Her Prince (The Wounded Souls Series Book 6)

by Leah Sharelle

  Squirt, you have to enter the outgoing jobs on a different spreadsheet. You are messing up my system. I heard Darth say from behind me, making me jump out of my skin with fright.

  “Hell’s bells, Darf. Will you stop doing that,” I grumbled, my hands held to my chest. I swore he did that shit on purpose.

  Well, if you were concentrating on the job in front of you instead of your stud, you wouldn’t be stuck here in the office doing the boring stuff, he replied knowingly.

  Bastard.

  Uh-uh, Miss Shiloh, bad language.

  I was about to give him a lesson in bad language when the sound of a couple Harley exhaust pipes broke the silence. I quickly looked at my watch. Zander wasn’t supposed to be here for at least another few hours to have lunch with me.

  “If that’s my son, tell him to get in here and help me with this fucking carbie,” Creed’s muffled yell came from somewhere in the workshop, probably from under a car.

  Years ago, Creed took on more custom car jobs as well as bikes. It used to be that he did cars only for friends or members of the club, but his amazing work caught the attention outside of the state, and now we were the place to have your car worked on. The waiting list was long, but the customer got a finished product worth waiting for.

  “Will do, boss.”

  Quickly, I jumped from my chair and grabbed my cut from the back of it, then threw my arms in it and took off at a jog. Zander had left at four this morning because he had a long-haul flight to the other side of Melbourne to deliver a shipment of expensive bathroom tiles to some rich guy who couldn’t wait for them to be delivered by truck. I missed him, so I was anxious to get my hands and lips on him.

  Shiloh, wait, Darth called, but in my haste, I didn’t acknowledge the warning in his tone.

  When I ran out of the big double glass doors of the showroom, what I saw made the smile drop from my face. Instead of Zander and one of the guys, there were two very big and dirty-looking bikers were getting off their bikes. They hadn’t seen me yet as they were busy taking off their bucket helmets that stupidly had spikes all over them. Stupid because that style of motorcycle helmet was illegal in Australia for any motorcyclist. If my dad, Booth, and the rest of my uncles had taught me anything over the years, it was to be vigilant and notice everything.

  And what I noticed made my skin crawl. Not only was their appearance filthy but they were also wearing worn and tattered cuts that proclaimed to be members of the Devil’s Advocates. It wasn’t an MC I was familiar with, but the one percent patch sewn on the pocket told me all I needed to know.

  They were an outlaw club, and, therefore, needed to be taken seriously.

  I rolled my shoulders once and got my mind in the right mindset for a possible altercation.

  “Hey there, you guys need some repairs? I can fit in a small job right now if you need?” I asked in a pleasant tone, not too friendly just welcoming.

  “Sweet cheeks, you can repair something of mine, but it ain’t going to be my bike,” the biggest one said, the sexual innuendo not lost on me but ignored.

  “You’re the mechanic? A fucking chick?” the other one spluttered in disbelief.

  “Sure am. Qualified to work on bikes and cars. Hey, my name is Shiloh,” I said, moving forward and offering my hand out in greeting.

  Easy, baby girl, easy. Darth’s warning came into my head. I couldn’t see him, but he was there somewhere.

  “What the fuck is that you are wearing?” the big uglier one of the two shouted at me, his eyes narrowing at my cut or, rather, the patch declaring me the VP.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “You’re a fucking VP? What sort of MC has a cunt as their VP?” he asked menacingly.

  I stopped in my tracks and dropped my offered hand to my side, the venom used to ask the question making my hairs prick on the back of my neck. I felt the familiar presence of Darth, and I knew he was right behind me, then his large palm was on the small of my back, and I calmed just a bit, but not as much as I would have if Zander were here. All of a sudden, I had an urge to have his strong arms around me. Being in Zander’s arms was my safe harbour, and I wanted him now.

  “Ah, I think you guys might want to find another shop to deal with. Obviously, this one is not for you,” I said in the way of a goodbye. My feet were already stepping back from them, creating some space between us. I didn’t want any trouble, and these two had it written all over them.

