Sinister Red: Wulven Kings MC Book One Read online

  SINISTER RED

  WULVEN KINGS MC BOOK ONE

  A. K. GRAVES

  Copyright © 2022 by A. K. Graves

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a piece of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment.

  This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own individual copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Edited by Rochelle J. Simas of IDKart

  Cover Art by Stella Nova of Stellar Graphics

  Published by A. K. Graves, 2022

  To Peter Fonda, Dennis Hopper, and Jack Nicholson. If you know, you know.

  CONTENTS

  A Note from the Author

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Playlist

  Acknowledgments

  Also by A. K. Graves

  About the Author

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  The Wulven Kings MC is a dark contemporary romance series about a non-traditional motorcycle club. This series contains dark themes including, but not limited to child abuse, domestic violence, miscarriage/fertility issues, and drug addiction within multiple character’s past and present. If any of these themes, or any other dark themes bother you, then these books are not for you. To see a full list of potential trigger warnings, please visit my website at https://www.akgraveswrites.com/wkmc-trigger-warning.

  Don’t forget, dear reader, I’m in the business of soulmates and forever, so don’t worry. Every book has a HEA, and I can promise you each one of them is worth the heartache it takes to get there. I hope you enjoy the Wulven Kings MC, and I hope you love each of these couples just as much as I do.

  PROLOGUE

  SAM

  Twenty-four years ago.

  “God, I fucking hate this town,” I mumble under my breath as I kick at a rock. It only skids about a foot in front of me before it lands in a big crack in the sidewalk, the stone joining several others sitting amongst the broken concrete.

  I stop when I get to the crack, staring down at the hole full of rocks and debris, my anger spiking all over again.

  Why does she have to be like that?

  “Dumb bitch,” I grunt as I bend over and scoop up a handful of pellet-size stones. “Why won’t she just listen to me?”

  I look around the relatively deserted street, my stare landing on what is obviously a drug deal taking place in the alley across the way before it scans to a group of women—hookers—standing under the streetlight a few blocks down. Shaking my head, I clutch the rocks tight in my palm before checking my surroundings again, and when I realize no one is paying attention to the scrawny thirteen-year-old kid in beat to hell jeans and a t-shirt from Goodwill, I snap.

  I face the abandoned house to my right and start launching those rocks at the already busted or boarded up windows.

  They won’t do hardly any damage, if at all, but throwing them at the piece of shit house in the piece of shit town I’ve been forced to live in my whole life might make me feel a little better about things. And if not, it’ll make my walk back to her take that much longer.

  With every rock I throw, every slight crack of the rubble against glass, my anger splinters into something more, something different that I refuse to put a name to.

  Why won’t she listen to me?

  Why can’t she take care of herself?

  Why can’t she take care of me?

  I’m out of ammunition quickly, so I search the walkway up to the house, the front yard, everywhere for anything else I can throw.

  There’s a small pile of bricks in the tall grass.

  Just a few, but enough to help these feelings go away.

  I grab the first brick and fire it through the window on the front door.

  She spends her money on drugs, spends my money on drugs.

  The next goes through the living room window.

  Can’t buy groceries or clothes, can’t even pay for a car.

  Another sails through the living room.

  Won’t get a real fucking job, just brings home one dirtbag after another.

  I send one flying through the dining room.

  Slept with so many men she can’t remember who my father is. Parades them around like they’re going to solve all of our problems, even when they beat her and I’m left picking up the pieces.

  With tears streaming down my face—angry tears I had no idea I was shedding—I take a step back and throw the last brick as hard as I can through the upstairs bedroom window, glass exploding back into the house in a less than satisfying crash.

  I’m still angry, still so mad. I took off to clear my head, just left my mom with that asshole at our house because she didn’t give a shit about what I had to say, didn’t care that her next date gave off a really dangerous vibe. She ignored what I said, told me not to be so dramatic, then said to go play in my room for a while so she could entertain her friend.

  It’s like the woman has no fucking clue that I’m a goddamn teenager.

  Which is why she never listens to me.

  I’m just a kid in her eyes and it doesn’t matter that I’ve been right about every other jerk she’s brought into our house. I don’t know what I’m talking about so I should just keep my mouth shut.

  She’ll regret that one day.

  One day, my mother will be sorry she didn’t listen to me and hopefully I won’t be around to see it.

  I shouldn’t even go back now, but I have to.

  I have to go back and get my bike, plus my backpack is there. If I ever want a real shot at getting out of Rolling Meadows then I have to try to get through school. At least graduate so I can get a real job that makes enough money to get me away from this shithole town.

