Devil's Vow: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Executioners MC) (Outlaw Biker Brotherhood Book 4) Read online

  Devil’s Vow

  A Motorcycle Club Romance (Bloody Wraiths MC)

  Naomi West

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  Books by Naomi West

  Devil’s Heart

  Devil’s Ink

  Devil's Revenge

  Maddox

  Stripped

  Jace

  Grinder

  Contents

  Devil’s Vow: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Bloody Wraiths MC)

  1. Logan

  2. Isabelle

  3. Isabelle

  4. Logan

  5. Isabelle

  6. Logan

  7. Isabelle

  8. Isabelle

  9. Isabelle

  10. Logan

  11. Logan

  12. Isabelle

  13. Logan

  14. Isabelle

  15. Logan

  16. Isabelle

  17. Logan

  18. Isabelle

  19. Logan

  20. Isabelle

  21. Isabelle

  22. Logan

  23. Isabelle

  24. Isabelle

  25. Logan

  Epilogue

  Sneak Preview of Devil’s Heart: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Executioners MC)

  Books by Naomi West

  Mailing List

  Devil’s Vow: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Bloody Wraiths MC)

  By Naomi West

  An unexpected baby MC romance.

  ISABELLE

  He’s a snarling, overprotective beast.

  There’s no room in his life for manners, decency, or any other normal-person behavior.

  Heck, there’s no room for anything but his motorcycle club and his ride.

  That’s it.

  No exceptions.

  No hope for a future.

  But Logan is going to have to make some room, one way or another.

  Because the savage, rugged biker just got me pregnant—whoops.

  And now his enemies are coming to strike.

  LOGAN

  I shoulda known better.

  But Isabelle was too tempting to leave alone.

  I’d kept away from women like her for a long time.

  Wasn’t saving myself for Mrs. Right.

  Just didn’t want to unleash my darkness and demons on an innocent girl.

  But I couldn’t help myself.

  I had to have her.

  And now that she’s mine…

  I’ll go to war to protect her.

  Oh, and also—

  The baby she’s carrying inside of her.

  1

  Logan

  “Maybe we should just call in the fuckin’ chopper,” Felix mutters.

  He sits on his bike, leaned over his whittling block, busy carving a giant pair of tits out of it. Chips of wood flutter to the ground while he works. He’s a wide, chunky bastard with a barbed wire tattoo on his neck partially hidden by a scraggly ginger beard. “What’d you reckon, boss?”

  “I reckon you call me that again and there’ll be trouble.”

  He grins and I grin back. The rest of the brothers laugh grimly.

  It seems like everything gets grimmer when we’re outside town. Our town, Giant’s Drop, sits in the middle of a Colorado forest, miles and miles of tourist-type shit, and then, when it all breaks, our little town.

  We sit in a small clearing, tooling up. The Hell’s Sons warehouse – our sworn enemies – is two miles through the trees.

  “What’d you think?” Redman comes walking over to me. We call him Redman on account of the red birthmark that covers half his neck. It looks like a bloody handprint or a lightning bolt seared on his skin. He’s in his early twenties, but he’s as serious as an old man. Despite his birthmark he keeps himself clean-shaven and clean-cut. He don’t want to hide behind hair, he once told me. He figured that hiding was weakness.

  One of the club girls once said that “Redman” is a cruel nickname. Redman told her that he was the one who came up with it.

  “I think we give him two more minutes,” I answer.

  “He knows what he’s doing,” Smoker mutters. He’s cleaning his rifle like a man massaging his lover. The way he’s leaning over it makes his hair look like seaweed. He’s the oldest of us, an ex-military man whose throat is always raspy on account of how much he used to smoke.

  Now that he’s kicked the habit, he chews nicotine gum pretty much all the time. Or packs three of them into his gums, making his lips bulge like he’s got a wad of chewing tobacco plugged in.

  Eventually, Max returns. He’s ex-military, too, but much younger than Smoker. He quit three years ago and since then he’s become the best scout the Bloody Wraiths have ever seen.

  Unlike everybody else, he doesn’t wear his leather when we’re on jobs. He wears fatigues and jungle boots with the club’s emblem sewed into the camo shirt.

  “It’s all good, boss.”

  “I just warned Felix about calling me that.”

  “But you’re gonna be VP soon,” Max says matter-of-factly.

  “What’d you see?” I interrupt. I don’t want to get into some long debate about who’s the boss and who isn’t. Knowing these guys, we’d be here for hours if I let it play out.

  “A couple of rifles posted on the roof. Other than that, it seems pretty casual. I’m guessing there’s about twenty brothers in there, but there could be more. I’d need to watch it for a day to be sure. But if we pick good positions and draw them out, we’ll be fine.”

  “All right, sounds good.”