  Get back into the shop, Shiloh. Now.

  I nodded my head slightly, ready to turn around and do exactly that when a large dirty, nicotine-stained hand reached out and grabbed me by the collar of my leather.

  “I asked you a fucking question, gash. What kind of fucking punk-arse club has a woman patch?”

  Now, I could fight—that was a given after growing up with a bunch of former soldiers and bikers, and I was also taught other tactics to get out of situations where I was outnumbered, but something was telling me I was in over my head. Though there were only two, their size and appearance definitely had me at a disadvantage. Plus, I was a woman and had no illusions these guys would over-power me in seconds, despite my skills.

  “The Wounded Souls do,” Creed said from the now-opened door of the garage.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Creed must have gotten sick of waiting and came out to see what the hold-up was—thank God.

  “Would you mind taking your hands of my VP, please.” The pleasantness of Creed’s request did nothing to hide his ominous warning. Creed pushed was not something you wanted to experience.

  “Well, if it isn’t Creed, wonder sniper of the commandos. How the fuck are you, mate?” the one with his hands on me asked with a sneer.

  Up this close, I could make out the name Guts embroidered on his cut, but he obviously didn’t think too much of his cut because he didn’t look after it the way my club brothers and I did ours.

  “None of your fucking business. Do I even know you? Fuck it, I don’t care if I do. Get your motherfucking hands off her now, or you will find yourself in a world of hurt, mate.”

  Not daring to take my gaze from the guy who held me, I noticed his tough demeanour slipped for a second at Creed’s menacing tone.

  Was this guy in the army with you guys? I asked Darth silently.

  I can’t place him, but he seems to think he knows Creed.

  The second biker, who was even bigger than his friend, moved forward. His cut only had the name of his club and his name patch that heralded him as Slither, no officer patch.

  No surprises there, I thought with more than a hint of sarcasm.

  “Who the hell do you think you are, old man? You ever heard of the Devil’s Advocates because that is who you are fucking with right now.”

  “I don’t care if you are the devil’s dick. Tell your buddy to get his hands off her and get on your bikes and crawl back to the rock you came out from under,” Creed said, warning them for the third time to let me go.

  A very uneasy feeling ran down my spine as the grip on my collar didn’t loosen. If anything, he held my cut firmer in his huge fist.

  “You want me to let her go? Okay, I will let her go,” Guts said, then he used his bulking body weight to shove me backwards, and taking advantage of my surprise, he suddenly let go of me, and as he did, his fist connected with the side of my jaw. The combined punch and shove propelled me backwards, and I fell to the asphalt. As my hip impacted with the hard ground, a cry of pain tore from my mouth.

  Shiloh! Darth growled.

  I instantly shook my head. Now was not the time to show weakness or let these idiots think they had the better of us.

  “Not a smart move, dickhead. Not only did you hit a VP but you also hit the daughter of my SAA, and here is where it gets better—she is also my daughter-in-law, which means my son is not going to be happy you marked his woman. That punch just landed you on the wrong side of the Wounded Souls, mate.” Before the last word was out of Creed’s mouth, his fist collided with Gu
ts, whose nose spurted blood. Then quicker than I thought was possible, Creed lunged at Slither and reached inside his cut, disarming him of a handgun before pointing it at them.

  When the hell did Creed see that Slither had a gun? I could have blinked twice, and it was over, one guy on the ground with a broken nose, the other with a bewildered look that pretty much said, ‘What the fuck just happened?’

  “Shiloh, get up and get back to the garage. Call Booth and Deck, and you better get Mannix, too. Have Steel stay at the compound. Go on, honey. I got these two wankers covered,” Creed ordered. He moved two steps to his right and held out his hand to me, the gun and his eyes still trained on the two men in front of him. I took his offered hand and held in a wince as I let Creed help pull me to my feet.

