“Mátame,” Pistol says, the word coming out barely more than a soft whisper. I might not have heard it, except he begs for the same thing every time. It’s monotonous. He should figure out by now that he dies when I’m done, not before. Now that my hands are taped, I circle his body.
“I met mi hija tonight, cabron. The hija you helped steal from me,” I growl, slamming my fist into his rib. “The hija who is two and does not even know who I am,” I tell him, pummeling him again and again. “The hija I never would have known existed if you had gotten your way,” I add.
I pound into him over and over, each time telling him I know what he tried to do. I don’t stop. I go a little too far when blood spews from his mouth and his body heaves with the force it takes for him to gasp. The thought of not having him to take my anger out on again is what makes me stop. I use my hands to stop his body from spinning listlessly. I tear the tape from my hands and go to recline against the wall, watching as the blood trails down his neck to his chest, and right there, just below his collarbone, I see it: a bit of unmarked, unblemished skin. That can’t happen. I use the phone on the wall, hit speaker, and dial the number.
“Yeah?”
“I need you again.”
“When I said I would help you out, I didn’t know I would be keeping a man alive just so you could kill him,” Teena’s voice comes over the phone.
“Are you coming or not?”
“I’ll be there.”
“I’ll be waiting,” I tell her, ending the call.
I light a cigarette, letting the smoke circle around me.
“Dejame morir,” Pistol wheezes, more blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth.
Let me die. How many times did I pray for that very thing? Ask God for that very same thing? How many times did it go unanswered? Not as many as Pistol’s will. That, I can promise.
“Not tonight, carbon, not tonight.” I take my cigarette and, finding that one untouched spot around his collarbone, I push the lighted end of the cigarette to it and curl my nose at the smell of burning flesh. Pistol barely moves, this pain hardly detectable under the deluge of other pain he endures. That thought brings me a very small sliver of peace—for now.
No. He will not die tonight. He will not die until I can breathe again.
THE End . . . For now Look for Conquered, The final book in the trilogy, April 2016
Turn the page for all the pretty extras, including a previously released novella of Sabre, Latch, and Annie—Craved—containing an all new epilogue. Did you ever wonder what Skull’s reaction was after meeting with Colin? And where did the recording Beth talked about come from? Read on! Also included is a sample of some great new book coming out by brand-spanking new author Becca Taylor!
Craved
By: Jordan Marie
Annabelle
Some men defy description.
I deal with books. I know every adjective in the English language and I can’t describe Sabre.
He’s a biker with a filthy mouth and a dirty mind and he sets me on fire.
I’ve lived in the shadows my whole life, afraid to see what is beyond my own little corner of the world.
Sabre makes me step outside my safe zone.
He makes me crave…more.
Sabre
Annie is everything I shouldn’t want.
From that uptight dress to the hair she wears in a damn bun, down to those black rimmed glasses. We don’t fit. A librarian and a biker, and if that’s not cliché enough, she has cats!
I should run.
I’m not going to. One taste and I only want more.
There’s a tiger hiding behind that uptight prude disguise she’s wearing and once I get my teeth into her…
I’m never letting go.
Chapter 1
Sabre
Sometimes you just have to say screw it and jump in. Life’s too fucking short for regrets.
It’s happened to my brothers before—so, I know it can. That thunderbolt feeling that strikes you with just one look. I just never fucking expected it to happen to me. I’m the most jaded motherfucker to walk the face of the Earth. There’s a reason I wound up a member of the Devil’s Blaze Motorcycle Club. I don’t fucking deal well with rules, I don’t deal well with people, and I don’t like living life the way some other fucker tells me I should. So, the fact that I’m standing here in the middle of a fucking street in the small, sleepy town of Slade, Kentucky, panting after some uptight bitch, knocks me on my ass.