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SATAN’S SINNERS’ MC: TWO
Serena Akeroyd
Copyright © 2020 by Serena Akeroyd
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Soundtrack
Warning
A year earlier…
1. Lily
2. Link
3. Link
4. Lily
5. Keira
Wednesday
Thursday
Saturday
6. Link
7. Lily
8. Rex
9. Lily
10. Lily
11. Nyx
12. Link
13. Lily
14. Eoghan
Afterword
Also by Serena Akeroyd
To my cousin.
Kristian, you died so young, cuz. Too young. If there’s any relief to be found, it’s in knowing you’re no longer in pain and are at peace. But it’s small comfort.
Until we meet again,
Love
Gem <3
Soundtrack
The soundtrack of this song is a weird one. However, you tell me it doesn’t fit!
LORDS OF ACID: ROUGH SEX
Enjoy ;)
Warning
Please be advised this book may contain scenes that are disturbing to sensitive readers.
A year earlier…
Blood.
Lots of it.
Whether it was mine or yours, it should have been inside us.
Soaring through our veins and arteries. Keeping us alive.
It shouldn’t be seeping from us.
Draining out of us.
Stolen from us.
I blew out a breath as the ache in my body made itself known, and using a few sheets of toilet paper, I rolled it in on itself, creating a tiny barricade I hoped would hold. Shoving it between my ass cheeks was enough to bring on a panic attack, because I hated my ass. Hated. It.
Not for any normal reason, like because it had cellulite. Not because it was just a smidgen too much of a bubble butt. Not because it was bony or flat. I didn’t give a crap about how it looked. I hated it because he used it.
Shuddering as I stood, the paper lodged there, collecting blood he’d spilled, I dragged my panties up high and lowered my skirt.
When I approached the vanity, I looked at myself and was, as always, surprised to note I looked normal. So fucking normal. Not like I’d just been used—abused. Not like the walking wreckage I was.
My body was one big ball of pain as I washed my hands and launched myself into an upright position. Smile firmly fixed in place, I headed on out, then winced when I saw Tiffany, my best friend, had let herself in. She was flat on her belly on the bed, phone in her hand, her legs swaying from side to side.
“Did you see what Lourdes just posted on Instagram? I mean, my God, did she get dressed in the dark?”
My lips twitched. “Maybe she did.”
Tiffany scowled at me, her eyes squinting as she processed my remark and judged whether I was joking or not. Then, because she couldn’t tell—I had a damn good poker face—she grumbled, “Who gets dressed in the dark?”
I shrugged. “It would explain the past few choices she’s made.”
“Fashion disasters you mean.” She huffed, rolled off her stomach, and straightened up into a standing position. Her eyes drifted over me. “You look like you’re in pain.” Her brow puckered. “Got another headache?”
That was the excuse I used when I was feeling this way. “Yeah. I’ll be okay though.” My smile didn’t display just how fragile I felt. I’d had a lot of practice in making certain I looked normal.
That was like my family’s secondary talent. Looking normal when, underneath it all, we were the exact opposite. The primary talent, of course, was making money.
Lots, and lots, and lots of money.
I’d exchange it all for the ability to lead a regular goddamn life.
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
She hummed under her breath as she gave me another scan, then she shrugged. Not because she didn’t care—she did. Sometimes I was positive she was the only person who gave a damn about me period—but because she knew me well. We’d gone to St. Lawrence Academy in Manhattan together and had been through thick and thin as friends.
She knew I wouldn’t let anything stop me. She just didn’t know why I was that way. It wasn’t because I was forthright and indomitable. If only it were. But no, it was because the punishment never fit the crime, and I’d learned to adjust my behavior accordingly.
“What’s this party about anyway?” she asked, her attention still on our friend Lourdes’ post.
“Didn’t your dad tell you?” I questioned, amused despite myself.
I headed over to my dressing table and picked up my favorite scent. As I dabbed it behind my ears and along my décolleté, I stared out at the yard where, beneath a blanket of string lights, amid thousands of perfumed flowers and the stirring music from a string quartet, a hundred people were moseying together, appreciating my father’s largesse. One thing could be said about my bastard father—he knew how to throw a party.
“Oh, he did, but I didn’t listen.” She beamed at me, her green eyes twinkling as she straightened up her tie and sorted out a few flyaway strands of hair. Unlike me, who always wore a dress for these events, she wore pantsuits with ties. Sure, she looked like a sexy newscaster, but hell, she rocked it. “You know I make it my job to ignore my dad on the regular.”
I rolled my eyes. “Lies. You’re a daddy’s girl. Face it.”
She stuck out her tongue. “I’m not. He’s making us move.”
“You’re twenty-two, babe. If you want to stay in the city, you can.” There was no envy in my tone, even if inside, I was a wriggling, writhing ball of jealousy over her freedom.
