Reaper's Fire (Reapers Motorcycle Club #6) Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING REAPERS MOTORCYCLE CLUB SERIES

  “Raw emotion and riveting characters, I fell in love from page one!”

  —Katy Evans, New York Times bestselling author of Manwhore

  “Sex that blisters the imagination, resulting in a thrill ride as raw as it is well written.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Joanna Wylde has a great voice in this genre . . . This is such a well-done motorcycle club book.”

  —USA Today

  “I loved this book. It’s raw, gritty, and incredibly sexy . . . Very real and very dangerous, and I couldn’t stop reading. The sexual tension is off the charts . . . Prepare to get seriously hot under the collar. Sexy, dark, realistic, and yet romantic.”

  —SeattlePI

  “Wylde takes no prisoners as she tempts readers back into [this] dark and volatile world . . . A potent mixture of love, anger, lust, and redemption . . . Wylde’s powerful voice and dynamic characters keep this series fresh, addictive, and pure, unadulterated fun.”

  —RT Book Reviews (4 ½ Stars, 2014 Erotic Romance Winner)

  “Smokin’ hot! . . . I continue to recommend this series as a real peek into a different kind of life.”

  —Red Hot Books

  “The perfect balance of badass alpha hero, feisty kickass heroine, supernova-hot erotic sex scenes, real genuine emotions, and love and brotherhood.”

  —Sinfully . . . Addicted to All Male Romance

  “Raw and intensely erotic.”

  —The Book Pushers

  Berkley titles by Joanna Wylde

  Reapers Motorcycle Club

  REAPER’S LEGACY

  DEVIL’S GAME

  REAPER’S STAND

  REAPER’S FALL

  REAPER’S FIRE

  Silver Valley

  SILVER BASTARD

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  This book is an original publication of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Copyright © 2016 by Joanna Wylde.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY® and the “B” design are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  For more information, visit penguin.com.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Wylde, Joanna, author.

  Title: Reaper’s fire / Joanna Wylde.

  Description: Berkley trade paperback edition. | New York : Berkley Books,

  2016. | Series: Reapers Motorcycle Club ; 5

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016017627 (print) | LCCN 2016023013 (ebook) | ISBN

  9781101988961 (softcover) | ISBN 9781101988978 ()

  Subjects: LCSH: Motorcyclists—Fiction. | Motorcycle clubs—Fiction. |

  Man-woman relationships—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Romance /

  Contemporary. | FICTION / Romance / General. | FICTION / Action &

  Adventure. | GSAFD: Romantic suspense fiction. | Love stories.

  Classification: LCC PS3623.Y544 R425 2016 (print) | LCC PS3623.Y544 (ebook) |

  DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016017627

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley trade paperback edition / August 2016

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  In loving memory of Allie Baker.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you very much to my editor, Cindy Hwang, and my agent, Amy Tannenbaum, for making this book possible.

  Thanks also to all the people who helped with beta reading and editing, including Cara Carnes, Kylie Scott, Jen Frederick, Margarita, Danielle, and Kandace (please forgive me if I’ve left a name off—I always live in fear that I’ll do that, but it doesn’t mean you aren’t appreciated!). Love to my Boozer Babes and Reanelle, Jessica, Suz, and Lori, and a special thanks to the Joanna Wylde Junkies reader group, who always brighten my day.

  Finally, thank you to my family, especially my husband and kids, who have given so much to make my writing career possible.

  I’d like to give a final shout-out to my Nana, who taught me that it’s okay to have a picnic with paper plates and sterling silver, because why not?

  CONTENTS

  PRAISE FOR THE REAPERS MOTORCYCLE CLUB SERIES

  BERKLEY TITLES BY JOANNA WYLDE

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  TINKER

  My stomach cramped again, and I shuddered. There was blood in the toilet. Not a lot of blood, but not a little bit, either. Big, stringy clots and bright red drips and . . . squeezing my eyes tight, I forced myself to ignore the pain, focusing on the phone in my hand instead.

  “I’m sorry, Tinker, but Mr. Graham can’t leave court right now.”

  Craig’s always-smooth, professional voice cracked as he said the words, because we both knew what he was really saying: Mr. Graham wouldn’t leave court, because winning his case was more important than his wife’s health. Even Brandon’s own paralegal was ashamed of him.

  “Craig, I think I’m losing the baby. I need my husband. Did you tell him that?”

  Silence.

  “Tinker, he’s not coming. I . . . I don’t know what to say. You should probably get to a hospital. Do you have someone who can drive you?”

  I looked down between my legs, watching as another drip of blood plopped into the bowl, creating a slightly darker spot in the pinkish water. It wasn’t easy to see past my stomach—my once-flat belly was long gone. God, how had this happened?

