eyes and turn away from the door as he stumbles in, pulling off his clothes. He drops into bed next to me and begins snoring at once. I open my eyes and stare into the middle distance, willing my brain to shut off so I can get a few blessed hours of unconsciousness.

  But it’s no use. I’m wide awake, the smell of booze and another woman’s perfume hanging heavily above our marriage bed.

  Chapter Two

  The next day, I’m up before Rooster, cooking an omelette in the kitchen as Scout munches happil
y on his food in the bowl. I have the radio turned on low to my favorite morning show. I chop up some mushrooms and tomatoes on the cutting board. Rooster is really specific and demanding about the way I keep house, but at least this part—cooking—is something I enjoy doing. I find myself humming along to the Boss’s “Born to Run” as I scoop the vegetables up and drop them into the skillet.

  The olive oil jumps up and burns my wrist as I drop the veggies in. I wave my hand in surprise and accidentally knock the handle of the skillet, sending the whole thing flying to the ground. Hot olive oil and vegetables are dashed across the tiled floor. Scout jumps in surprise and runs into the kitchen to make sure I’m OK.

  Groggy swearing rings out from the bedroom. Fuck. I woke Rooster up. He really doesn’t like that—the man needs his beauty sleep. I take a deep breath and pick up the skillet, setting it soundlessly on the stove. But it’s too late. I’ve woken the beast. I wipe the floor with paper towels as I prepare myself for the barrage of insults sure to come flooding my way in a minute. Maybe Rooster will be too hung over for things to escalate to anything worse.

  I’m dumping the veggies and paper towels into the trash can when Rooster walks into the kitchen, glowering. He wears only his black jeans, and his bare, inked chest is rippling with tension.

  “Sorry. I burned myself,” I whisper, just daring to meeting his eye. “I’ll make you another one right away.”

  “It’s fine,” he growls, looking me up and down. “You OK, and all?” he asks, taking me by surprise.

  “Um, yeah, it’s no big deal,” I reply quizzically.