“Nah. Not if you’re moving there too.” Unlike Tiff, I didn’t have the freedom of choice. “Might as well see what New Jersey has in store for us.” She made a puking sound. “Never thought we’d leave the city.”
“Well, that’s what happens when people as rich as our parents get tax breaks for moving states,” I said dryly. With another glance out the window, I looked around the crowd, trying to ensure I had the name-to-faces down pat. Then, I frowned when I saw someone I didn’t recognize. “Who’s he?”
She hummed as she bent forward, peering into the ornate mirror and smoothing her finger around her lips in an effort to keep the line of her lipstick crisp. “Who’s who?”
“The guy with the guards.” As I stared at the man I didn’t recognize, a shiver rushed down my spine. He was in his forties, surrounded by men in black suits that were, quite clearly, packing heat. They had more bulges in odd places than a drug trafficker. “That one,” I stated, pointing to him when she peered out the window too.
She shuddered. “Gianni Fieri. Isn’t he creepy?”
Creepy wasn’t the word. He was, truthfully, quite handsome. In a young Al Pacino kind of way. But he was dark on dark. Black hair, black eyes, black shirt, black tie, black suit and shoes. He was like a walking shadow, for Pete’s sake. And the way he stood there like he ruled the roost? It put me on edge.
No one did that in my father’s presence.
Not without living to tell the tale, and yet he was permitting it. As I watched, my father even wandered over to him, laughing at something before evidently getting down t
o business as they both sobered up. Well, Father did, Fieri’s lips hadn’t so much as twitched at the bad joke he’d just heard.
“Whoa, he isn’t ass-licking your dad,” Tiffany whispered, sounding just as shocked as I felt, and for a reason.
Everyone licked my father’s ass.
Everyone.
That’s what ninety billion in the bank did to you. Got you rimmed on the regular.
“No.” An uneasy feeling settled in my stomach. “That’s weird.”
“Weird? It’s unheard of.” She hummed again. “Wonder why he’s here.”
“He must have invested in your dad’s property development.”
She frowned. “I guess. Shit. I wish I’d listened in on all those boring conversations over dinner now.”
Even though I was so envious of her, I couldn’t contain it sometimes, not just because she had loving parents and a familial relationship that looked like it belonged in a rich man’s version of The Walton’s, I had to smile at her. “You should listen anyway. You know your father wants you to go into the business.”
“All the more reason to ignore him.” She pulled a face. “What use would I be in property development? I’m a therapist.”
“You’d be fantastic at anything you put your mind to.” Tiff, though I loved her, was one of those annoying people who got A grades all the time without even studying.
“Prefer to be married to the property developer. Would save me wrinkles in the long run,” she joked, elbowing me in the side. Though she hadn’t meant to, she connected with one of my bruises and I winced. “Sorry, love. God, your head really is killing you, isn’t it?”
I gave her a faint smile even as I rubbed my side, pretending that was what hurt. “Yeah. It’s all good.”
I looked down at my father then jerked when I saw I had Fieri’s attention. He was glowering at me to an extent that I jolted back in surprise, which set off a tsunami of aches in my battered body. His glower deepened, then he grabbed my father’s arm, whose attention flashed up to me.
The second I felt his focus, I drifted back and away from the window. The last thing I wanted was to be in his crosshairs.
“Luke’s making a fool out of himself,” Tiffany pointed out, her attention having drifted. Something I was glad for.
“When doesn’t he?” I muttered.
“True. Not sure why your dad puts up with him.” She trembled again—which put Fieri and Luke in the same league in her mind. Jesus Christ. What that said about Fieri, I didn’t know. As for Luke? He was a psychopath. Pure and simple.
“He’s the golden boy,” I mumbled, staring at myself in the mirror one last time to make sure I looked perfect before I stuck on a smile. “Ready?”
She whistled as she turned to give me a quick scan. “You look hot. In pain, but hot.” Then she squinted. “You sure you’re okay to do this? Nothing worse than feeling shitty when you have to talk to these morons for an entire evening.”
Tiff was right. I wasn’t in the mood for it, but my choices, my wishes, weren’t important. Never had been.
Never would be.
So I gritted my teeth and got on with it.
I’d have my day.
“I’m fine. Promise.” I tucked my arm through hers. “Let’s get this over with.”
She snorted. “Preach, sister. Preach.”
One
Lily
I winced the second the beauty blender collided with my cheekbone. The wince morphed into an extended hiss as I let the pain flush through my system, only to be bombarded by it yet again as I carried on patting on the foundation.
The bruise was shockingly bright against my creamy skin, but I was pretty good at hiding the aftermath of a run-in with my father’s fist now and could hide it with the clever application of makeup. What I couldn’t hide? How his ring had torn into the skin, leaving behind the faintest cut, which stung every time I touched it.
There was no hiding that.
