Sinner's Revenge (Sinner's Creed MC #2)(2)

Written By: Kim Jones



After everyone leaves, I kneel at his grave. My fingers dig into the soft dirt as I bow my head. Two tears escape me. It’s all I allow myself. A tear for Dirk, and a tear for me. A part of me did die out on that highway with him. And today, that Shady is laid to rest. As I stand, I leave what’s left of who I was.

I’m no longer the lost little boy who nobody wanted. I’m not a young man searching for his place in the world. I’m not the same guy who ran his fingers over the threads of his new patch again and again.

My anger is fueled by all that’s been lost. Fury blazes in my eyes. Rage consumes me. Revenge is my only thought. Killing is my ultimate goal. Death is the only justice.

Death Mob killed Dirk. Now they’ll pay the price. Their blood will pour like rain from the sky. Their bodies will decompose in shallow graves. The smell of their fear will fill the air. Their days are limited. Their nights will be haunting. One by one, they’ll die. Every death will send a message: I’m coming for them.

All of them.

But I’m not coming alone.

I’m bringing hell with me.





1


DIEM

WHEN I FIRST saw him, I knew he was the one who could make me happy. Even though he tried to conceal it, there was a playfulness about him. He wasn’t trying to flirt with the waitress; it just seemed natural. I could tell the demons he carries haven’t always been there.

I watched the way he narrowed his dark eyes at her, then countered the move with a small smirk. The way his middle finger tapped lightly on the table, drawing attention to his rough and calloused hands. The way he sipped his beer slow, making sure to lick his lips after his pull—teasing the waitress with thoughts of what he could do to her with his mouth.

What he could do to me.

He was no fool. He knew I was watching. When he stood, he made sure to walk around the side of the table that gave me a full view of him. He was shorter than six feet, but not by much. His body was lean, but muscular and toned. The white polo he wore contrasted perfectly with his tanned skin—the sleeves clinging tightly to his sculpted arms and across his broad chest. His jeans sat low on his waist and hung loose on his legs.

The tattoos on his arms formed a beautiful, intricate pattern that started at his wrists and disappeared under his shirt. They seemed to hold some type of meaning, one that couldn’t be deciphered by anyone but him.

Even though he dressed the part, he seemed to be out of place. It was as if he was fighting to fit in, but really didn’t belong. Unbeknownst to him, I felt the same way.

He disappeared inside without a single glance in my direction, but somehow, I felt like he was watching me—fully aware of every thought in my mind. I found myself longing for his return so I could find what it was about him that made me feel like I’ve never felt before.

Was there really such a thing as instant attraction? I’d read about it in books, watched it in movies and dreamt of it, but was it real? Or was I so obsessed with finding something to replace the monotony in my life that my subconscious had conjured up this feeling I had?

My thoughts shatter, my dreamy state lost as a guy at the bar approaches me. The light breeze blowing across the patio allows his scent to waft toward me, and I cringe from the expensive cologne overkill. Even his breath smells like Dolce & Gabbana.

“Can I buy you a drink?” the young, attractive guy asks. He’s midtwenties, tall, muscular, and has the kind of hair that begs a girl to run her fingers through it. But even his silky locks can’t get the image of short black hair hidden beneath a white ball cap out of my thoughts.

“No.” I’m hoping my short answer is enough to persuade him to move the f*ck along. Through my peripherals, I can see his stance is cocky, his smirk is confident, and his ego isn’t suffering in the least. He’s so sure of himself that he orders me a fruity cocktail, immediately stereotyping me to be the kind of girl who enjoys that shit. His boldness tells me one thing—he’s looking to get laid.

On my left, another guy approaches. Maybe they’re brothers. Maybe they’re hoping for a little three-way action. Maybe there really are desperate women left in this world who fall for this type of bullshit. The new guy leans on the bar. Looking over the top of my head, he holds a conversation with the * on my right. He’s telling him that what I need is a shot, not a cosmopolitan. His actions tell me that he is a certified schmuck. The kind that gets girls drunk and takes advantage of them. He’s pretty sure I’m one of those girls.

“You on vacation, or you from around here?” I don’t acknowledge him. He laughs with the other one, moves in closer and speaks again. “I like your legs.”

I’m counting. I usually start back from ten, but I’m already past the point of pissed off, so I’m in the negatives. I’m trying to ignore them. But my body is buzzing. My strong desire to see them in pain is overpowering my control.

“You must have a boyfriend.” He ducks his head and tries to meet my eyes. When I turn on my stool to face him, prepared to unleash my wrath, my eyes land on him.

He’s standing next to us at the bar, his eyes on me. They’re cold, unfeeling, and distant. I’m still staring, my mouth slightly parted, my breath a little heavier when his eyes leave me and focus on the bartender. With the slightest lift of his index finger, he gives the command for another beer. It’s such a simple gesture. There’s nothing worldly about his demand. But he makes it seem so powerful and lethal—like with just the lift of his finger, he could turn everybody in the bar to dust.

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