The Devil's Carnage MC: Grim
Автор
Roanna Hinks
Прочтений
900K
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24
There were rumors about him from brothers and the club girls, but nothing stuck.
I said nothing to him, thinking he would leave or even grunt at me when I walked past.
Moving from where I stood, I turned my back to him, which wasn’t the best move I ever made.
Nova never expected much from the club—just survival, not love. But everything changes the night Grim steps out of the shadows and claims her with one word. He’s danger in denim, mystery in a leather cut, and the only man who’s ever made her feel truly seen. But loving a man like him means walking a knife’s edge between freedom and chaos. As Nova starts dreaming of a way out, Grim's world starts closing in. He says he won’t let her go. She wants to believe him... but can she trust a promise from a man who’s never lived outside the club?
Chapter 1
NOVA
The first rule of tending bar for a biker club: never turn your back on the room. Not even for a second.
I kept an eye on them because I knew how quickly a night could turn. Sometimes all it took was a glass tipping over or an insult landing just wrong.
The Devil’s Carnage clubhouse lived up to its name tonight.
The place was a smoky saloon with black leather, bandanas, spikes, and tattoos instead of cowboy hats. The cracked cement floor was permanently sticky, and the whole place reeked of spilled beer, last week’s weed, sickly sweet perfume, and male sweat.
I racked up shot glasses behind the bar. I’d been doing this job so long my hands operated on autopilot—pour, wipe, pass, laugh on cue.
I caught Prez’s eye.
Prez was in his forties, broad-chested, and built like a diesel engine. His beard was thick, gray streaked through black, and his eyes didn’t miss a damn thing. One look from him shut people up.
He lifted his empty beer bottle to me. “Another one.”
Knowing what he wanted to drink, I quickly grabbed the beer bottle from the fridge and opened it. I took it to him, placing it on the counter with another forced smile.
Prez grinned. One of the new club girls he had hired was on his arm, glaring at me.
I recognized the look—I’d worn it myself once. I also was what you call a club girl. I knew the games, the rules, and the silent rivalries. But ever since what happened with Thomas Gellar, things had changed.
Prez told me to take it easy and gave me other work besides fucking the brothers. He’d probably guessed what I had done to get closer to Gellar, though I hadn’t told him. Whatever the reason, I was grateful.
Sometimes I thought he pitied me, and he probably did—but it never showed. He treated me like he’d always done.
“Is there anything else?” I asked, keeping my thoughts in check as my eyes glanced at the clock for the millionth time that night.
Every day, I looked forward to coming here a little less. Every night, I counted down until it was time for the last brother to be kicked out. I was yearning for peace and quiet, thinking about the book I’d left on my nightstand.
Prez grinned. “I’m good, sweetheart. Unless you want to join—”
“I don’t share,” the woman on his arm exclaimed, cutting Prez off.
I watched slowly as Prez detached the woman from his arm and gave her a hard stare.
“Don’t act like that,” he gritted, giving her a disdainful look. “You’re a club whore—act like one. If you don’t like sharing with others, this won’t work out for you.”
The girl’s face turned a funny shade, which meant she would either cry or throw a hissy fit—I hoped for the latter, since she would be out on her ass.
“But you said I was—” she whined.
Prez moved his chair and leaned toward her.
“Don’t even finish that sentence. Get your shit and get the fuck out of my club. This is not the first warning you had; this is your second one, and it is still only your second day.”
Wow, that must be a new record.
Club girls were to go where they were needed, either work somewhere around the clubhouse or in one of the other businesses.
Their main job was to be around when a brother wanted to get laid. It didn’t matter whether or not they had an old lady; it was what we’d signed up for.
There was a hard stare on Prez’s face as the girl was dragged outside by Bullet, one of his buddies.
Prez let out a sigh and turned back to me. “Sorry.”
He stared at me—he had this way of looking at me, like he could look into my very head.
“It’s been a month.”
I tensed at his words, and his eyes softened.
“If you want to go back to how things were before, let me know. As far as I’m concerned, you are still off-limits.”