  Away from her.

  My fists clench at my side and I bend to grab another brick but I come up empty. I search the grass again, look for anything I can throw at the stupid empty house, but I don’t find anything. Nothing but something shiny and smooth.

  I dig a little in the dirt to unearth the stone, realizing as soon as I do that it’s more like a river rock instead of a broken piece of cement, which is odd because Rolling Meadows isn’t anywhere near a river. I brush off the dirt then shine it on my t-shirt, the texture cool and smooth, without any imperfections.

  My eyes trace the oval shape, scan it for any cracks or chips, then I slowly rub my thumb over the center of it, the action calming me a little.

  And that’s why I keep doing it.

  The entire walk back to my house I rub my thumb over the cool, smooth stone, my anger dropping to a simmer, the fight leaving my body as extreme exhaustion sets in.

  Maybe I can try to talk to her again.

  Maybe if I stay calm and level, try not to get upset and talk to her like an adult she’ll lis
ten to me.

  I’m not asking for much.

  Grocery money, maybe a little for some new shoes. It’s stuff I need, stuff we both need, and if she realized that I’m not trying to go buy comic books or some shit, Mom would try a little harder to save it or set it aside.

  Maybe…

  I stop dead in my tracks as I turn down my street, my heart dropping to my stomach when my house comes into view.

  It’s on fire.

  My house, my shitty little one bedroom house, is on fucking fire, the flames lighting up the entire block like the Fourth of July.

  And for a second, my anger turns into panic.

  I run toward the house, toward the huge group of onlookers that have gathered on the street, pushing my way through the crowd until I’m standing at the edge of my yard.

  “Is there anyone inside?” My voice comes out in a barely audible whisper, the question directed at no one in particular. But I don’t get a response, so I try again. “Was there anyone inside?”

  “Don’t know for sure,” Ms. Peabody, our neighbor, sighs before she tsks. “I knew that North woman was trouble the moment she moved into that house.”

  Which was ten years ago, so the crazy old bat’s statement seems asinine right now. “Was she in the house?”

  Ms. Peabody pulls her gaze away from the fire to look at me, her eyes widening as she does. “Sam?”

  I just nod, barely able to fight my eye roll.

  “Boy, your mama isn’t in that house.”

  Relief floods me, but only briefly. Just because she wasn’t inside doesn’t mean something bad didn’t happen to her. And no matter how angry I get, I don’t want my mother to—

  “She was standing here no less than twenty minutes ago.” An unfamiliar emotion flashes in her eyes—one I’d call pity even though I know that’s not it—before she looks between me and the house that’s about to collapse. “And she said…”

  My gut swirls with anxiety, the relief gone, anger creeping back in before it consumes me again.

  “Your mama said you were on your own tonight, Sam. Said to tell you she’s staying with her boyfriend and she’ll try to find you tomorrow after school…”

  Ms. Peabody keeps talking, but I don’t hear her.

  It’s all white noise as I turn back to the house I’ve lived in for ten years, the only thing close to a home I’ve ever had, and watch the fucker burn.

  I watch this part of my life burn to the ground, my river rock gripped tightly in my hand, and right then and there I make myself a promise.

  I will get out of Rolling Meadows, I will make something of myself, and I will find my own family, even if it takes me years.

  I will find my forever, and when I do, I will not be walking away from it the way my mother walked away from me.

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  SAM

  Fifteen years ago.

  Death is a funny thing.

  The finality of it, the way the heart just stops beating, how the lungs quit taking in air. The brain that was programmed to make those things happen just automatically shuts down and ceases to function.

  Sure, not everything stops right away.

  The body might still twitch, eyes might still blink, a mouth might still open and close on its own, but eventually everything stops completely, and anything else that happens after the fact is purely the body’s way of expelling the last little bits of life from its host.

  But the last few minutes leading up to imminent death, the seconds before the very definitive end, are always a crapshoot.

  It could be an untimely end; a shock to everyone around them. An aneurysm or a heart attack, a freak accident or even suicide, something completely unexpected that blindsides friends and loved ones.

  Or there could be a sickness; an illness that slowly robs someone of health and life, destroying them from the inside out until they succumb to the disease altogether.

  Death can be premeditated. Plotted and planned, a mortal playing God as they take a life by force. No matter the reason behind it, there is a sinister element to murder because somewhere in the back of the killer’s mind, they’ve made peace with the outcome. They made the choice, accepted what it means, how it will change them, and they do what they intended to do anyway.

