The only thing more dangerous than the Anathema MC is the club’s president.
For twenty-one years, Rose Darnell’s family dedicated their lives to the Anathema MC. For twenty-one years, she’s searched for a way out.
Bound to a world of bloodied knuckles and drug money, Rose believes her musical talent will rescue her from an abusive father and overbearing brothers. A chance audition and promising gig would free Rose from the outlaw 1%, but her brothers won’t let her escape the club’s shadow.
A rival chapter threatens Rose, and only Anathema’s president, Thorne Radek, can protect her.
A traitor lurks within Anathema’s brotherhood, and Thorne will burn the world to scorch the rat. When an innocent diva with baby-bunny eyes and dark secrets needs his help, Thorne offers his protection and is rewarded with the ultimate bait. He may be the only man to distract Rose from her music, but helping him find the traitor will damn more than the club.
It will tear her family apart.
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“You’re lying if you say you want out of this life,” he said.
I wished I hadn’t stared at his lips. Or concentrated on the baritone threat of his words. Or willed the twisted beat of my heart to slam against my chest.
“I’m not part of Anathema,” I said.
“No, but it’s part of you. And all the concerts and college loans and temper tantrums won’t get you out of the club. So what is it? Why are you so desperate to leave?”
His fingers teased along the too-pink lace of my panties. My cheeks flushed with the same innocence, but I didn’t let him scare me.
“Why are you so desperate to keep me here?”
He liked that challenge. “If you knew what was good for you, you’d go running back to your big brothers.”
“We’re not talking at the moment.”
“Maybe you should be a good little girl and apologize.”
“And if I don’t?”
I stilled as his hand brushed my cheek. But Thorne wasn’t gentle. His calloused touch claimed when it should have caressed, and his forearm flexed with the rigid strength of a man barely containing the demon of lust corrupting his intentions. I gasped as his hand tangled in my wet hair and yanked.
“I don’t play nice, sweetheart.”
For the first time in my life, a raw, untainted, pure heat rushed within me. His hand gripped hard on my hair, and he pulled my head to expose the delicate hollow of my neck. To kiss. To bite. To slit. I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. His hands rough, his touch unashamed, and his need completely, absolutely, unequivocally natural.
“I don’t want nice,” I whispered.
He tightened his hold. “What do you want?”
“To feel safe.”
He laughed. His hand jammed against my throat. He squeezed, just enough to frighten, just enough to threaten where I was most vulnerable, just enough to clear my mind of the lingering memories of the last time I was touched.
“Now do you feel safe?”
I’d rather fear one man than live the rest of my life afraid of the world. I shook my head as much as his grip would allow.
“You won’t hurt me.”
Lana Grayson was born to write anything and everything to do with romance. Her favorite genres range from the dark and twisty to the lighthearted and sentimental—as long as the characters are memorable, the story is fun, and the romance is steamy. Lana lives in Pittsburgh with her husband, and, when she isn’t bundled in her writing chair, she’s most likely cheering on the Steelers or searching for the ‘Burgh’s best Italian restaurants.