Riders of Tyr 2: Hellhound
Author
Adelina Jaden
Reads
672K
Chapters
38
Rage, known as the Hellhound of his motorcycle club, seeks solace in pain, no matter of others or his own. Until he meets Iris, a mechanic haunted by her past on the streets. Both deeply scarred souls, they still have one thing left: love. And they are ready to go through hell - again - to heal one another.
Book 2 of the Riders of Tyr series. Each book is a stand alone story about different people in the Club.
Unexpected Tranquility
Rage
Another day claws its way into existence, and I’m already awake to greet it with a snarl. First thing I do is light a cigarette. I stumble out of bed, my head pounding a rhythm of pure agitation.
I can’t always tell when I’m awake, when I’m dreaming, or when I’m just drunk. The only constant is the itch, the nails-on-a-chalkboard sensation under my skin, all the goddamn time.
I shuffle to the bathroom and vomit into the grimy toilet. When I look up, my reflection stares back from the cracked mirror, a distorted, bloody mess I’d made with my own head a while back. I don’t recognize the man staring back. How fucked up is that? I could pass myself on the street and not even know it. The doctors have a name for it. I don’t care. I’m a dead man walking.
“Rage,” a voice booms outside my room. “Tor wants you in his office.”
I grunt and I want out. Tor is my King, the head of our gang. I like him. He is clever. And he is never afraid to use me when he needs someone gone for good. I am good like that.
I pull my black jeans over my naked body and throw the leather cut over my shoulders. I open the door, almost unhinging it. Whoever was on the other side hurried to run away.
***
The air in Tor’s office is thick with cigar smoke and lies. I don’t sit. I pace the worn patch of carpet in front of his desk, the weight of my knife a cool promise in my hand. I flip it, end over end, the steel catching the dim light. Catch. Flip. Catch.
“...simple shit,” Tor is saying to Runner, who’s leaning against the wall, calm as ever. “ They’re coming to talk business. During the party. Lots of noise, lots of bodies. No one will notice. I just don’t like those scumbags.”
Catch. Flip. Catch. The blade is an extension of my twitching fingers. My other hand rubs compulsively over my scalp, through the short sides of my mohawk.
“You two just keep an eye on it,” Tor continues, his gaze flicking to me. “Make sure it stays simple. No grandstanding. No mess. If they make a stupid move, take them out.”
My knife stills in my palm. Blood. I can kill tonight. I can feel that metal taste on my tongue.
“But only, if I say so. Till then, no mess.”
No mess. The words are a cage. He promised a job. A kill. My brain supplied the chase, the crunch of bone, the hot spill of blood. But he’s talking about watching. Babysitting.
A low sound rumbles in my chest. I can feel the Hellhound straining, its chain digging into my neck.
“Rage.” Runner’s voice is a quiet warning.
I look at Tor, my jaw working. I need to move. I need to break something.
“You got this, bror?” Tor asks, his eyes narrowed.
I give a single, sharp nod that feels like it might crack my neck. It’s the only answer I can trust myself to give. Runner pushes off the wall and claps a hand on my shoulder. The contact is like a spark on gasoline. I flinch hard, a growl tearing from my throat, and he instantly pulls back, hands up.
“Easy, brother,” he says. “Let’s go.”
We walk out of the office and into the bar. The quiet is a mockery. It's a physical pressure behind my eyes, in my clenched fists. My skin is too tight. I can’t get a full breath.
No mess. Just watch.
I slam my palm against the wall, the impact jolting up my arm. A framed photo of some long-dead brother clatters to the floor. The glass shatters. The sound is good. It’s not enough. I need out. I need to ride. I need my bike and the open road where I can scream and no one will hear. I’m a coiled spring, a loaded gun left in the sun, ready to go off in any direction.
Fuck, I growl loudly I am losing it. I can’t hold the fury in me, I need to-
And then the bar door opens.
A figure stands in the doorway. Not quite a woman, more like a girl. She’s petite, her hooded head and hands tucked into the pockets of her oversized jeans.
