"Then I suggest you don't get caught." Violet crosses her arms over her chest. "I'll take her home now if you want, and that will prove what I've always known-that the women involved in this club are puppets."

Rebecca straightens and lifts her chin. "Your father raised you better than to disrespect your family."

Violet and Rebecca enter a staring contest that feels more like a duel with pistols. Violet severs eye contact first. "Either take her or don't. I did this for him, not for any of you."

Rebecca cups a hand to the back of her neck and surveys me. "You aren't what I thought he would have picked, and in case you're wondering, that's a good thing...for him maybe, but not for you. Let's go. You need to be quiet and do exactly what I say as I say it, do you understand?"

I take another step back as a cold sensation floods my limbs. "Maybe I should go home."

"I agree," says Rebecca, "you should, but you won't. Your name was the first off his lips when I was convinced he was going to die. Women don't walk away from that type of commitment easily. I'll guarantee your safety if that's what you're worried about. I'm married to a board member, so I wield some influence. We need to get moving as we're both wasting time."

My hand drops to my stomach. "Did you say you thought he was going to die?"

Rebecca stretches her arm toward me and wiggles her fingers, encouraging me to lay my palm over hers. "Let's go see him."

RAZOR.

"YOU MOVE LIKE an old man." Chevy sits on the dresser and shuffles cards. He cuts the deck, then fans them in his hand as if that s.h.i.t is easy to do. "You act like you were shot or something. Then you let your bike slide out from underneath you-that's sad."

"f.u.c.k you." The entire right side of my body is bruised from the fall on the bike. I'm sore, but I'm living. The doctor the club brought in told them I'd get tired fast, but I'm on my feet and haven't collapsed yet.

"How was school?" I dig, and Chevy raises an eyebrow. In eighteen years, I've never asked that question. In fact, I rarely ask anything. My cell busted in the fall and I haven't been able to contact Breanna. I'm not curious about school as much as I need to hear Breanna's okay.

"Good," he answers. "Boring."

I glare at him and the end of his lips tilt up. "I'm a.s.suming you're referring to a girl with black hair, real smart, and has a habit of glancing in your direction from across the room. Same girl you can't take your eyes off whenever she's around."

Yeah. That would be the one.

The humor flees from his face. "It was one thing when you were infatuated with her, but she's been watching you as much as you've been watching her. I know you don't want to hear this, but I don't see options for how this game you're playing ends well."

"Why?"

"Because she's not from our world. Breanna's not the girl looking for a quick ride. She's the girl who wants flowers before the sit-down dinner. She belongs to the family that has probably printed up just-say-no-to-the-Terror pamphlets."

She's a good girl, I'm all that's bad and Chevy's convinced I'm capable of destroying anything good. "Oz and Emily are working."

"They're different," he states. They are. Oz is bada.s.s, but he's never been feared like me, and Emily is a good girl, but she's Reign of Terror blood.

"And if you want to know, I've seen Kyle Hewitt talking to Breanna in hallways and stairwells. She might be looking at you, but it's him she's being seen with in public."

A dangerous anger curls within me. "She was what?" Breanna's kept that tidbit private.

"Go do your thing." Chevy's eyes flicker to the bathroom, halting the conversation. I'm taking my first shower since the accident and Rebecca's bent on someone being near in case I pa.s.s out.

I crack my neck to the side. Breanna and I, we need to talk. "Where's my new phone?"

"Shower, then food, then phone."

Showering had been the priority, but calling Breanna stole first place. Knowing that I'm seven degrees of angry, Chevy wouldn't give me the phone even if I whipped out my knife, and to be honest, a shower might make me feel human again. "I don't need a babysitter."

Chevy wields the cards so they fall like rain from one hand to the other. "Cyrus says you do. He's going to be real p.i.s.sed if you pull that I've-fallen-and-I-can't-get-up bull in the shower and I wasn't here to play hero and catch you."

This treating me like an invalid c.r.a.p got old the moment I woke. "If you go anywhere near that shower while I'm in it, I'll slice you open."

"Taking your blade in with you to shower? That's creepy, man."

"I will if you don't leave."

"You're a cranky son of a b.i.t.c.h." But Chevy smiles. "I'm glad you're alive."

Me, too. I nod at his words. When he nods back, I have to look away before emotion gets the best of me. "Get out of here so I can shower."

He hops down. "Hungry?"

Stomach felt like a garbage dump last night, so I didn't eat. Rebecca said it was the result of the painkiller the guys gave me. I rub my eyes. Guess I'm allergic to anything that brings me peace. "I should eat."

"What do you want?" He's dead serious on feeding me.

He'll think me weak if I ask for soup. I'm standing and I'm walking, but Rebecca said it could take days for me to reach one hundred percent. "Whatever, as long as it's hot."

"I'll be back, and I'm serious, no pa.s.sing out-if you fall in that shower and bleed all over the d.a.m.n place, I'll kick your a.s.s."

I flip him off. He flips it back. I love the b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

"Hey." I stop Chevy before he leaves. "Did you hear anyone talk about the Riot?"