  “Yeah, I can call my friend Margarita,” I said slowly. “Let Brandon know I’m going to the ER.”

  “All right,” Craig said. “And, Tinker?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  • • •

  My daughter, Tricia, was born still at eleven thirty a.m. She weighed just over two pounds and I named her for my mother.

  • • •

  The sun had gone down when someone knocked faintly on my hospital room door. I stared at the ceiling, ignoring the knock, wondering what I’d done wrong. I’d failed her . . .
She was this tiny, precious thing, and I’d had one job—to carry her to term safely. What kind of woman couldn’t even protect her own baby?

  The knock came again, and Margarita stirred in the chair next to me.

  Maybe it was Brandon.

  He’d texted an hour ago, saying that he’d be down just as soon as he could. I didn’t care. All that mattered was my baby girl. I’d wanted her so badly, even if Brandon didn’t, and now she was dead. Dead. What a terrible, ugly word.

  The door opened a crack, and a man peeked through.

  “Can I come in?” Craig asked hesitantly. I nodded at Margarita, who waved him in. From the hallway I could hear a baby’s cry—fucking sadists put me on the maternity ward, because apparently that was the best place for me medically. The sounds of other women’s happiness twisted the knife in my empty stomach.

  Tricia.

  My heart had exploded with love when I’d seen the positive pregnancy test, and then exploded again the first time I’d felt her kick. Every day was a miracle, and I’d followed her development on the maternity calendar religiously.

  I’d held her for two hours before they took her away.

  “Tinker, I’m so sorry for your loss,” Craig said, stepping inside. He carried a bundle of flowers. I stared at him blankly, wondering how the hell my husband’s assistant could make it to the fucking hospital when Brandon couldn’t. She’d been his daughter, too.

  I hated him.

  “Let me take those,” Margarita said, and while her words were perfectly polite, her tone was just this side of menacing. Fair enough. Craig worked for Brandon and Brandon was the enemy. She despised him. Always had. Most of my friends from before our marriage did, something I really should’ve paid more attention to when he proposed. My dad always called me stubborn, said I had to figure things out the hard way, even as a little girl.

  Guess he was right.

  “Brandon—”

  “Unless you’re going to say Brandon isn’t here because he was in a fatal car crash, don’t bother,” Margarita snapped. Craig looked between us, then his head dropped, shaking slowly.

  “I’m so sorry,” he repeated. “He was closing down his computer when I left.”

  We stared at him, the silence growing more uncomfortable, because what could you say? Craig flushed, and I took pity on him.

  “It’s not your fault,” I said. “Do you want to sit down?”

  “No,” he replied, shuffling his feet. “I should get home. Mr. Graham has court first thing in the morning, and I need to go in early to finish prepping. Take care, Tinker. If there’s any way we can help—I mean, the staff at the prosecutor’s office—let me know. We’re all thinking of you.”

  To hell with that. If they thought of me at all, it was because they pitied me. Fair enough, because I was pretty fucking pitiable. There was another knock at the door, then Brandon opened it, stepping into the room.

  “Tinker?” he asked softly. He carried two dozen red roses, which meant he at least had the presence of mind to feel guilty. One dozen for romance, two for forgiveness. That time he’d cheated on me, I’d gotten diamond earrings.

  I hated diamonds. Always had. Seemed like a husband should know that about his wife.

  “Little late, aren’t you?” Margarita asked, her voice like ice. Brandon stared her down.

  “I’d like some time alone with Tinker.”

  “No fucking way—”

  “It’s all right,” I told her, twisting my wedding set around on my finger. The engagement ring alone totaled nearly four carats, encrusted and bright. It wasn’t the original, of course. Brandon liked to upgrade it every few years, because God knew his wife couldn’t wear something simple. His family came from money—supposedly a lot of it, based on the prenup I’d signed—but I’d always thought it was tacky as hell. Margarita glanced toward me, and I read her look. Are you sure you want him here?

  “It’s fine,” I told her. “Why don’t you take Craig to find some coffee or something? He’s probably had a long day.”

  “Coffee would be perfect,” Craig blurted out, more rattled than I’d ever seen him. I had to give him credit—coming to the hospital couldn’t have been easy. The flowers he’d brought probably cost ten bucks down at Pike Place, but I liked them better than Brandon’s overpriced roses.

  They were sincere.

  Margarita and Craig walked out, leaving me alone with my husband.

  “So,” he said, setting the bouquet on the small table next to me, nearly knocking over my cup of water in the process. “How are you doing? I’m so sorry I couldn’t come down. It was the motorcycle gang case, and you know how big a deal it is. Today we were scheduled to cross-examine a key witness, and I didn’t feel comfortable letting anyone else take over. I would’ve come if I could.”

