by Gemma Weir
Blade, Archer’s Creek: Book Three
Copyright © 2018 by Gemma Weir
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Cover design by Hart & Bailey Design Co
Interior design by Champagne Book Design
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
For my brother-in-law Alex. I may have accidentally stolen your nickname for this book, ooops; but this book still isn’t about you.
And for my gorgeous friend Joanna who I hope still loves me even though I can’t spell.
“Hey, Sissy,” I say, tears falling down my cheeks as I pull my sister into my arms. Her tiny body melts into mine, and I tighten my grip around her, basking in the sensation of seeing and hugging my sister for the first time in over two years.
I can hear the group of bikers and their old ladies talking around us, but I don’t care what they’re saying. It’s been two years and three months since I was this close to my sister. That’s eight hundred and twenty-one days; nineteen thousand, seven hundred and four hours. I could work out the minutes, but I won’t. Whichever way you calculate it; it’s been far too long.
Pulling back, I hold her at arm’s length and take her in. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen her in the last two years; it’s just the first time she’s seen me too. Her eyes are wide, and tears run down her cheeks. She looks so different. My father—AKA the sperm donor—always made us dress like we were fucking Amish: long skirts, nothing on display. It’s pretty fucking ironic considering how much of a perv he was.
Angelique’s outfit is super cute. She’s wearing daisy dukes and a white vest. She looks gorgeous; but then she’s always been gorgeous, with her white blonde hair and elfin features.
“I don’t understand,” she cries, confusion lacing her voice. A big blond biker moves behind her, placing his hand on her shoulder and nuzzling her neck.
“Who the fuck are you?” I snap at the big guy who’s groping my baby sister.
His eyes are focused entirely on Angelique, but when I speak, he slowly lifts his head from her neck and glares at me. “I’m Daisy, her old man. Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m her sister. Now get your fucking paws off her. She’s not old enough to have a man,” I cry, trying to pull her toward me.
Angelique appears to be in shock: her eyes are closed and she’s humming quietly to herself. “Sissy,” I call. She doesn’t respond. “Sissy,” I say again, shaking her arms. I glance up at Daisy. “What’s wrong with her?”
He pulls her from my grasp and turns her in his arms to face him. He holds her close, lifting her up and urging her legs around his waist; then he turns his back on me and walks away.
I move to follow, but a hand on my arm stops me.“Leave them be. Daisy will snap her out of it; they’ll be back soon.” I turn to see a big-ass biker towering above me, glaring menacingly.
Ripping my arm away from his touch, I spin to face him. “That’s my baby sister. I don’t want her disappearing into the back with some guy. I’m going after her.”
Big guy laughs. “That’s her old man. He don’t need permission to go deal with his woman. You, however, need to start fucking explaining why you’re not dead.”
“I came here for Angelique. I don’t want to, nor do I intend to, explain anything to you. All I want is to get my sister and get the hell out of here. Now where the fuck is he taking her?” I snap.
Big guy glances over his shoulder at the people behind him and then returns his attention to me. His satisfied smirk instantly aggravates me, so I spin on my heel and head in the direction Angelique just went.
“Hell, no.” Big guy says, as huge hands wrap around my arms and I’m lifted into the air and slung over his shoulder.
“Put me down, you big bastard,” I cry angrily, struggling to escape his hold. The sound of amused snickering infuriates me further and reaching down, I bury my bright red stiletto-shaped nails into the skin of my captor’s back.
“Arrrghhh,” Big guy wails, twisting and jerking in an attempt to get away from my claws. “Stop it, you crazy fucking bitch.”
“Take her to my office. Grits will go check on Daisy and Dove. We’ll all come to you in a minute.” An older, authoritarian male voice says.
“Hey, you big bastard, put me down. I’m getting my sister and leaving. Let go of me,” I scream, continuing to thrash against his hold and clawing at his back with my nails.
His massive paw-sized hand whacks against my ass, and I dig my nails in even harder. “Don’t you fucking spank me, you asshole,” I shout.
“Duchess, I’m gonna tie you to a fucking chair and force a gag into your mouth if you don’t stop trying to dig a hole in my back with those fucking talons of yours.”
“Fuck you, asswipe,” I shout, still twisting and writhing as he walks us away from the group of people and out of the bar. Pushing open a door, he carries me into an office and unceremoniously dumps me into a chair.
“Sit,” he barks.
Glaring at him, I stand and move toward the door, but he steps in front of me blocking my path. “Sit your fucking bratty ass down. You aren’t going anywhere right now, so get your fine butt back into that chair, before I take off my belt and tie you to it,” he snarls.
Narrowing my eyes, I rest my hands on my hips and stand toe to toe with him, anger brimming from me. “Who the fuck do you think you are? I want my sister; that’s all I want, then I’ll leave.”
