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  Books by Naomi West

  Devil’s Ink

  Devil's Revenge

  Maddox

  Stripped

  Jace

  Grinder

  Devil’s Heart

  A Motorcycle Club Romance (Executioners MC)

  Naomi West

  Contents

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

  1. Jasmin

  2. Mason

  3. Jasmin

  4. Jasmin

  5. Mason

  6. Jasmin

  7. Mason

  8. Jasmin

  9. Mason

  10. Jasmin

  11. Mason

  12. Jasmin

  13. Mason

  14. Jasmin

  15. Mason

  16. Jasmin

  17. Jasmin

  18. Mason

  19. Jasmin

  20. Mason

  21. Jasmin

  22. Mason

  23. Mason

  24. Jasmin

  25. Mason

  Epilogue

  Sneak Preview of Devil’s Revenge: A Motorcycle Club Romance (Satan’s Wings MC)

  Books by Naomi West

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

  By Naomi West

  An innocent girl like her should’ve never come near a devil like me.

  I was born in hell.

  Guess that makes me a devil.

  Jasmin is an angel.

  She deserves a nicer man than me.

  But I ain’t gonna let her go.

  I’ve got my hands on her hips. My baby in her belly. My ink on her skin.

  And at the end of all this, I might just add my ring on her finger.

  Trouble stays close on a devil’s heels, though.

  I’m no exception.

  And falling into bed with me puts Jasmin square in the crossfire.

  Soon enough, I’ll have to make a choice.

  I’m willing to die for my woman and my club.

  But am I willing to give it all up for her?

  1

  Jasmin

  “So your life plan is to just hang around with me when I’m at work, huh?” I wink at Tiffany as I wipe the table down. Tiffany is short and curvy with bright blonde hair. She always wears blue eyeliner. The tips of her bright blonde hair are tinted blue as well. It’s an electric look, but it suits her.

  “So what if it is?” she pouts, taking a sip of her wine. It’s late on a Friday night, the place full of customers but none of them at the bar right now. Jackie doesn’t like it if there’s nobody at the bar, since I don’t look busy. So I circulate the place, wiping down surfaces that have already been wiped down. Whatever it takes to keep Jackie happy.

  “Stop doing that. You’re making me jealous.”

  “Drinking my wine?” Tiffany giggles as she takes another long, luxurious sip. “How is that my problem?”

  The bar is an old western-style place with wooden booths and wooden chairs and a wooden floor and wooden everything. The only sign that this is an MC-owned place is the motorcycle handlebars mounted above the exit. Otherwise, nobody would ever guess. And even with the handlebars, it’s not as though anybody can be sure. It could just be decoration. The Executioners, people whisper. I’ve seen a few of them around town, but as far as I know, they’ve never been in here. At least not through the front door.

  “Aren’t you going to get in trouble if you just stand there with a stupid look on your face? Come on, I’ll order another drink.”

  Tiffany hops to her feet. She walks to the bar, and I walk around the bar, serving her with a big cheesy grin. “And you have a great night, please!”

  “You gave me the wrong change,” Tiffany says, pocketing it anyway. We both know she’s just trying to play games with me.

  “Buy me something nice with it,” I counter.

  I serve a few other customers and then return to her. The music plays quietly, since it’s still early. Early for our clientele, anyway. The sun has long since set. But already there are a few college-aged people out. It seems weird to think of them as “college-aged” when I’m technically the same.

  “Did you ever think about going to college?” I ask Tiffany.

  She shrugs. “Not really. But then, I guess that’s my famous lack of imagination. I’m going to mingle.”

  I roll my eyes as she struts away, plenty of leg on show. She is going to find a man. Knowing her, it won’t take long.

  I go about my business for half an hour, which mostly means I smile and giggle and serve drinks and wipe down clean surfaces. I also help in the kitchen when I get the chance because I prefer the quiet hum over the constant pounding of the music. It’s not loud right now, but it’s never-ending. And the later it gets, the louder it will become.

  When I emerge from the kitchen, I pause. The atmosphere of the entire place has changed. Before, it was casual and relaxed. Now, it’s like a wake. Everybody stands around awkwardly. A gaggle of college girls huddles near the jukebox, clutching their handbags as though a gust of wind is just waiting to blow them away. I follow their worried gazes across the bar.

  And my heart freezes in my chest.

  A bunch of bikers has taken over the biggest booth in the place. There’s around eight of them in total, sitting across the chairs, legs crossed on the tables. They have three bottles of whiskey laid out on the table, as well as a switchblade knife. But, worst of all, Tiffany is sitting between two of them, her shoulders being crushed from both sides. She has an uneasy smile on her face, gesturing at the biker blocking her escape route.

