Rogue (Sons of Sangue Book 4)
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Reviews for Sons of Sangue
ROGUE: Sons of Sangue
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
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Rogue: Sons of Sangue
ROGUE
A Sons of Sangue Novel
Book 4
PATRICIA A. RASEY
© 2016 by Patricia A. Rasey
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. (v1)
* * * * *
Don’t miss the other books in the Sons of Sangue vampire MC series:
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VIPER
HAWK
GYPSY
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Reviews for Sons of Sangue
“Every book from this author catches you hook line and sinker. Each one gets better and better and makes you fall in love with all the men...I cannot wait for the next book. It cannot get here fast enough. Once again Patricia Rasey blows you away with her writing skills. A must read!!!”
—Rogue: Joey, GoodReads
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"Outlaw vampire bikers. The women who tame them. What's not to love? Patricia Rasey's new series Sons of Sangue is hot!"
—Viper: Monette Michaels, author of Security Specialists International series
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"A lot of the arcs started in the first book have some closure in this one along with a surprise at the end. Ms Rasey again does a perfect job of blending the life of a MC club along with the life of vampires.”
—Hawk: Cindy 0, SnS Reviews
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“Intensity is an understatement for the hot mess that plagues the Sons of Sangue in GYPSY. Deceit is thick in the air. Brotherhood is tested. Revenge is a must. Sexual tension is taken to a new level. That’s just the beginning. Patricia Rasey has the reader going full throttle into a wicked storm. Action from beginning to end, twists that hit you like a brass knuckled fist and lust building like a bomb waiting to go off...”
—Gypsy: Deana, Coffee Books Life
~*~
ROGUE: Sons of Sangue
Vampire MC member Anton “Rogue” Balan, aka Blondy, has turned his back on the powerful Sons of Sangue, betraying the brotherhood he once considered his family. Or so his vampire brethren think. Changing his appearance, his persona, and signing up with rival gang, the Devils, Rogue has gone deep undercover to catch the La Paz Cartel’s kingpin. Having lost a woman he once thought he would spend eternity with, Rogue now feels he has nothing left to lose . . . that is until a temptation named Kimber James invades his dangerous world.
Strait-laced Kimber has a problem and his name is Anton Balan. After an impulsive night of passion with him more than a year ago, the small-town librarian still has the hots for the sexy biker next door. She can’t deny her desire for Anton, even though she suspects he’s hiding a secret even darker than his affiliation with an outlaw MC. As for Rogue, no matter how much he tries to refuse the scorching need he has for Kimber—as much as his duty depends on it—he’s powerless to deny his rising feelings for her. And when a blindside by an enemy he once trusted puts Kimber’s life at risk, Rogue’s tarnished honor is put to the ultimate test.
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Dedication
To my readers, for without you
I would have no one to share my stories with.
Thank you for reading my work!
Acknowledgements
Thank you to my cover artist, Frauke Spanuth, from Croco Designs for creating the Sons of Sangue covers, and making Rogue one of my favorite covers to date.
To my editor, Catherine Snodgrass, for helping me see what I cannot and helping me make my story the best possible.
Chapter 1
Imbeciles!
Each and every one of them.
Anton “Rogue” Balan sat sideways on the black leather seat of his custom Harley Davidson Road King, his booted feet kicked out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. Sweat slipped down his spine and dampened his tank as well as his mood. Two of his current MC brothers stood bloodied and bruised in the center of the gravel parking lot as they continued to beat the shit out of one another. Anton couldn’t recall what started the blood bath, though likely nothing more than a vulgar joke or insult aimed at someone’s mother. The Devils were a savage bunch.
One year, one month, and six days.
Lord, he wasn’t sure how much more time he’d have to spend in the company of these fucks. A day would be too much.
The scent of human blood wafted to his nose. He had to tamp down the rising lust for arteries or wind up sporting fangs and having to explain the unusual change in his appearance. It had been a little over three days since he last fed. Anton needed to make the trip north, and soon, to get communion. He couldn’t chance the death chill — the translucent presentation of skin — making a sudden appearance due to his lack of feeding. For all pretenses and purposes, his life depended on his anonymity and ability to blend in.
Well, as much as a six-foot-five, two hundred and fifty pound vampire could.
He had left his old life behind. His once blond hair had been dyed black and cut short. The hair color went along with the moniker Blondy. Now, those around him knew him as Rogue. Anton had buried Blondy over a year ago when he had taken the job asked of him. The Devils had only been too happy to help rid him of everything that reminded them of his past life with the Sons of Sangue, their rival MC.