  I turn to the men and tell them who’s working with who and where everyone will be. It’s basically a case of choosing the best position for the best shooters.

  When everyone has a job assigned, I look them over once more.

  “We ready, fellas?”

  Everyone nods.

  I go over my rifle, setting it against my shoulder to check how it feels.

  “We are going to kill them all,” Redman mutters. It’s hard to tell if he’s happy or sad about that.

  As we stalk through the woods, I wonder if I feel bad about this.

  That thought lasts for about ten seconds, then I think about all the shit the Hell’s Sons have done. The worst being moving in on our town and causing mayhem. Disrupting businesses, fighting in bars, putting civilians in danger, trailing women late at night on their bikes so that folks think it’s us. Beating up a civilian who shouted at one of the bastards who hit on his fourteen-year-old daughter. Bringing hard drugs into town.

  It’s been a fucking mess since they showed up.

  “Nasty business, eh, boss?” Smoker whispers from beside me. He has an uncanny ability to read people. He moves the nicotine gum around his mouth.

  We sneak up on the warehouse. It was abandoned before the Hell’s Sons decided to move in and make it their own. Still, they haven’t felled the trees that have started to lean against it. Some of the windows are smashed where branches have speared into them.

  We all get ready for battle. My heartbeat is steady. It’ll be the same for the other brothers too. Once a man has been in a few gunfights, he realizes that all that fear does is make him more likely to die. Might as well not bother being scared.

  On my signal, it begins.

 
The roof sentries drop like bags of sand, with a corresponding burst of blood when the bullets explode their skulls. The forest rings with echoing booms.

  Max shouts “Ooh-rah!” and we light the place up, shredding the walls with the heavy machine guns.

  Pretty soon, they start firing back on us. We pick our shots well, but they’re no civilians either.

  One bullet tears through the woods and clips Redman in the shoulder. He lets out a grunt, spits, and keeps firing.

  Max takes one in the thigh when he’s leaning up to move position.

  But other than that, the raid goes well.

  Soon, the gunfire calms down, then falls silent completely. The sounds of the forest reclaim the air.

  We move down from our positions and go over the warehouse, searching the bodies, shelves, basement. It’s a quick but thorough job.

  When we’ve collected everything we want, we head outside. Time to get rid of this fucking joint.

  Smoker goes around the place, getting it ready for burning.

  “Motherfucker,” Max growls as Felix picks the bullet out of his leg. He’s got the first aid kit out, binding it up. Redman tends to his own wound, a tight grimace on his face.

  “Either of these bad?” I ask.

  Redman shakes his head. “Went in clean, came out clean,” he says quietly. “Hurts bad, but I’ve felt worse, so it doesn’t seem like much trouble.”

  “It’s lucky you’ve got such a small prick, Max,” Felix says, grinning from ear to ear. “A couple more inches, and they would’ve taken your tip.”

  “I don’t grow, I show.”

  All the brothers laugh. We set the place alight and ride back into town. There’s no danger of the woods burning down what with how wet the trees are.

  Anyway, we’ve made arrangements with the sheriff.

  The fire service will be there just in time to tame the blaze.

  And then the boss will send a cleanup crew in to dispose of what’s left of the bodies.

  This is how we protect our turf.

  I send the boys under my command into the clubhouse and then stroll around to the side, hands in my pockets.

  I’m not in the mood for a clubhouse party right now. I don’t know why. Maybe a man needs to be on his own sometimes, or maybe it’s just because I’m almost VP. I’m not one of the troops anymore.

  Jax comes walking around the corner, a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. It’s a cold autumn day, the air fresh and near-icy.

  He looks like a pale ice zombie, his hair is so white and his skin is so drained of color. His white hair is tied up in a ponytail, over eyes that are brown, but look almost red, like rusty blood. He’s as tall as me but skinnier. There are few men who would ever doubt how strong he is, even if he’s almost sixty now.

  “It went well, then.”

  “Two wounded, but yeah.”

  “And now you’re walkin’ around thinking about how lucky you got and all the things that could’ve gone wrong.”

  “Yeah. Is there anything wrong with that?”

  Jax tosses his cigarette to the curb and stuffs his hands into his jacket pocket. “No, there ain’t. I’d rather have a VP who gives a damn than one who don’t. But I also don’t want some fuckin’ downer hanging around the place. It’s a fucking party, man. We won. Why don’t you go into town and get yourself a drink?”

  “We don’t got drinks here?”

  He tilts his head at me, studying. Jax doesn’t miss much. It’s probably why he and Smoker are such good friends.

  “Are you gonna drink here tonight?” Jax asks. “Or do you wanna be alone? When you’re VP you’ve gotta think of stuff like that. Your mood matters. You’ve gotta keep yourself level, or you’ll fuck something up really bad. People look to you to set the tone. You know that, Logan.”