  One is at least sixty, a diagonal scar going from his eyebrow to the very bottom of his lip. Pagan’s Sons, his leather jacket reads. I swallow. I’ve heard a tiny bit about the Pagan’s Sons in the news. None of it has been good. His hair is stringy and gray and nasty-looking. The other man is younger, but no less mean-looking. He has the dead eyes of a shark. His head is bald and covered in strange hieroglyph-type tattoos. He is the only one drinking his whiskey out of a glass.

  He stares down at Tiffany’s low-cut dress as though thinking of all the horrible things he could do to her.

  I’m over there before I have a chance to think about it. I can’t stop to think. I’ve known Tiffany for years.

  “Excuse me?” I address the old man, hoping he’ll be more reasonable.

  “Well, look here.” He grins up at me. One of his teeth is silver-capped. It winks at me in the bar’s low light. “They must have a two-for-one deal tonight, fellas!”

  “Tiffany.” I face her instead. “I need your help in the back. With the decoration we discussed earlier.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” Tiffany smiles an apology at the table in general, though the bikers mostly ignore her. Except for the bald one. He keeps staring. He licks some stray whiskey from his bottom lip. “I’m so sorry. I’ll have to get going.”

  “Will you?” The old man laughs gruffly. “You’ll have to climb over me. I’m not in the mood to get up. Come on, show me what those thighs can do.”

  “Sir!” I snap, slicing my hand through the air. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to stand up this instant!”

  He narrows his eyes at me. I take a small step back. I don’t mean to. It just happens. It’s the certainty and calm in his gaze. He’ll hurt me without a second thought. That much is painfully clear.

  “Please,” I add, hating how weak I sound.

/>   “Look, your little friend decided to sit down all by herself. Is it my fault she’s changed her mind? You can’t be playing games like that with us, all right? We’re sensitive.”

  Everybody laughs darkly, even the bald one. Though he doesn’t take his eyes from Tiffany.

  I look toward the door, but the bouncer hasn’t showed up. Things never usually get rowdy here since people generally know it’s a bad idea. One time, some college kid went crazy at a barmaid, before I started working here. Apparently, the next day his car wasn’t just trashed; it was cubed. They crushed it completely and left it in a metal cube outside his frat house. But these men clearly don’t care.

  “Wait here,” I tell Tiffany.

  I march through the bar into the back office, past crates and casks and storage boxes, to Jackie’s office. He likes to lock himself back here, I think. I’m about to knock on the door when I impulsively just shove it open instead. Jackie is a tall, thin man with a beak-like nose. His hair has receded almost halfway up his head, but he refuses to shave it. It sprouts down between his shoulder blades.

  He leaps up with a start at the sudden intrusion. Three lamps blast harsh yellow light into every corner of the room. He wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. I walk around the side of his desk on a hunch. He’s watching the security-camera feed, just like I guessed.

  “We need help out there.” The bald biker has got Tiffany in his lap, holding her close to him. Every time she tries to squirm away, he latches onto her again. Tiffany is trying to play it off, laughing and waving her hand, but she also tries constantly to stand up. He just tightens his anaconda grip. “But you already know that.”

  “I can’t do anything,” Jackie mutters. “What can I do?”

  “Uh, call the police?”

  “I can’t call the police here!” Jackie hisses. “No way. Do you have any other ideas?”

  “I don’t know … call the bouncers! Call somebody!”

  “I have! Terry is on his way!”

  I bite my lip. Terry is a good person, but he’s only one man.

  “We’re going to need more than that. You think they’re just going to leave if Terry shows up?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Call the club. You know, the one that owns this place.”

  His face drains of color. He glances past my shoulder out into the hallway, as though somebody might be listening. “You shouldn’t talk about stuff like that,” he says quietly.

  “Jackie!” I snap. “I’m not just going to stand here as—”

  Suddenly two men have hold of Tiffany. The bald man has his hand wrapped around her belly and another leans down to grab onto her ankles. They’ve got her stretched on the chair, laughing, as she kicks her legs and waves her arms. She has stopped trying to play it cool now. It’s like she’s drowning, and these men are the water.

  I run back through the hallway on instinct. I’ll have to just think of something. I can’t let them play with my friend anymore. I want to run back into Jackie’s office and slap him across the face for being such a coward.

  As I walk down the hallway, I can see the parking lot. There’s a big window in the door, showing the entire bar and even the street outside. The double doors have been jammed open since it’s another burning Californian evening. People walk back and forth, cars drift by, but nobody tries to intervene with the bikers at the table. Some people are leaving, but mostly they just avoid that part of the bar.

  The door swings open before I can touch the handle. It’s the old guy with the scar.

  “You’re not allowed back here,” I say on instinct. I move away from him, looking for something to use as a weapon. Unless I can somehow do some damage with a half-empty container of hot cocoa, I’m done. “Sir, I’ll have to ask you to return to the bar.”