A fact, I was sure, that would irritate him to no end. But then, I irritated him period. Always had, always would.
And I would never not be proud of that.
Ever since I’d learned the truth, I lived to irritate my scum-sucking father.
I burned for it.
I took his wrath and let him reap it on me, because I loathed him and he loathed me, but I was blood, and now I was his only heir. It was just time that would make that official, and I couldn’t wait for that day.
Wincing yet again as I dabbed on the makeup, my attention was caught by my screen lighting up in the corner of my eye. I’d set notifications on Google for anything related to my brother’s case, and the fact that the cops were in my father’s pockets and were trying to spin it so the woman my brother had tried to rape was somehow the attacker hadn’t escaped my attention.
I just didn’t know how to go about rectifying things.
Which was why I was hiding a bruise caused by my father’s fist. I’d tried, and failed, to put things in some semblance of order, and he wasn’t having it. But then, he’d always thought that prick walked on water. Just because Luke was a boy, he’d received an automatic free pass to do whatever he wanted.
And when you had money like we did, whatever took on a different connotation.
Luke was sick. Rabid. I was glad he was dead, because it saved me from having to do it at some point in my life. The past twenty-two years had been spent working up the courage to kill my father and my brother, and I was ashamed I’d achieved neither.
In another world, in another life, I’d be a good daughter and a good sister, but this wasn’t another world, and this was my life. My family was evil. My father was one of the malicious, fat white men who ran the world from his ivory tower, and my brother had been born in his image. They were both bastards, and even in death, Luke was being one.
Quickly scanning the news alert, I saw the victim, Giulia Fontaine, had been brought in for questioning. Again.
My mouth tightened, even as I focused on covering up the bruise. It took me an extra forty minutes to achieve what I could usually do in ten, but when I took a step back from the vanity, I was impressed despite myself.
I looked as I always did.
Pristine except for that tiny cut, which I could reason away with ease. I thought an accident while playing tennis would easily explain it. I tripped and fell against the grass, and there was a tiny shard of glass there. At that point of the conversation, if someone asked, I’d laugh and tell them I’d fired a gardener over their inattention to detail, and everyone would laugh with me.
Because that was the world I lived in.
In that world, it was okay for fathers to beat daughters and for daughters to come up with random excuses that everyone accepted even though they knew what said father was like.
Donavan Lancaster was the biggest cunt around.
Everyone knew it.
But he had ninety billion in the bank and, therefore, he got away with murder.
Literally.
That was why my mom was in the family crypt back in Manhattan, because he’d murdered her when she’d done the impossible and had asked for a divorce.
I gnawed on my bottom lip as I stared at the bouncy blonde waves that danced around my shoulders, took in the bright blue eyes I’d enhanced with a dark slash of navy eyeliner in the corners, and the cheekbones I’d sharpened with bronzer that led to ruby red lips which gleamed in the light above the vanity.
Taking a step back, I looked at the neat dress that clung to all my slim curves, accepted that the black did things for my skin tone and hair that made me look even more attractive, and sucked in a breath.
I knew I looked like a china doll, and it was an image I played up to. I’d continue to do so until I found my way in and, through that, found my way out.
Today was a step toward that path.
An exit that involved my father’s death and not my own because, and this was the God’s honest truth, the only way out of this family was through death, and
I didn’t intend to die. Not for a good long while.
The bathroom around me was a study of marble. The light beige counter was dotted with open makeup bottles, and the floor beneath my Louboutin heels—that added a good four inches to my height and did wonders for my ass—was a darker gray. The walls were covered in a creamy white stone that had gold striations throughout which, oddly enough, made my hair appear gold rather than blonde. As I contemplated the contrast, I realized I looked like my mother.
The thought had me twisting my lips as I turned away from my too pretty features and stepped over the mass of towels I’d left on the floor. I was messy, and I’d admit to it, but that was one thing allowed of me in this household. I had staff who’d clean up after me, and I took advantage of that.
When I returned later on tonight, this place would look like it was a showroom once more. Now? Well, it just looked as if a Tasmanian Devil had whirled around the place, knocking stuff over, and leaving chaos in its wake.
I ignored the rest of my suite and headed over to the patio doors at the front of my room. I had access to the grounds from here, thanks to a set of steps. It was how I was supposed to reach the pool, but I used it to sneak out.
Not that my father cared what I did on a daily basis so long as I followed his rules, returned here every night and slept in my bed, and didn’t give my security detail too much of a run around, but I didn’t want to come across him even accidentally before I got out of here.
The magnificent vista slipped by me. I didn’t even see it as I headed down the steps. My heels sank into the thick grass, but I strode on toward the garage. It was a little awkward to approach this way, but it was worth it. I had to step around the pool house where my brother had lived—a pool house that was like a mini mansion because Donavan Lancaster’s son deserved only the best—and slip between the two tennis courts.
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