  “Booth? You mean Vincent Booth and Deck Johnston and the Steel brothers?” Guts asked in a nasally voice.

  “Again, I ask, who the fuck are you? Maybe Booth will be able to identify you. My pres never forgets a face.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ, the lot of you are here? Booth is the president? Fuck me. Come on, Slither, let’s get the fuck out of here.” Guts wiped his bloodied hand on his dirty, worn jeans, and not waiting for his friend, he just turned around and headed for his piece-of-shit old-school chopper.

  “He has my fucking gun.” Slither all but growled back at his retreating brother.

  “Fuck the gun. If Booth or Deck get their hands on you, you won’t be needing it anymore because you won’t be fucking breathing. She is the fucking daughter of Deck Johnston, and I fucking hit her. Now fucking move, Slither.”

  I watched in complete and total shock as the two big burly bikers got on their bikes, one with a look of fear, and the other one, Slither, just looked very pissed off. His gaze narrowed at the gun in Creed’s hand, then he turned his angry eyes on me.

  “I will be seeing you again, gash—that, you can count on.” He glared at my patch one last time, then kicked his bike over, and the roar of the two engines rumbled the ground beneath my feet. Gravel kicked up from their back tyres, sending it flying in the air, and sharp pieces of rock and debris from the driveway hit me in the face, making me cry out.

  “Oh, ouch,” I shouted, quickly covering my eye with one hand and my cheek with the other. “Effing arsehole, prickfaces,” I cursed, pissed off that all of this happened at all. Who the bloody hell were those guys?

  “Fuck, Squirt, are you all right?” Creed rushed over to me, the gun now in the waistband of his black military pants.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Just got a face full of gravel and God knows what else,” I grumbled.

  “Shit, hon, you’re bleeding. Here.” Creed pulled a garage rag from out of his back pocket and gently dabbed at my cheek, then at the corner of my eye. It hurt like a bitch, but I wasn’t going to tell Creed that. The men were watching me like a hawk at the club, and my guess was they were observing how I handled things around the club and the businesses to see if I was capable of being in the top job.

  Handling this situation by crying was not the best way to show that I was capable.

  “They know who you are, Creed, all of you, but how?” I asked instead. The tears could wait until I saw Zander. Gingerly, I touched my finger to the wound that hurt the most. The damn stone or whatever it was that hit me only barely missed going in my eye.

  “Can’t say I recognise either of them. Darth know anything?”

  I was taken aback by his question regarding Darth as it wasn’t something many of the guys did, except Booth. He talked to me quite a bit about Darth and how he was doing, got me to ask Darth questions from time to time. Once, Booth asked me if Darth would tell him where an old ledger book was. He would ask for advice or Darth’s opinion on a business dealing. Small things that stayed between the three of us.

  “No, he, um, said he couldn’t place them,” I answered quietly. Suddenly, talking about Darth with my future father-in-law became uncomfortable.

  He believes you, Shiloh.

  “I think maybe we should call the club, and tell them what just happened, then figure out where to go from here,” I said, breaking the awkward silence.

  “Yeah, okay, Squirt. Just let me tell Seb and Squid that we are taking off. Best you take one of the cars. You went down pretty hard on your hip, so straddling a bike might not be a good idea.”

  I rolled my eyes at the reminder that my hip also hurt like a bitch. Goddamn, effing mothereffers. I was miffed. I brought the Ducati today and tuned it before any of the other workers arrived, and it was now running better than ever.

  As I walked to the car, my only thought was that Zander was going to unleash holy hell on the Devil’s Advocates after he hugged me and made me feel better. I just might cry, too.

  Chapter 10

  Zander

  As I cut the engine of the helicopter, removed my headset, and got out of the bird, the rotors were still spinning, so I crunched my abs, and with my head down, I ran towards the hanger.