"No, why?"

I shrug, but the conversation between Eli and Cyrus repeats in my mind. Problem is, I don't know if it was real or if my head was off its rocker. Chevy points at the shower, and when I don't say anything, he leaves. I pull off my shirt, kick off my jeans and enter the tiny bathroom.

Breanna I'M COLD. I'M HOT. I'm on the verge of fainting.

What I really am is flush against a wall in an industrial kitchen. Beyond the fact that I can't begin to comprehend why a motorcycle club needs an industrial kitchen, I'm questioning my decision-making skills and sanity.

Even if I wanted to bolt out the exit, Rebecca has pinned me to the wall with an arm she threw out like a mom slamming the brakes. She's peeking out a serving window, and men's laughter roars from the adjoining room. It sounds happy, but there's a sharpness to the chuckles and I tremble.

As if she felt the vibration, Rebecca offers what I'm a.s.suming is a rea.s.suring smile. "When I say go, we're heading up the stairs. Me first, and when I make sure the area is clear, I'll get you to Razor."

Razor. He was shot. He's the reason I'm risking my life, because if I had chickened out, there's no question I would have regretted it. What if he's critical? What if he's dying? What if he dies? There's a sinking inside me that causes me to be dizzy.

Rebecca scans the other room again, grabs my hand, then drags me up the stairs. She doesn't want me to get caught and what will happen to me if I do? This must be a sacred place to them. It has to be if they use terms like lockdown.

We reach the second floor and Rebecca slows and I don't like the change in pace. She holds tighter to my hand and nausea disorients me as we creep along the narrow corridor. There are multiple doors and each of them is closed.

"What happens if they discover me?" I whisper.

"Let's not find out."

A door behind us opens. Men's voices carry out. Rebecca whips her head to the sound, jumps in front of me as if her outstretched arms could protect me, then demands, "Go in the door on the right-now! Don't leave until I come for you."

My hands shake as I turn the k.n.o.b, then stumble in. I shut the door behind me, my back collapsing against it in an effort to stay upright, and then gasp.

It's Razor.

He's standing with his back to me, and he's absolutely breathtaking. Shirt off, jeans riding low on his hips, just enough that I can see where his spine curves to meet his gorgeous rear. A tattoo of the half skull with the fire blazing out of the eyes marks his back, but that's not what has gained my attention. It's the beads of water rolling over the p.r.o.nounced muscles that have me absolutely captivated.

Razor drops the towel from his face and glances over his shoulder at me. Dear G.o.d, he really is an angel. Those deep blue eyes immobilize me and a single globe of water drips from the wet blond hair that's partially covering his sight.

He's sculpted and ripped and he's alive. My heart beats hard twice and my eyes burn with a sense of relief. Razor is alive.

My best friend has warned me to stay away. Violet, a girl raised by the Terror, has warned me to stay away, but even after digesting her advice, knowing the rumors and experiencing what I have, I can't leave. The bandage on Razor's arm and the cuts and bruises along his side testify to how dangerous his life is, but with one long look into those beautiful eyes, I know that I'm a lost cause to logic. I've already fallen in love.

RAZOR.

I NEVER WOKE UP. The painkillers sent me into a coma and I'm hallucinating. No, I'm dreaming. Hallucinating suggests something bad and everything about Breanna Miller is all good. From the long raven hair that frames her face to that body with the right hint of curves.

As always, she's the epitome of summer nights. A vision in her pleated skirt made with flowing material that ends above her knees. This skirt shows more thigh than the ones I've seen on her before and a shock wave of l.u.s.t hits me in places she'd blush to ponder.

"I heard you were hurt," she whispers like she's in a church.

"Just a bullet graze. A couple cuts and bruises."

Her head falls back, hitting the door. "Just a bullet graze. There's nothing 'just' about that statement."

According to her world, this entire situation is f.u.c.ked-up. "What are you doing here?"

"Violet brought me, then Rebecca sneaked me up."

My head rises-Rebecca sneaked her up. The club doesn't know she's here. Breanna is bolder than any person I have met.

Before Breanna, I never kissed a girl I cared about. I kissed girls I was attracted to, kissed girls because they were there and I was lonely, kissed girls because kissing girls is what it seemed like I should do...it's what I saw Dad do and I thought maybe I was messed up for not craving to replicate his behavior.

But never did I gaze into eyes that were so deep with emotion as I have with Breanna's. I've never been with anyone who would risk sneaking into the clubhouse of the most feared group in town just to see me.

A surge of feelings rush through me and I don't understand any of them. They're foreign, but I do know that if Breanna doesn't leave now, then I'm not sure how I'll be able to let her go.

Breanna wears an off-the-shoulder white sweater with a tank underneath. The urge is to stalk over, pick her up so that her face is level with mine, encourage her to wrap those thighs around my body, crush her back into the door and kiss her until we both forget boundaries.

But that would scare her. It would do more than scare her. It'd shock her into never speaking to me again, but then she's still here-in this room. She's entered Terror territory, meaning she's on my home ground. Her eyes are dark with l.u.s.t and her tongue slips out as she licks her lips.

