Series: Anathema #2
Publication date: March 19th, 2015
Synopsis (according to Goodreads):
The only thing more sacred than the Anathema MC is the vengeance of a wronged man...
Excommunicated...
Exiled from the Anathema MC, Brew Darnell escaped the bullet only to face the unforgiving solitude of the road. With no future before him, Brew battles his past and vows to protect the one he loves the only way he can--by hunting the man who destroyed his family, devastated the Anathema MC, and betrayed every promise he ever made.
Saved...
Trapped in an abusive relationship with a sadistic biker, Martini Wright learned to manipulate, controlling her boyfriend's temper with a wink and a smile until she's traded as collateral to a rival MC. Her captor, Brew, has never trafficked a woman before, and Martini intends to exploit his guilty secrets to escape. Caught in the middle of a gang war, Brew and Martini fight a dangerous attraction--a second chance to heal from the mistakes of their past if they can confess the terrible truth.
Redeemed...
Brew failed his family before, but Martini can still be saved. With redemption delivered at the edge of a blade, Brew must choose who to rescue--the one he already lost... or the love he never deserved.
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Excerpt
A woman sat on my bike.
It was the most dangerous place in the world for her.
Had a man trespassed, he'd be laid out on the concrete cradling a broken nose and counting the teeth scattered on the pavement.
But the blonde leaning against the handlebars gave me a fucking smirk. The kind of look that gripped a man by his jeans and twisted until he handed over his wallet or fell in love. She mugged with a smile, charmed with a twirl of her hair, and saved her perfect ass from my temper with an arching eyebrow.
She was the type of pretty worth a night of regret, but I knew better. Pretty was about as good for my bike as a ride on dry gravel. I jerked a thumb over my shoulder.
She spoke first.
"Hi."
Disarmed, and she didn't even throw a punch. The leather jacket tailor-fit her frame, snug against a thin waist and swelling hips that promised endless trouble. Her boots and heels, probably to pin down the men who fell for her siren song. Her jacket wasn't zipped, but a pink, silk scarf tied over her neck and obscured the cleavage from her plunging neckline.
She was the most beautiful woman I'd seen in three thousand miles and thirty-eight years.
And she sat on my bike.
"Get off."
I counted the seconds her silver eyes dared to meet mine. She glanced down, batting her thick lashes as she studied the ground with a bite of her lip and another squeeze on my jeans.
How fucking old was she? College probably, though I doubted many people in the coal mining town saved their pennies for higher education.
"I can't get up." Her lips puffed into a perfect pout.
She didn't want to play this game with me.
"It's real easy, Darling. Stand up. Get the hell off my bike."
"I told you. I can't."
Those silver eyes pierced my patience, daring me to haul her over my shoulder. I considered it. She thought she could tease without consequence, thought she'd handle how I punished little filthy girls for playing a game they'd never win. She crossed her ankles and settled in. Defiant.
I hardened.
And I hated myself for it.
"Get off the damn bike."
"They're waiting for you inside the garage." The woman teased me with a glance over my leather. "I won't let anyone touch your ride."
A scratch to the paint would be nothing compared to the bruise on her ass.
It was the most dangerous place in the world for her.
Had a man trespassed, he'd be laid out on the concrete cradling a broken nose and counting the teeth scattered on the pavement.
But the blonde leaning against the handlebars gave me a fucking smirk. The kind of look that gripped a man by his jeans and twisted until he handed over his wallet or fell in love. She mugged with a smile, charmed with a twirl of her hair, and saved her perfect ass from my temper with an arching eyebrow.
She was the type of pretty worth a night of regret, but I knew better. Pretty was about as good for my bike as a ride on dry gravel. I jerked a thumb over my shoulder.
She spoke first.
"Hi."
Disarmed, and she didn't even throw a punch. The leather jacket tailor-fit her frame, snug against a thin waist and swelling hips that promised endless trouble. Her boots and heels, probably to pin down the men who fell for her siren song. Her jacket wasn't zipped, but a pink, silk scarf tied over her neck and obscured the cleavage from her plunging neckline.
She was the most beautiful woman I'd seen in three thousand miles and thirty-eight years.
And she sat on my bike.
"Get off."
I counted the seconds her silver eyes dared to meet mine. She glanced down, batting her thick lashes as she studied the ground with a bite of her lip and another squeeze on my jeans.
How fucking old was she? College probably, though I doubted many people in the coal mining town saved their pennies for higher education.
"I can't get up." Her lips puffed into a perfect pout.
She didn't want to play this game with me.
"It's real easy, Darling. Stand up. Get the hell off my bike."
"I told you. I can't."
Those silver eyes pierced my patience, daring me to haul her over my shoulder. I considered it. She thought she could tease without consequence, thought she'd handle how I punished little filthy girls for playing a game they'd never win. She crossed her ankles and settled in. Defiant.
I hardened.
And I hated myself for it.
"Get off the damn bike."
"They're waiting for you inside the garage." The woman teased me with a glance over my leather. "I won't let anyone touch your ride."
A scratch to the paint would be nothing compared to the bruise on her ass.
About the Author:
Lana Grayson was born to write 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.