“Sit,” he demands, pointing at the chair.
Ignoring him, I cock my hip to the side and cross my arms across my chest. One of his eyebrows lifts and he smirks. His hands grab for me so quickly that I barely see them. He lifts me into the air and dumps me back into the chair.
“I. Said. Sit,” he hisses, his arms braced on either side of the chair caging me
in. A second passes as we glare at each other, then he slowly straightens. His hands go to his waist and he lazily, deliberately, removes his belt from his jeans and places it on top of the huge wooden desk that dominates the room. “Now, you gonna stay put in that chair like a good girl, or do I need to tie your ass down?”
“Humph,” I grunt, re-crossing my arms across my chest and crossing my legs indignantly.
Big guy chuckles, then takes a step back. “Do you know what, Duchess? I’m almost disappointed you’re gonna do as you’re told. I think I’d probably enjoy strapping you down.”
My eyes shoot up to look at him. He’s huge, and old, and hot. Why the fuck are all the assholes so hot? Why can’t the nice, malleable guys be the hot ones, and the assholes all ugly motherfuckers, so no one would be stupid enough to fall for them? My eyes run up and down his body. He’s tall and broad, not bulky like a pumped-up gym bunny, just built, with massive shoulders and arms. His hair was obviously once black, but now grey streaks dominate it, giving him a silver fox vibe. Chiseled cheekbones are partially hidden by a thick, full beard, and even though facial hair isn’t normally my thing, it looks soft and inviting, almost begging for my touch. His skin is a warm sun-kissed tone; his eyes a rich chocolate-brown.
My anger slowly abates as I assess him. His arms are folded across his chest and every inch of exposed skin I can see is covered in tattoos. Even his neck is decorated in ink, running into the hair of his beard.
He’s probably old enough to be my father, but yet is still sexy, in an ‘he’s experienced and knows what he’s doing’ way. Unfortunately, like the majority of hot guys, the moment he opens his mouth he ruins it all.
Glancing to the door, I gauge the distance between him and escape. I won’t make it. The office isn’t big, but his huge body fills most of the available space. He’d have me in his paw-like hands in a second if I tried to make a run for it.
Silently stewing, I glare at my captor. “This is ridiculous. I want to see my sister,” I snap.
“I don’t give a fuck what you want. Dove’s with her old man, and he’ll bring her in here when he’s ready.”
“She can think for herself. She doesn’t need a biker Neanderthal to decide for her. I’ve waited two years to get her the hell away from this town, and neither him, nor you, are gonna stop me,” I say, sneering at him.
Big guy watches me, his mouth twisted into a hard line. “Duchess, you need to settle the fuck down. Your sister’s been through a lot the last few months and she thought you were dead. You need to give her time to process all of this, and you turning up here and shouting your mouth off isn’t the way to do it. Dove’s a Sinner, and I don’t know what the fuck you thought was gonna happen when you saw her, but I can tell you for damn sure, she won’t be going anywhere with you.”
“Last time I checked, you asshole, she doesn’t need your permission to leave. She’s eighteen. An adult. She can go wherever she wants,” I cry, leaping up from the chair.
“Course she doesn’t need permission to leave, she’s not a fucking prisoner, you crazy bitch,” he says, scowling.“But we’re her family and this is her home.”
How dare he. None of these people are her family. “I’m her family,” I say, my voice resolute.
Big guy scoffs. “No, Duchess. You were her family, and then you left. Your asshole of a father told her you were dead and then he spent the last two years beating the shit out of her.”
I feel the color drain from my face. My limbs go weak, and I slump back down into the chair. My arms fall limply to my sides, hitting the chair beneath me.
I thought she would be okay. God, I thought it was just me he hated. I only left her there because I thought it was just me. He never hurt her, only me; only ever me.
“Duchess?”
I can hear his voice, but I don’t respond. Because I feel sick. I left her. Did he pick up with her what he didn’t get a chance to finish with me? Adrenaline surges through my body, and an instinctual fight-or-flight reaction pushes me out of my chair and charging toward the door.
I barely make it two feet before he plucks me out of the air and pushes me back down into the chair. The muscles in his arms flex and twist as he looms over me menacingly, his hands braced on the arms of my chair. “Calm the hell down. Dove will be here in a minute and you can speak to her then, but I’m not letting you run around my club like a crazy fucking bitch.”
Anger pulses through me and my stomach churns. My heart ricochets against my chest and the dull thud of a headache pulses inside my head. This isn’t how this was supposed to happen. I’ve been planning the day I would reclaim my sister since the moment I packed my bags and ran from my parents’ home.