Following the little power play between the two low-ranking Devils, he’d make his excuses and get the hell out of Santa Barbara for a few days. He had about enough of his present company to last him a good long while. Maybe this trip he’d hide out at his farmhouse off the Oregon coast for a few days of downtime. He didn’t give a rat’s ass what Tank, the Devils’ president, might think of his unplanned trip for a little R&R. He had been doing nothing more than playing babysitter to a bunch of younger Devils, keeping them out of as much trouble as he possibly could.
Apparently, it was rumored the La Paz Cartel had fallen under the DEA’s radar and their kingpin, Raúl Trevino Caballero, had ordered the MC to lay low. To Anton’s dismay, as well as that of Cara Brahnam and her mate Kane “Viper” Tepes, who had helped him infiltrate the rival gang, he had yet to seal a meet and greet with the feared leader of the Mexican cartel.
Tank, on the other hand, had begun to trust in Anton implicitly. The Devils put in his charge either toed the line or received a beat down Anton was only too willing to give. Tank had told him on numerous occasions his crew had rarely feared anyone — that was until Anton had turned rogue against his own MC.
Little did Tank know, Anton would rather cut off his right arm than actually betray the Sons.
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The shorter Devil, whom Anton knew as Spike, rushed the taller, thicker brother nicknamed Boston. The latter received his moniker due to his heavy New England accent. Boston sidestepped Spike and sent him sprawling to the gravel, before pouncing on his back, gripping his spiked hair, and shoving his bloodied face into the dirt and stones.
With a heavy sigh, Anton pushed off his bike, having had enough of the mostly one-sided beating taking place. His large hand easily spanned Boston’s thick neck as he pulled the man from his comrade. Rather than fight a losing battle with Anton, Boston thankfully went willing. Once Anton let go of his grip, Boston wiped off his bloodied hands on his grimy, navy-blue work Dickies. Spike took a considerable amount of time to crawl off the stone parking lot, ignoring Anton’s outstretched hand. The spiked-haired Devil spit gravel as he did so, maybe even a tooth as well. Anton wasn’t about to look too closely at the blood and spittle landing precariously close to his boot. Had the ass made the misfortune of actually hitting it, Anton would have given him a second beating.
He had little patience left. Hence his much needed R&R.
“I could’ve taken care of myself.” Spike spat to the gravel again, his shoulders slightly hunched. “I was just about to give Boston a whoopin’ like he ain’t ever seen before.”
Anton raised one brow. “Can it, Spike. Or maybe I’ll let Boston finish what you started in the first place. Guys like you don’t know when it’s time to shut your trap. Let me clue you in, you stupid son of a bitch. That would be now.”
Spike opened his mouth, then wisely closed it. He ran the back of his filthy hand across his lips and turned his glare on Anton. Dumb fuck knew better than to mess with him. All the boys standing in a semi-circle, watching the party, did. Anton had the patience of a saint, but push him beyond his limit, and these young punks put under his watch were lucky to remain vertical.
He winked at Spike, unable to help himself from further pissing off the scrawny bastard. “Keep it up and I’ll make you boys kiss and make up.”
The Devils standing to his left and right chuckled at his little quip. Boston, however, scowled as he slid onto his Low Rider. He turned the key and gave Anton his middle finger before hitting the gas and spraying gravel against the brick side of Hades’ Nest, the Devils normal hangout. Apparently, he wasn’t in the mood for make-up sex. Spike, on the other hand, just sneered a “fuck you,” before turning and walking back into the bar.
A song from Morbid Angel spilled into the parking lot before the door once again closed and muffled the sound. Anton ran a hand through his shorn locks and finger-combed the overlong bangs from his eyes. He headed for his own Harley and grabbed his skull cap, hanging from the rubber handle grip.
Bobby “Preacher” Bourassa approached him. He got his nickname from the twin cross tattoos on his muscled shoulders. That and the fact he used to be a preacher some years ago, before joining the Devils. The man was built like a beast.
“Where you off to, Rogue? Use some company?”
Bobby happened to be the one Devil Anton could say he actually liked. He placed the cap on his head and buckled it beneath his chin. “Not today, Preacher. I’m going north for a few days. You tell Tank I’ll be back in about a week. If he needs me, he can call. I’ll be a day’s ride out.”
He scratched his whiskered chin. “I doubt he’ll be too happy to hear you left these boys on their own.”
“They aren’t fucking kindergartners. You tell them boys if they give me cause, I’ll give them a beat down when I return.”
“What do you want me to tell Tank?”
“I don’t give a fuck. For all I care, you can tell him I have a piece of ass I need to attend to.” Which brought one woman to the forefront of his mind.
Kimber James.
All legs and tits large enough to make a grown man’s mouth water.
He always had been a breast man, and Kimber certainly had more than her fare share. Pillows from heaven. Too bad she’d no doubt rather take on a pit of vipers than bed his sorry ass again.
He shook his head at the injustice.
Being Mr. Nice Guy had gotten him on the fast track to nowhere.