  Brandon gave me his politician’s smile, the same smile he used to schmooze future donors for his campaign. He hadn’t announced anything yet, but I’d known for a while that he planned to run for King County Prosecuting Attorney when the position opened up in two years. The current prosecutor would be retiring, and as head of the criminal division, Brandon was the logical successor.

  “Sit down next to the bed,” I said quietly. “We need to talk.”

  “Of course,” he replied, all concern. The portrait of a loving husband. Too bad there wasn’t a camera to capture the moment. Might make a good campaign poster, so long as they Photoshopped some color onto my cheeks.

  “She was a little girl,” I told him. I hadn’t known ahead of time—I’d wanted it to be a surprise. “They don’t know why she died. They said that sometimes late-term miscarriages are caused by genetic abnormalities.”

  He sighed heavily, then looked down, shaking his head. God, but the man was a good actor. Guess that was my consolation—I wasn’t the only one who’d fallen for his shit. There was a reason he always won with juries.

  People wanted to believe him.

  “It’s probably for the best,” he said slowly. “She wouldn’t have been healthy, and you have so much to handle already. Once the campaign starts—”

  I studied the man I’d slept with for ten years, ignoring the drone of his voice. There was just the hint of a bald spot on the top of his head. Nothing serious, but I knew he’d met with a doctor to discuss hair plugs. Dreamily, I pictured taking my big chef’s knife and chopping it down through his skull. Bone was hard, but I kept my knives very, very sharp.

  God, but I was a fucked-up excuse for a human being.

  “It’s over,” I said shortly, sliding my rings off my finger. Brandon’s head jerked up, and he stared at me, his expression genuine for once.

  “What?”

  I held the sparkling jewelry out toward him, but he didn’t take it.

  “It’s over,” I repeated. “This whole marriage was a mistake and I’d like you to leave now. My lawyer will be in touch—I’ll ask Smith for a referral. I think the faster we finalize things, the better.”

  “Baby, I’m so sorry,” he said, and while the words were apologetic, I could see the little vein in his forehead starting to pulse. Brandon was angry. Good.

  I was angry, too.

  “Get out of my room,” I added, my voice low but fierce, my free hand rubbing across my empty stomach.

  “Tinker, they’ve obviously given you drugs for the pain—you’re not thinking right. We need to talk this through. You’ll see—”

  “Oh, I see already. Your wife was in the hospital, your child was dying, and you cared more about your conviction rate than our survival. I think you’ve made your priorities clear.”

  For once—maybe for the first time ever—Brandon didn’t know what to say. He just sat there, staring at me like a big, dumb slug. Satisfying as that was, it wasn’t enough. He needed to go away and never come back. Yup, that was the solution . . . The marriage was over. I should have felt liberated, but I couldn’t feel anything at all. Probably for the best. Grief yawned ahead of me, a black pit I wasn’t sure I’d ever man
age to escape. Wasn’t sure I wanted to.

  “Get out.”

  “What?”

  “Get. Out,” I snarled, sudden anger uncurling and exploding through me. Guess I could still feel something after all. “And take your fucking rings with you. If I have to look at your smug, disgusting face for another second I’m going to kick your ass.”

  “Tinker, you need to settle down,” he said firmly, frowning like a stern father. But I already had a dad, and he was better than this man would ever be. Brandon reached for the call button. “Let’s talk to the nurse. You obviously need a sedative or—oww! What the fuck, Tinker?”

  It took two hands to raise his massive, overpriced bundle of roses high enough to hit him again, this time across his picture-perfect, spray-tanned face.

  “Get out!” I shrieked. Brandon ducked, backing away. I managed to get in one more whack before he got out of range.

  “Tinker, you have to settle down!” he shouted. I heard running footsteps in the hall. “Tinker, please—you aren’t thinking straight.”

  “I’m thinking straighter than I have in years!” I shouted back, throwing the bundle of flowers after him. “Get the fuck out of my room and get the fuck out of my life! And take your fucking piece of shit diamonds with you, too, asshole!”

  Digging through the covers, I found the rings, pitching them toward my future ex as hard as I could.

  “Owww!” he shouted, clutching at his face. A few drops of blood hit the floor. “Jesus Christ, Tinker. What’s wrong with you?”

  “What’s going on?” the nurse asked, pushing the door open. She stared at us, wide-eyed. “Security!”

  Things moved fast after that.

  As the guards came, I struggled out of the bed, screaming at Brandon like a banshee the entire time. He seemed stunned, completely unable to comprehend what’d just happened, which I thought was fucking hysterical. Brandon’s ego had always operated on the too-big-to-fail theory.

  Margarita rushed in, catching my arm and pulling me back toward the bed.

  “Calm down or they’ll shoot you full of happy drugs,” she whispered in my ear. My chest heaved as I glared at Brandon, showing him every bit of my utter hate and anguish.