  A piece of your soul is blackened with each death you bear witness to—each death you may be responsible for—and the more unusual or evil the circumstances, the bigger that piece can be.

  And eventually, you start to wonder if there are any clean pieces of your soul left at all.

  “Coroner’s on his way,” Jackal grunts as he leans against the side of the garage next to me. “Maybe twenty minutes out.”

  I nod as I take out my smokes, stick one between my teeth and offer the pack to my friend. “Cops?”

  “Just Withers.”

  Good.

  Captain Withers is on our payroll, and if he was called in, he’ll make sure the coroner that comes out is as well. Probably Johansson or Berk.

  I watch as Jackal lights his cigarette and inhales the non-filter deeply while closing his eyes.

  He’s nervous.

  Rightfully so, but aside from a little anxiety—which most likely stems more from the outcome of all this shit instead of what led us here—he seems tired and fucking relieved.

  “Gunner and Tank inside still?”

  He nods. “Cleaning up.”

  “Spider helping?”

  “Tank sent him out back with Marbles and Cy.”

  Which means Spider is not handling this well.

  Not that I can blame him. Shit went from zero to sixty in a matter of seconds and our arachnid was right at the center of it when it did, and I don’t just mean physically.

  With a sigh, I take a drag from my smoke and scrub a hand over my hair, my gaze catching on the blood still dotting my jacket and hand.

  Death came swiftly and unexpectedly today, but it was a long time coming. A premeditated surprise, something that had been considered for years and finally realized in a split-second decision, thought out, but delivered on instinct.

  “The kid?” I ask after a few beats of silence.

  Jackal sucks down his cigarette, drops it on the ground and it isn’t until it leaves his fingers that I realize they’re trembling. “He’s with Mom and Nadine. Breaker and his old lady are on their way.”

  “Little John coming too?”

  “Wouldn’t shock me.”

  “So, we’re looking at a visit from the Pythons’ president, and potentially a club war.”

  My friend shakes his head. “Dad called him right away. Explained what happened, told them it was handled, and that Conner is safe.”

  The now goes without saying.

  When we showed up at the garage a few hours ago, the five of us asked to meet Tank and Gunner here so we could act as witnesses when the president and his VP formally booted their father, Hamish—Gramps to most of us—off the executive committee, no one had a clue how things would play out.

  We went into the shop like usual, didn’t see Hamish right away, so we grabbed a few beers from the fridge then waited for Tank and Gunner. After a couple of minutes, a strange noise came from the office, an almost muffled cry or whimper. We assumed it was Gramps’s dog, the hound he keeps around as a half-assed guard dog, but when we heard the noise again it was obvious it wasn’t the mutt.

  The five of us went on high alert at that point, each pulling our piece as we began searching the shop. Cyclops and Jackal started checking the cars waiting to be chopped, Marbles and I looked through the supply closets and waiting room, while Spider went straight for the office.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew he shouldn’t be alone. I’d had a feeling of dread swirling in the pit of my stomach ever since Tank called last night, and it continued to grow when I left the clubhouse this afternoon, then became consuming when we got to the garage. Something was telling me that today wasn’t going to go well, that we were probably going to have
some sort of shit hit the fan, and letting Spider search the shop alone solidified it.

  The minute he opened the office door… no one could get to him in time and in that split second, everything changed for all of us.

  When Spider saw Hamish with his coveralls pulled down below his waist, saw Conner standing in front of the desk with his pants and underwear around his ankles, tears streaming down the almost thirteen-year-old boy’s face, he snapped.

  He pistol-whipped his grandfather, knocking the bastard to the ground in a daze before he grabbed the heavy glass ashtray from the desk and proceeded to bash his head in with it. Spider lost his shit completely, kept hitting the old man over and over while crying and yelling never again.

  Cy and Jackal covered Conner up and got him out of there as quick as they could while Marbles and I tried like hell to pry Spider off Hamish, but that big fucker wasn’t having it. By the time Tank and Gunner showed up, there was hardly anything recognizable left of their father’s face and it still took all four of us to finally get Spider under control.

  Prez took his son into the connecting bathroom and shut the door, our VP immediately got on the phone and started making calls, and Marbles and I just stood there in shock, staring at the battered remains of Hamish MacAllister until we were told what to do next.

  Trudy and Nadine showed up about twenty minutes later and that’s when Gunner told me to head out front and make sure no one tried to get inside. And that’s where I’ve been for the last hour, smoking cigarette after cigarette, trying to make sense of what the fuck just happened.