Page 44 of Power of Shadow

My phone vibrates on the table. Reaching for it, I find a message from my father with a link.

After a moment, the website loads, and the inauguration ceremony of the new Vice President of the United States is broadcast live. Our mutual friend is speaking, spouting nonsense that everyone swallows like they’re hungry.

His son is standing not far behind him. Smiling, he tries to inspire confidence. The guy looks like a golden boy.

I have a hunch it’s just the beginning of something big, and I’m the one who brought it on. Something bad is around the corner.

My phone beeps again, but this time it’s not a message. It’s a notification that a six-figure transfer has been made to my bank account. The amount is for helping the current vice president.

Shaking my head, I turn off my phone.

“Let’s get to know this Alexander Connelly.”

Chapter 9

Ryker

Eli works extremely well and within three days, we know almost everything about the Black Thorns.

Bullshit.

We know as much as we can find, but we’re aware that it’s just the top layer of shit that’s hiding more underneath.

Except I don’t really care. I care about getting to Shadow. I want—I need to know who she is. And I need to find her.

On the one hand, it excites me that she keeps slipping through my fingers; on the flip side, my impatient fingers want her within reach already. Inside me, the hunter’s instinct clashes with the restless demon who wants to play.

Obsessive thoughts fill my head in every free moment. Before bed, after sleep, during work, even in the shower. She’s in them constantly. And when my dick finds itself in my fist, she’s nearly real.

Someday, she’ll pay for every single time I have to pleasure myself.

Focus, you asshole.

Theo parks his car in a shady neighborhood of Los Angeles. It’s the perfect spot for a club like this; I couldn’t have chosen a better one myself.

The Escalade stands out among the other parked cars like a diamond among a bunch of plastic beads. Rusty, dented, and in terrible condition.

A row of motorcycles stands in front of the club’s pub. Black and silver parts glisten in the sun, also standing out. This isn’t unusual, as almost every biker cares for their machine like a baby.

Homeless people and residents walk past them, lowering their gaze, and this alone shows the fear or respect instilled by the members of this organization.

Above the pub hangs a sign with the club’s name painted in black. Black thorns like a spiked fence mark the path left behind by the motorcycles. Nothing special. And yet, it says a lot.

When we get out, my gaze wanders around. Not seeing anything suspicious, I head for the pub.

Inside, it’s exactly as you would expect. It reeks of cheap beer and cigarettes. There’s also a faint sweet smell of weed. A song by Five Finger Death Punch is playing in the background.

At first, no one pays any attention to us, even though we fit in here like worn-out sneakers on a fashion runway. After a while, one of the sturdy bulls pats another on the shoulder, pointing at us with his head. Another gets up from the table, and the next one whistles.

There are about thirty people in the pub, not counting the girls who are playing the slot machines. Glancing around, I’m glad we came here armed to the teeth. If anything happens, a bloody slaughter is always welcome.

Deep inside, adrenaline rises, my fingers itch, and my veins throb faster.

The lust for blood fuels my longing.

My brothers are by my side, as always. As one, we move toward the bartender working behind the counter.

“What can I get you, ladies?” he booms, and someone in the background cackles.