I always imagined I would charge home like a knight in shining armor and offer Angelique the chance of a new life. In my daydreams she would be overjoyed to see me and we’d head off into the sunset, happy and together, and free. But never in all the planning I’ve done for this day have the Doomsday Sinners ever been involved. I’ve also never planned for the eventuality that my sister thought I was dead and not just MIA.
My nose wrinkles in anger as I stare at the man who’s spoiled all of my meticulous planning. “Jesus, you fucking bikers, you’re all the same. ‘My club this and my club that.’ Why don’t you admit that you’re all just little boys who want to play at being badasses and have a thing for leather clothes? It’s so fucking pathetic. I mean seriously, at your age shouldn’t you have grown up by now?”
“At my age? How fucking old do you think I am?” Big guy shouts indignantly.
“I don’t know. Fifty, fifty-five. Old. Who cares? I’m not interested in you, or your fucking club. I just want my sister and I want to leave,” I say flippantly.
“Fifty-five. Fuck,” big guy mutters to himself.
Rolling my eyes, I place a hand over my stomach, where the coffee I had for breakfast is riling around and considering making a reappearance. “Look, dude, I don’t give a crap how old you are. I won’t move from this spot if you just go get my sister.”
“My name is Blade.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Blade. Really? Is this some kind of messed-up, biker cosplay bullshit? Because I’ve got to tell you that Wesley Snipes had better leather and he was way more of a badass than you could ever be. I swear, if someone dressed as a fucking vampire jumps out at me I’m gonna kick them in the balls.”
Big guy just stares at me blankly, like he has no idea what to say. That’s okay, I don’t want to talk to him anyway; all I want is my sister.
Dove’s sister is a crazy fucking bitch. She’s mouthy and violent and pissed off as fuck, and she thinks I look fifty-fucking-five. I don’t look like I’m in my fifties. Jesus, I’m only forty-four. I’m in my prime, and I get more pussy than ninety percent of the young guys around here.
My back throbs from where the evil little brat sunk her claws into me. I want to lift my shirt to check for blood, but she’s already tried to get past me twice, so I need to keep sharp.
I expect her to introduce herself, but instead all she offers me is an uppity sneer and a hateful glare. Dove has spoken about her sister Nicole a few times since she came into our lives, but all she said was that her sister had protected her until she’d run away with a boyfriend and had been killed shortly afterwards.
The woman sitting in front of me is nothing like I imagined Dove’s sister would be. The two women are complete opposites. Dove’s tiny, with her halo of white-blonde hair and sweet innocence. Nicole is fire and anger and attitude. Her hair’s bright red and twisted up on top of her head in a fancy style. Her skin is pale like Dove’s, but the full bright-red lips and dark, smoky eyes, mask any kind of family resemblance between the sisters. She’s taller than Dove, with curves that keep going and I don’t even try to stop my eyes from falling to her perky tits, her peaked nipples standing out from under the tight black shirt she’s wearing. Her legs are wrapped in skintight jeans that accentuate her narrow waist and the plump juicy ass I smacke
d earlier.
Nicole’s arms are covered in tattoos and from what I can see they’re good. Her skin is a colorful work of art, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to know exactly what else was adorning her body beneath her clothes. I narrow my eyes, trying to discern what the riot of color running up and down her arm depicts, but I’m too far away to see.
Somehow the tats seem familiar, but I’d remember if I’d met this girl before. If I saw someone who looked like Nicole across a room, my dick would be rock hard and leading me toward her. I sigh, it’s a shame because she really is hot as fuck, but in the three minutes I’ve been in her company she’s already proved how much of an angry, hateful bitch she is.
Her eyes are fixed on the door, her toe tapping agitatedly on the floor, while she pointedly ignores me and waits for her sister. I want to interrogate her. I want to know where the fuck she’s been and why, when she’s obviously alive and kicking, Dove thought she was dead. But judging by the furious scowl on her face, I think it’s highly unlikely she’ll be willing to answer my questions.
I don’t remember the last time someone looked at me like she’s doing. She doesn’t care that I’m the V.P. of the sinners; in fact, she seems thoroughly unimpressed by the club as a whole. Nicole carries herself like nothing can touch her; like only what she wants is important and fuck everyone else.
“Hey, errand boy, did you hear me? I promise to sit here and not move like a good little prisoner if you go fetch my sister.”
“Errand boy?” I say with a smirk. “Duchess, I’m nobody’s fucking errand boy. Now instead of pouting like a bratty little bitch, why don’t you explain where the fuck you’ve been for the last two years?”
Nicole rises from her chair and despite the fact that the uppity little duchess is pissing me off more and more with each minute I spend with her, my cock jumps to life. Her heels clack across the floor as she walks toward me, her hips swinging from side to side with each step. She stops mere inches from me, lifts her hand and tiptoes her pointy red fingernails up the center of my shirt.