  “So what you’re saying is I’ve gotta go into town and get shitfaced on my own so I’m better at my job?”

  Jax claps me on the back, hard. He might be old and sinewy, but he’s still got strength. “Looks like you’ve finally got the fuckin’ message.”

  I pat him on the back and then head over to my bike.

  Jax knows me pretty well. He knows that even if I love the club and I’d die for the brothers, I can’t be around people all the time.

  I figure it’s because he’s the same way.

  I head out into the center of town. It’s a Saturday and there’ll be plenty of clubs and bars open. Giant’s Drop isn’t big, but it’s big enough not to feel small. It’s not as grim as a city but not as quaint as a little nowhere backwater town.

  I ride quick, burning rubber. It feels good to ride, to spin around the corners. To feel nothing but the wheels and the road.

  I head into the bar and take a seat right at the end, ordering a whiskey.

  It’s one of those bar-club deals, with a dance floor and a DJ off to one side. But it’s still pretty quiet over here.

  There’s a mirror behind the bar. Through the stacked-up bottles, I look at myself. Six foot two and a pretty normal face, except for the scar across my left eye. Pretty big, but not as big as some other killers I’ve met.

  I slug my whiskey back as the place gets more and more full. I don’t think about much as I drink. It’s good to just feel the burning of the whiskey down my throat, how it settles in my belly. It’s good to calm down some, too.

  Around me, civilian men are flocking, swirling into the bar, on the prowl for one thing and one thing only:

  Pussy.

  I’m not interested in picking up a woman tonight. Too much fucking hassle. If I wanted, I could head back to the club and get a club girl, but that don’t appeal to me either.

  Right now, all I want is to just sit here and empty my mind. Just relax. Just forget about blood and guts and death, the kinds of things that can linger in a man’s head if he lets them. Some of the brothers use fucking as a way to clear the mind after a raid, but it’s never quite done the trick for me.

  Jax was right: I just need to be alone.

  But then I spot this girl on the other end of the bar.

  She’s alone, just like me.

  And she’s goddamn sexy.

  In her early twenties, maybe, short and curvy, wearing a jet-black skirt and jet-black tights and a pair of jet-black earrings.

  For some reason I am interested in her face, in how she looks around the room. It reminds me of a club man. She’s studying.

  But she’s also pretty damn drunk. That much is obvious. It’s the way she’s gripping the bar, the slow way she’s breathing, like it’s taking one hundred percent of her attention. But she doesn’t stop drinking.

  I keep an eye on her as I drink. An hour goes by like this. She glances at me a few times, but I always make sure I’m not looking at her when she does. It’s not hard. It’s just like tailing somebody.

  Her hair is blonde, tied back. Her eyes are red. From crying, from drugs, from allergies, I don’t know.

  Then a man comes walking over to her.

  The bar is almost packed with people now. Young women dressed in clothes that make me wonder what the fuck they’re thinking. Some of them aren’t even wearing a skirt or a dress or leggings or whatever. They’re just wearing panties, it seems like, so tight I can see everything in one look.

  The guys roam around like drunken animals, eyes low and hungry, and the few lucky ones pair off with one of the girls to grope at each other in the shadowy corners. The unlucky ones keep roaming.

  The fella who walks over to the girl at the other end of the bar is tall. Looks like a college pretty boy: gelled hair, wooden bracelet and thumb ring, smug grin and soft hands. He swaggers over to the girl like it’s already a done deal.

  I watch close as he hits on her for five minutes straight, but she’s not interested. At first she politely tells him something. He doesn’t leave. Then her face gets angrier and he still doesn’t leave. Finally, our gazes meet. She sees me looking. She tries to explain something to the pretty boy.


  He puts his hand on her arm.

  Before I know it, I’m on my feet.

  2

  Isabelle

  As I sit at the bar, trying to convince myself to just go home, I think about the funeral.

  I think about standing there with tears sliding endlessly down my face as they buried Mom.

  It felt like something out of a movie at first. It couldn’t be real.

  I was watching my mother being buried, but really I was watching somebody else’s mother. It was all such a mess, a nightmare whir.

  After the wake, I redid my makeup and came here, sneaking away from everybody else.

  “Why you so upset, baby?”

  I glance at him, and then past him at the biker at the end of the bar. Nobody sits close to him. It’s like everybody is too afraid. He has a pale scar over his left eye, but other than that he looks almost like a 1950s movie star. His eyes rove over everything, taking it in. He must’ve had at least eight whiskeys, but he seems fine. Unmoved.

  “Hey.” The man leans on the bar, grinning at him. “It’s rude not to answer when somebody asks you a question.”

  “I’m not really in the mood,” I tell him. I take a sip of my wine.

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve told you like five times now.” I sigh. “Can you please just go away?”