"I need you to make a choice, Breanna. If you want things to stay as they are between us, then I need you to walk out that door. Otherwise, it's going to change."

She tilts her head as if she's as lost in emotion as I am. "It's already changed."

A part of me mourns for her. She's the firefly I'm not sure I'll be able to keep alive, but I shove those thoughts away. Breanna is here and she isn't leaving, which means she's mine.

Breanna WHEN RAZOR MEETS my eyes again, there's a hunger in them I've never seen before. Something feral. Something dangerous. He begins to walk. His body one constant ripple of hard muscle. Instinct screams at me to run, but my body begs to stay. With each step he takes toward me, my temperature runs hotter and hotter.

Within the last three inches of meeting me, Razor quickens his pace, slides his body into mine and winds his arms around me. He wastes no time as he lowers his head and kisses me. No, devours me.

His mouth is moving against mine and it's a dance that's easy to follow, easy to get lost in. Tongues exploring, nibbles on top lips, the sucking in of lower. Razor's hands roam-in my hair, skimming along my spine, winding me tighter and tighter and tighter.

I'm hesitant touching him, terrified of his wounds, frightened of losing complete control and burning in this building inferno. Razor leans his body into mine and I collapse against the door. His lips leave mine for a brief second as we gasp for air and I incline my head to expose my neck. Razor accepts the silent invitation.

Deep kisses along my skin. Ones that may leave marks, but I don't care. I allow one hand to grasp his healthy side and the other to travel into his hair. Razor's lips tickle and tease and send this zap of energy straight to the underside of my belly. There's a curling warmth there. This pulse that is growing in intensity.

I grip his hair at the foreign and fantastic sensations and Razor moans. The sound vibrates along my skin and I press closer to him. The heat from his bare skin radiates through my clothes and I pray this moment never ends.

A knock on the door and I jump. Razor grabs my wrist, pulls me behind him, then shoots me a frozen plea that keeps any question I might have had stuck in my throat. "Stay behind the door and stay quiet."

I nod as he rubs his thumb over my hand, a reminder that we did just share that mind-blowing moment. He places a hand on the k.n.o.b and whoever it is knocks again. Razor looks over at me, leans in and kisses me lightly on the lips.

"I promise I'll take care of you," he whispers. "You're safe with me."

Even with an army of motorcycle guys outside that door, I firmly believe him.

RAZOR.

BREANNA SITS CROSS-LEGGED at the end of the bed looking completely s.e.xy and adorable. Her hair is ruffled from when I ran my fingers through it and her lips are still swollen from kissing. The best part is the light in her eyes and that contagious smile on her face.

When I grin back at her, she squeezes my ankle, completely unashamed that less than two minutes ago we were going at it. d.a.m.n, she's fantastic. I sit near the head of the bed and finish the cup of soup Rebecca brought in after I opened the door.

"What time do you have to be home?" I ask.

"Four thirty. Joshua doesn't have practice, so I asked him if he could pick Elsie and Zac up from school, but he gets overwhelmed with them, so I promised to be home to help. So, that whole near-death thing wasn't from the gunshot wound, but because you're allergic to painkillers?"

I nod and she squishes her lips to the side. "And if I asked what happened or why they wouldn't take you to a hospital, you would say?"

"That you need to trust me when I say I'm fine and that nothing illegal happened." It's true. By law, I'm allowed to carry the gun and to protect myself if fired upon. Not reporting the attempted hijacking of the truck and the shooting crosses into the fuzzy area, but I work comfortably in the undefined.

Her lips squish to the side and I change subjects before she overthinks. "I've heard Hewitt's been chatting it up with you."

Breanna pales out and that's not the reaction I was expecting. I swallow the last bite of soup and set the bowl on the nightstand. "I know I told you to make him think you were on his side, but is he overstepping into your personal s.p.a.ce?"

"He's acting weird. Texting. Saying he's sorry. Obviously not sorry enough to tell me he's deleted the picture. He's...anxious."

Anxious is good in that he realizes he doesn't possess all the power, but bad if he's attaching himself to Breanna. He could flip out and I don't want her anywhere near him in case he creates collateral damage.

"You should have told me."

"Like how you told me how you got shot?" she snaps. "A bit hypocritical, don't you think?"

I scratch my jaw. I'm the emotional one of the two of us, which means that outburst is a strong sign something's brewing underneath. Could be Kyle. Could be me. Could be a combination. Most people would have already cracked under the pressure she's battling. The urge is to press her for answers, but even I know when I'm on the verge of detonating a land mine. "Come here."

She inclines her head in a cute p.i.s.sed-off way and I mock like my arm is in pain. "Are you going to deny a man who almost died comfort?"

Breanna rolls her eyes, but she crawls up the bed. I stretch out and encourage her to settle into my left side. She gingerly places her hand on my stomach, careful to avoid the scratches and bruises. Her cool fingers burn against my bare skin. I should have put on a shirt for her modesty, but I've enjoyed how Breanna's been appreciating my body.