  Today’s job brought in a lot of money for the business and promised to bring in a fair bit more. The rich guy who hired us for dropping off priceless tiles was so impressed he asked me if I wanted any more delivery jobs. Of course, I said yes. The early morning starts didn’t appeal because I’d much rather stay in bed with my woman. Her sweet body on or underneath mine was more appealing, but it wasn’t going to be every day—just until he finished pleasing his young, spoilt wife with the mansion he was building her.

  Money was money, and unfortunately, it made the world go around and paid the bills.

  I sighed and pulled at the collar of my dress shirt I had to wear long with dress pants, when I flew. I was looking forward changing into my usual jeans and tee.

  “Yo, Zander, phone call,” I heard Lucky shout from just inside the hanger.

  “Who?”

  “Your old man.”

  I gave Lucky a chin lift and jogged the rest of the way to the hanger office. If dad was calling, it must be important. He usually liked to deliver his news in person, so his telephone skills were a little… wanting.

  “Dad, what’s up?”

  “Son, you’re needed back at the club, now,” he said in a tone that had my whole body go taut.

  “Shiloh?” One word was all that came to mind. Something had happened to her. I felt it.

  “She is on the way back with Charlotte now.”

  “From where?”

  “The hospital, son.”

  Those three words just shattered me.

  ***

  I slammed my hands on the hard wooden door, the sting on my palms not even registering as I burst into the main room of the compound.

  The sight of Charlotte’s ridiculous Mini Cooper in the car park had told me one thing.

  Shiloh was here.

  Now I needed to see her, hold her, kiss her, and see with my own eyes that she was okay. If she was back from the hospital already, then there mustn’t be too much wrong with her, right?

  The first person I saw when I entered was my dad, mum tucked under his arm, but it was the grim look on his face that did not boost my confidence that everything was okay.

  “Where is she?”

  “She is fine, mate. Just a few—”

  “Where is she?” I roared, cutting him off.

  “Honey.”

  I spun around and located my woman sitting on the couch, her mother and Mia on either side of her. What I saw then caused my blood to rage to boiling point. Even from across the room, I could see the dark bruise on her jaw, and her face had some cuts on one cheek, and the corner of her eye was black.

  I spared my father a narrowed glare. “Who the fuck do I need to kill?”

  “Son, it’s—”

  “Not good enough.” I growled, then strode over to the living area and dropped to my knees in front of Shiloh. Up close, her eye and jaw looked worse. Her eyeball had a red spot on it—which, I surmised, was from whatever hit her—but it was the dark bruise on her jaw that made me clench my teeth. There
was only one way she could have gotten that—I knew a punch to the jaw when I saw one.

  I cupped her face gently in my big hands, and immediately, her tears fell, gutting me.

  “Baby, what the fuck happened?” I managed to whisper, keeping my voice low so as not to upset her any further. My Shiloh was a strong woman, a member of the club, a fighter, but nothing like this had happened to her since she was a small child. The thought of a person striking her… fucking dead.

  “It’s okay, honey. This”—Shiloh waved her hands in front of her face, indicating the scratches and her eye—“was from a bike spewing up gravel and debris from the road out front of the bike shop.” Her hand had some gravel rash on it, too.

  “How did that happen?” I asked, taking her hand in mine and pressing kisses all over the inside of her palm.

  “Oh, I, um, fell,” she replied dismissively, her eyes everywhere but on me.

  I knew everything about Shiloh Johnston. I knew how she liked to be kissed on her neck with soft wet kisses. I knew she liked me to lick her nipples when she was riding me. I also knew she liked caffeine-free diet coke and plain potato chips when it was that time of the month. I also knew she didn’t like to make eye contact when she was hiding something. Like she was doing now.

  “Dad?” I asked, looking over my shoulder at my father but keeping my hands on Shiloh. She was trembling beneath my touch, and it pissed me off that it was terror and not because she was turned on by me.

  “Some bikers turned up at the shop. I guess they were looking for repairs of some kind. Shiloh went out to greet them, but they weren’t too happy when they discovered she was the mechanic or when they saw her cut and patch,” Dad explained, his eyes darkening as he watched Shiloh’s face.