As she steps inside, every guy in the bar swivels to look at her. It’s midday, so only a handful of us are here.
Stig is holed up in the computer room, Vince is shaking off last night’s conquests over a cup of coffee at the bar. A prospect—what the club calls a thrall—is behind the bar, and I know Tor is in the King’s office. The girl moves farther into the room, and I can tell she’s young, too thin, almost frail.
I can’t see much of her face under her hood, but I can’t seem to look away.
“Need something, sweetheart?” Runner stands up.
“I…uh…” Her voice is barely a whisper.
There’s something about her voice that sets my nerves on edge. She’s scared. Not just scared, she’s terrified, and it’s not because she’s in the den of an outlaw motorcycle club.
Her fear is bone-deep, a constant companion. I recognize it because I’ve felt it. Damn it, I know it. My hand instinctively reaches for the knife in my holster. The moment I touch the handle, I feel a sense of calm wash over me.
“I’m here for the job,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Oh, good.” Runner nods at the thrall. “Get Tor.”
The thrall scurries off, disappearing down the hallway that leads to Tor’s office. I wrap my fingers around the knife handle, drawing comfort from the familiar weight. I don’t know why the arrival of this skinny girl has me on edge, why I feel the need for the reassurance of my weapon.
I can feel my agitation rising, a fire in my gut that won’t be quenched. I can’t sit still, so I stand, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. Vince turns to me, his scarred face twisted into a scowl.
Both brothers look at me like I’m about to explode. Half the time, I’m afraid I will. The other half, I wish I would, just to end it all.
“You okay, brother?” Vince stands, concern etched on his face.
“Rage?” Runner moves closer.
I barely hear them as I run my fingers through my hair. Shit! It’s happening again! I can feel the rush, the pounding in my ears, the pressure building in my chest. I groan, the sound deep and guttural.
“Bror,” Vince demands.
I grip my knife tighter, my jaw clenched so tight it hurts. My vision is tinged with red, my thoughts a jumbled mess. I knew today was going to be a bad day. I need to get out of the bar, away from the brothers.
They’re used to my episodes, but the girl…
The thought of her makes me look her way. She’s still holding her hood, but as I turn to her, she lets it fall. I freeze. Everything freezes. Just for a moment, but it happens.
I only glance at her for a second, but it’s enough. She has dark hair, pulled back into a messy bun. Her black hoodie is too big, the zipper open to reveal a worn-out black T-shirt. The shirt is torn in places, revealing her belly button.
Her jeans are too big, hanging low on her slim hips. All her clothes look like they belong to someone else. But it’s not her clothes that catch my eye. It’s her eyes. Her damn eyes! They’re a striking gray, dominating her small, thin face.
And she’s looking at me. She’s looking at me with those damn eyes.
“You here for the job?” Tor’s voice breaks the spell.
Her gaze shifts from me to Tor, and it feels like a physical blow. I want to grab her, force her to look at me again, to quiet the voices in my head. But I can’t. She’s already terrified, she doesn’t need a madman on her tail.
I follow her gaze to Tor and see that he’s taken aback by her eyes too, a smile playing on his lips.
They call me Rage, and that’s all I am. Six-foot-four and two hundred and fifteen pounds of pure muscle. My real name doesn’t matter to anyone, least of all me. But seeing Tor eyeing the gray-eyed girl makes me question what rage really is.
I grip my knife tighter, grabbing a bottle with my free hand. I take deep breaths, my chest heaving. The voices in my head quiet down. But Tor is my brother, and he’s always treated me well. I can’t…
“Come, sit!” Tor invites the girl, but she hesitates.
Then she turns her gaze back to me. Her eyes pin me in place, and for a few brief seconds, the voices in my head are silent. I can feel her gaze burning into me, peering into my soul. I don’t like what she might find there, so I look away, gripping the bottle tighter.
I feel her move away, and I down the amber liquid as I sit back down.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” I hear Tor ask her, and I take another swig of whiskey.