  He glances at the door before turning back to me. His eyes are so bloodshot it’s like the entire eyeball is red. He closes the distance between us far quicker than I would’ve guessed. His breath reeks of whiskey, cigarettes, stale sweat, and everything rotten and disgusting that can live in a man’s mouth. He grabs onto my shoulders and shoves me up against the wall.

  I glance at the door, at the street outside. Praying? I don’t know. All I know is I wish this man was dead for putting his hands on me. I grit my teeth as I stare up at him. “I’m not scared of you,” I tell him, even if my heartbeat is thundering in my ears like it’s trying to shatter the drums.

  “I know you’re not,” he says. “But you will be. Why don’t you give me a kiss?”

  “I’d rather die.” I don’t even struggle. He has me firmly planted against the wall. I just keep looking outside, hoping one of the other bar staff will come through.

  Then I spot him outside, leaning against the wall of the opposite building with his hands stuffed in a leather jacket.

  “What’re you looking at?” the old man growls. “Come on.” He lets go of my shoulders and makes to grab my arm.

  This is my chance. I don’t give myself time to hesitate.

  I rake my fingernails down his cheek, spit in his eye, and dart at the door. He leaps back with a stunned cough. He doesn’t stay stunned for long, though. I throw the door open and duck my head low, running as fast as I can.

  I could be running to more pain. I could be running right into another asshole’s hands.

  But maybe not, and that’s enough.

  “Help!” I cry, waving my arms like a madwoman. “Help! Help!”

  The shadowy figure in the jacket kicks away from the wall, standing up to his full height. He looks dangerous.

  But dangerous to whom?

  2

  Mason

  The barmaid comes out looking like a cross between a Disney princess and a Viking warrior. She has bright green eyes and freckled cheeks. Her hair is deep red and tied in an intricate bun that frames her face. She’s wearing black tights and a black shirt and a black skirt, but even so, she looks sexy as hell. Graceful, with the sort of long legs that get a man thinking about where they lead.

  I stay where I am, watching as she waves her arms.

  “Help!” she screams, finally reaching me. She looks at my jacket, at the Executioners MC patch. When she recognizes it, she lets out a deep breath. It seems like relief, which is strange because most folks aren’t relieved when the Executioners roll through.

  “With what?” I ask casually, though I saw most of it. Still see it now. A bunch of Pagan Sons assholes thinking they can do anything they want in an Executioner-owned bar. A smart man would call for backup, but I’ve never claimed to be a smart man.

  Just a deadly one.

  She points at the bar. Her name is Jasmin, I see from her tag. When she points, her breasts lift up a little. Perky as all hell. I repress an animal growl. A big part of me just wants to take her right here.

  “They just came in and … they think they can do whatever they want. My manager’s a coward, and he won’t do anything.”

  “All right, lady. Calm down.”

  “Calm down?” She tilts her head at me. “Shouldn’t you be … uh, calling somebody or something?”

  I grin. “I just had that thought. I don’t think I will, though.”

  “What?” She looks around as though praying for more Executioners to emerge from the shadows. “Are you serious?”

  “Goddamn, you’re one demanding little thing, aren’t you?”

  I stand up straighter when the old Pagan runs out of the bar. He’s got a scar across his face, as well as some fresh blood from where the barmaid got him. Damn fine job there; that took some cojones.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growls. The old bastard struts over. He clearly thinks he’s someone important. I need to start learning all their names, especially if they think they’re setting up shop in Hope Town. Better to know a man’s name before you kill him.

  Jasmin glances at me with those bright green eyes. She’s all full of fear. I offer her a wide smile. “Don’t wor
ry,” I tell her. “Everything’s going to be fine. Either that, or he’ll shoot me in the head. Let’s see, yeah?” I raise my voice and call over to the Pagan, “I’m talking to a lady, grandpa. What’re you doing?”

  “That bitch cut me!” he snaps. “Plus, she’s mine, so back off!”

  More Pagans come out now. All of them, it looks like. A bald kid who looks like he’s trying too hard keeps his hand near his belt.

  I gesture at Jasmin and then at him. “I doubt her type is ‘crusty old man.’”

  “You better be careful!” the bald kid snaps.

  “Should I?” I raise my hands and stroll across the street, smiling at all of them. “What’ll happen if I don’t, tough guy?”

  “You’re crazy,” the old man says. He puffs his chest out. “Do you have any idea who we are?”

  “Yeah, I do. I reckon you know who I am, too. If you don’t, let me tell you. I’m Mason Flint, but some folks call me Wolf. I’m the one who killed two of your boys last week. You know, the shipment job out in the desert? That was me. Pop-pop. It was real damn easy. Two clean headshots. You’d be doing Deadman a real big favor by taking me out, fellas. Look how many of you there are. It’ll be easy.”

  “That’s Wolf?” the bald man mutters, upper lip curled. “I thought you’d look tougher.”