His former best friend hated him and had mated with the one woman Anton thought he could be happy spending the rest of his days with. Tamera Cantrell, though, wasn’t meant for Anton as much as he might’ve envisioned at one time. She belonged with Grayson “Gypsy” Gabor, no matter how much Anton had hoped otherwise.
Which brought him back to Kimber James.
The last time Anton had seen her, he had all but run her cute little derriere out of his house, while she cursed the ground beneath his feet. The motorcycle cut he wore over his white tank weighed heavy, damning him for the very thing she detested.
Her parting words mocked him. “Too bad. I really thought you might be one of the good guys.”
Yeah, well so did he. Anton turned the key to his motorcycle and gassed the engine. With a final nod to Bobby, he turned the big bike around in the parking lot and aimed it north. With any luck, he’d leave California behind in a few short hours and be back on familiar turf.
First stop? The Blood ‘n’ Rave. He could certainly use one of the blood donors the barkeep, Draven, had hand selected for the secret society that fed the Sons of Sangue. He’d have to use the back door to keep any of his fellow MC brothers from seeing him. Even though his entire life at the moment was a ruse, the rest of his brothers actually believed him to be a traitor.
Tightening his hands on the rubber grips of his sixteen inch ape hangers, he pulled back on the gas and buried the needle of his speedometer. The taller handlebars aided in a more comfortable ride for someone of his height. Comfort was certainly key with the long ride he had ahead of him. Anton planned to lay his head on his pillow at his farmhouse on the coast before the sun rose over the Pacific.
* * *
The faint, familiar sound of a motorcycle approaching caught Kimber James’s attention as she watered her soft pink heirloom roses she had cultivated off her back porch. She couldn’t help the ache sneaking up and taking a hold of her heart. At one time she had fashioned herself very much in like with the large blond mechanic. So much so, she had easily fallen into his arms. Not to mention his king-sized bed. In truth, it hadn’t taken much effort on his part to seduce her.
Too bad she had been nothing more than one night’s entertainment.
Lord, she hated regrets.
Anton Balan was a crude, foul-mouthed biker. She had no business entertaining fantasies with him as the major player. And a player he was. He had played her like a violin.
Kimber couldn’t help the small smile from surfacing at the remembrance. Okay, so she had thoroughly enjoyed every moment spent in his bed. Anton had been a consummate lover. He had taken his time to make sure she had enjoyed the act, if not more so than he had. A blush warmed her cheeks. Not that she had a lot of experience with men. He certainly hadn’t been her first, but he had been the only man to have ever given her the big O.
Too bad he turned out to be someone she was better off not associating with, because she wouldn’t have minded a repeat performance. Anton Balan was a walking, talking sex machine who knew his way around the bedroom. Just thinking about his hands on her flesh sent a shiver down her spine and an ache to her groin.
Now all she had left were memories.
But oh, what good memories they were.
Following Anton’s send-off a little over a year ago, she had tried dating again, slept with a couple of men, but neither had measured up to the sizzling hot blond biker, leaving her with more regrets.
Damn the man for giving her a night she couldn’t wipe from her memory, no matter how she had tried. He’d become the world’s biggest asshole. So instead of winding up with a long list of failed dates, she poured herself into her job as head librarian at the Florence Library. At twenty-eight, she had plenty of time to find a man … once she managed to purge her gorgeous neighbor from said fantasies. Envisioning his ha
ndsome face and gym-perfect body while he sat astride his Harley Davidson wasn’t helping matters. Put simply, the man oozed sex from every pore.
Unable to curb her curiosity, she shut off the water and skirted her rose garden. Clearing the side of the house, Kimber caught sight of the large man astride his bike just as he turned into his driveway. Even as far away as she stood, she didn’t miss the slight turn of his head, as if he had felt her presence. Another shiver washed over her. Sun rays glinted off his aviator style sunglasses.
No sense hiding the fact she had been spying. Instead of waving, though, she gave him her back and returned to the garden. She couldn’t help the quickening of her pulse, but she damn well could keep from doing anything about it.
Just as she reached for her watering hose, her phone rang.
Kimber jogged up the back porch steps and grabbed her cell lying on the table to her patio set. At a glance, she saw it was one of her coworkers, making her wonder if everything at work was okay. She certainly hoped Tena wasn’t calling to ask her to take her shift. Even though Kimber would oblige, as usual, she had been looking forward to the long weekend.
“Hey, Tena.” Kimber brushed her wet hand on her jeans. “What’s up?”
“I have a huge favor to ask.”
“Let me get dressed. I can be at the library within the half hour.”
“What? Oh, no.” She heard Tena chuckle. “I’m already here and just about to clock in. That’s not why I called.”
Kimber’s brow creased. Tena didn’t normally call her out of the blue unless it was work related. “What can I do for you then?”