I love my King, but in that moment, I hate him for being able to talk to her. And because I know that if Tor sets his sights on a girl, she’ll end up in his bed.
“I’m…here for the job,” she repeats.
“Okay.” Tor nods.
Not many girls who come to work at the bar give their real names. Nicknames stick, and that’s that. It’s just how things work. But I want to know her name.
“You do have other clothes, right?” Tor chuckles.
“Why?” Her voice is soft, timid.
“Hey, sweetheart. We’re not Hooters, we don’t have a uniform. Short skirts or tight jeans would do just fine. Though I wouldn’t mind you showing off that belly.”
A deafening ring echoes in my ears as I listen to him sweet-talk her. I’m well aware of his reputation with women. I’ve seen the constant stream of them coming and going from his room. I couldn’t care less about the women Tor brings to his room for his pleasure.
But I don’t want her to be the one ascending those stairs to the King’s apartment. Not her. I can’t explain why I feel this way.
“I…I don’t understand,” she stammers, biting her lower lip. “The woman who gave me this address…”
She pulls a piece of paper from her jeans pocket. Her movements are fluid yet jittery, as if she’s afraid that any sudden action might set Tor off.
“What woman?” Tor inquires.
“A lady in a Prius. Ava.”
Everyone’s attention shifts to the girl. My focus sharpens when I hear Ava’s name. Ava is Bjorn’s woman, his Valkyrie, and his soon-to-be wife.
Not that I give a damn about any of that. I’ve seen Ava take down a man with a single knife thrust, and that’s enough to earn my respect. She’s the brains behind the club’s escort service, and everyone either likes her or fears her.
She’s skilled with a knife, unafraid to kill, and doesn’t flinch at the sight of blood, even her own. By my standards, she’s a true Valkyrie.
“Ava sent you? To work in the bar?” Tor’s brow furrows.
“Bar?” The girl glances around as if she’s just realizing where she is. “No, this is a mistake. I don’t…”
She stands abruptly, fear etched on her face. Seeing her vulnerability as she pulls her hoodie tighter around her body strikes a chord in me. I set my bottle down, and despite the comforting buzz of the whiskey, I’m on high alert.
Anyone who tries to touch her will have to deal with me. I rise and take a step closer to her, my gaze sweeping over everyone in the room.
“Hey, hey,” Tor says, not even looking at me. “Tell me. I don’t want to face Ava’s fucking wrath.”
“She said there was a job. In a garage.”
“In…in the what?” Tor’s face contorts in confusion.
“In a garage.”
Even Stig emerges from his computer cave to stare at the girl. I study her petite frame, trying to make sense of what she’s saying. What could a girl like her do in a garage?
She seems so fragile, nothing like a mechanic. Tor is the first to recover from his shock, throwing his head back in laughter. The girl stands by the booth, looking around nervously while Tor enjoys his amusement.
Anger surges within me, and I slam my hand on the table, silencing Tor’s laughter. He turns to me, and I tilt my head to the side, cracking my neck.
“Listen, girl.” Tor stands. “We’re a motorcycle club. Know anything about Harleys?”
She simply nods.
“Well, the garage isn’t my territory. Follow me.” Tor heads for the door.
The girl trails after him. As she passes me, she gives me one last look. Her steps don't falter, but her breath hitches—a tiny, caught sound I feel in my own chest. Her gaze doesn't just see the monster; it sees the man holding the monster back, and that undoes me more than any scream ever could. I’m tempted to follow her, to ensure she’s okay, safe. But I know I need to resist. She can never be safe, not around me, not with a damaged psycho like me.
As if to confirm my thoughts, the moment the door closes behind her, the voices return, louder than before, and the pain creeps back in. I pull out my knife and examine it. The blade glides over my skin, pressing just hard enough to draw blood.
The sight of the hot, red liquid trickling down my fingers brings relief. I smile and take another drink. I knew today was going to be a bad day.
