Rage was white-hot, smoldering inside him, so deep no one looking at him would ever know it was there. He looked cool on the outside. He carried himself with complete confidence and wore an expressionless mask. Still, he gave off dangerous energy, and most people avoided him, which was a good thing when the devil was riding him so hard.
He took his time pulling off his gloves while he straddled his bike. He was giving himself time to look around the parking lot, noting every vehicle there. Savage was able to map out areas in his head, like grids on charts, placing each car, truck or bike exactly where it had been, even months later. He rarely forgot even the smallest detail, and he practiced every single day. That was automatic, to map out territory, not to miss even a hint that something was off. He memorized faces. Names. He could recognize a bike he’d seen once and know who rode it.
He walked around the outside of the building, noting escape routes, windows, exits for employees. At the moment, none of the Diamondbacks were at the bar. That wasn’t unusual either. They didn’t tend to frequent this one. He skirted back around to the front entrance and made his way inside.
It was crowded far more than it had ever been the few times he’d been there. Several women turned and looked at him, two smiling an invitation, swaying to the music the band was playing. Worst band ever. The drummer was actually behind the guitarist on the beat, and the keyboard player lagged completely. He didn’t understand how Maestro and the others could take the shit music. All four had incredible ears, and anything not in tune just about drove them insane. He had a good ear and it was killing him.
He looked the two smiling women over. They wore tight jeans and tanks, boots and heavy makeup. He knew the type. They were looking for a rough ride, a biker they could take home so they had bragging rights. Neither knew what rough was, but the blonde might do. He ignored them both and walked toward the stage. His brothers had a small table set to the right side of it, mostly hidden in the shadows.
Then the singer’s voice cut in, and he stopped dead in the middle of the room with people pressing close all around him. His heart clenched hard in his chest. He refused to rub the spot, refused to give in to the need. He would recognize that perfect pitch anywhere. She was singing, not speaking, but it was that same melodious voice that haunted his dreams. Seychelle Dubois.
He stayed still, not wanting to be seen, allowing the other patrons to move around him. The bar was dark, and many couples or groups of women were dancing. He slipped behind the row of tables and leaned against the wall, his gaze fixed on the woman who had all but ruined him this last month. Savage studied her. She was under the lights and he could see that her skin looked soft and invited touch. Her mouth was generous. Made for sucking cock—his cock. She was shorter than he remembered, but he’d only seen her on the ground and in a bed. She had curves. Real curves. The kind of figure a man could hang on to.
It was hell. It was heaven. He felt as if he was actually a real man, not a walking killer with no emotions. She was in a short little burgundy cocktail dress that hugged her hips and emphasized her small waist. An intriguing glimpse of skin showed between the halter top and the tight skirt. The top clung to her tits. And she had them, full and round.
That damn top was open down the middle, showing enough skin, showing the lacerations that ran up the side of her body—the ones that belonged to him. The dress was short enough to show the deep wounds crawling up her leg unashamedly, all of which belonged to him. Those tits, that dress: he’d like to say they were what made the blood pound through his cock so hot he was afraid he’d burn up. He wasn’t the only one either. Damn her. If she were his, there would be hell to pay.
He hadn’t believed his body would react to her on its own, not once she was on her feet and not crying on the asphalt, but he was hard. Steel. Titanium. He wanted to take his dick out and jerk off, just watching her. It wasn’t normal for him to react like that to a woman, but he knew it was those lacerations, the ones she’d suffered on his behalf. The ones that were his.
His parents had been murdered. He’d been taken, along with his brother and two older sisters, to a brutal training school in Russia. Those schools were supposedly to turn young boys and girls into assets for their country. The school he was taken to was run by criminals, pedophiles, allowed to do whatever they wanted to the children. In reality, no one was supposed to survive.