Part of me was happy to hear him say that, but I knew the brothers would have something to say.
“Do they know what happened?” I asked softly.
He shook his head. “No, only that you were attacked,” he mumbled. “I’m meeting with most club members tomorrow to tell them.”
My flinch didn’t escape him.
“I know you don’t want people to know, but I have to. It’s club business. Many have already made comments about you not being back to fucking, and I can’t keep this all from them any longer.”
He was right. Questions would keep on coming, and keeping it a secret could complicate things more. They needed to know what had happened.
“I agree. You should tell them,” I said, sounding braver than I felt.
Prez nodded while a small smile tugged his lips up.
“I promise you, Nova,” he said, placing his hand over mine. “You will never go through anything like that again.
“You are one of us and have been a huge part of this club for years since you were seventeen. This is your home. You deserve to be here, and I will make sure you keep whatever job you want.”
I tried to keep my smile on my face.
How could I tell him I didn’t want to pour drinks until I was forty? That I didn’t want to be some brother’s temporary relief? That I wanted something that felt like mine?
But this place, volatile as it was, was my safe haven from the outside world. And I knew that Prez would never let anything happen to me.
I leaned over and kissed his cheek.
Prez grinned. “Keep that up, and you’ll be my number one girl.”
I chuckled, knowing he meant nothing by it. I’d slept with a few brothers, but never Prez. He had his type, and I wasn’t it.
A loud bang echoed around the room, and shouting erupted. Prez and I looked over to see two brothers fighting.
One was Bear, a big guy with a temper. The other one was new, standing there with a smirk, obviously trying to make an impression.
Bear’s voice rolled over the crowd. “You wanna say that again, prospect?”
The new guy didn’t even blink. “I said, your girl could do better. And she knows it.”
The crowd froze. For a split second, even the music seemed to cut out.
Bear rose to his full, mountainous height, scraping his stool across the floor. The chick on his lap shrank away, eyes wide.
Bear was impulsive, strong, and on the heavy side. If he was thrown around, he would smash the furniture to bits.
I scanned the room instinctively, looking for backup…for him.
My pulse jumped when I saw Grim, sitting in the shadows near the wall with a beer in his hand.
His presence held the promise of authority and violence. Rumors swirled around him—stories about what he was capable of—and most brothers tensed whenever he entered a room.
But I always felt safer when he was near—maybe because he’d pulled me out of hell.
He was usually away for long stretches of time, doing things no one talked about. But ever since the basement, he’d been here. Not hovering, but not far, either.
But this time, he didn’t look like he was going to lift a finger. He was just watching with that hard, unreadable expression.
Grim hadn’t stolen his name.
“Want to see how funny you are without all your teeth?” Bear rumbled.
The prospect cocked his head, smiling. “Only if you want to see how fast I can take ’em.”
That did it. Bear lunged, arms swinging. The prospect moved with a kind of grace I hadn’t expected—he sidestepped, grabbed Bear’s wrist, and twisted.
There was a snap, then a grunt of pain. They crashed into the nearest table, drinks flying, glass shattering.
The room surged toward them, crowding in for the show. Fists flew. Bear’s good hand closed around the prospect’s throat, but the kid jabbed a thumb in Bear’s eye. More hands joined, trying to break it up or maybe just join the violence.
Chairs flipped. Pool cues splintered.
I ducked behind the bar, just as Bear and the prospect crashed into it.
Bear’s head bounced off the oak, leaving a dent. Blood spattered. The prospect’s hands slipped around Bear’s neck again, squeezing, his face tight with something worse than rage—concentration, almost clinical.
Something in my chest broke loose.
Panic, real and bottomless. The room faded out. All I saw was the prospect’s face and his desire to hurt.
I’d seen that same look before.
Not in a bar. In a basement.
With zip ties.
I wasn’t here anymore. I was on that fucking table again.
I could hear his voice in my ear. This is what happens when you snitch.
One of my joints cracked. Fingers pressed hard into my ribs. Blood filled my mouth.
The knife.
I couldn’t breathe.
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