WRAITH (Iron Kings MC, #1)

even further when he added with a creepy smirk at me, “I can tell you for damn sure, she won’t be when we’re done passing her ‘round the club.”
I almost physically gagged at his despicable threat.
Finn snarled.
His hand shot out so fast that I barely even registered it until it was wrapped taut around Goatee’s throat. He slammed him against the wall, making the sick bastard choke and splutter.
“You’re a dead man,” Finn boomed.
He spun him around, then gripped the back of his head, and smashed his skull viciously into the wall. Goatee whimpered as Finn released him abruptly. He smacked into the wall and slid down onto his ass, his head hanging heavily as he gazed around dazedly.
The next thing I knew, Finn was back in my space. He gently grasped my shoulders, a stark, jarring contrast to the brutality he’d just exhibited to the attackers.
“Listen, I need you to look away right now, or you’re gonna have a hell of a hard time sleeping from here on out.”
Holy crap. I gulped and turned away, slapping my hands over my ears for good measure.
Unfortunately, my palms over my ears didn’t equate to soundproofing and several back-to-back shrill screams of agony had me jumping, a sickening feeling building in my gut.
A hand to my back a few moments later had me jumping, a shriek erupting from me. I threw up my fists instinctively, only to look up into Finn’s enthralling deep-blue eyes.
His hands covered my fists, holding me tightly to him as he told me, “Keep your eyes down, on my chest. Don’t employ any peripheral vision. Just focus on me. I’m gonna guide us out of here.”
“What did you do to them?” I’d seen some nasty fights in my day. I was the daughter of a MC President for crying out loud. How bad could it really be?
“Just do what I said,” he said, dismissively.
I nodded. I didn’t want to push it. Why would I want to see something disturbing?
Following his instructions, I let him guide me out of the room. Once we were out, he took my hand and pulled me behind him as he pushed out through the back door into the rear parking lot.
He drew me to a black RAM truck and hauled open the passenger door, giving me a hand up into the seat. He rounded the hood quickly, then settled himself into the driver’s seat. He barely took two seconds to rev up the beast of a truck and take off like a bat out of hell from the lot, proceeding to drive like a madman through the city streets.
What the hell was happening?
Adrenaline from the altercation with those guys was still running hot through my veins. Shock at it happening at all consumed me. I was struggling to wrap my head around it all.
It morphed to frustration quickly.
It all came bursting out of me in a disjointed rush as I turned to my rescuer and demanded, “What’s going on? Why are you here? Who were those guys? Why are they after me?”
Finn didn’t say a word, his concentration was directed on the road ahead. He was driving way over the speed limit, weaving in and out of traffic like a man with a death wish.
“Finn!” I snapped. “Did you hear a word I just said?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“What’s going on? The Rogues have resurfaced and they’re gunning for you. Why am I here? Your father hired me as your protection detail. Who were those guys? Knox Price’s enforcers. Why are they after you? Because you’re the daughter of a MC President who has a shitload of enemies.” He shot a self-satisfied glance at me. “Does that about cover it?”
I slumped back against my seat. “Oh my God.”
“It’s gonna be okay.”
I looked up to see a gentle, sympathetic expression on his face.
Seeing him looking at me with such kindness and caring had warmth blooming in my belly. It was how he’d looked at me when I’d helped to nurse him back to health eighteen months ago. I hadn’t been able to get it out of my head since and experiencing it again now was all-consuming. Such a hardened, damaged man exhibiting such a sweet softness was breathtakingly beautiful.
His brows knit as he took me in. He abruptly broke eye contact and returned his full concentration to the road ahead.
Was he nervous? Was I making him nervous? A big, bad man like him?
“Seatbelt,” he ordered.
I fumbled to put it on, watching his large, manly hands tighten on the steering wheel as he made a sharp turn down a narrow alleyway. He tossed his baseball cap onto the backseat with a grunt and I was finally able to see his ruggedly handsome face in all its glory.
He muttered something about being overheated.
In the next moment, my breath caught in my throat, when he started shaking off his leather jacket. He kept one hand on the steering wheel as he skillfully removed it, then tossed it onto the backseat along with his cap.
He was only wearing a black wife beater underneath, putting his gloriously inked arms on full display. It was some impressive artwork. Unfortunately, my focus on the designs covering the entirety of both arms, from shoulder to wrist, was fleeting. The way his deliciously well-defined muscles bunched and strained whenever he adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, took most of my attention instead. As he adjusted himself in the seat, I noticed the scars on the backs of his arms, the angry, raised, raw flesh of the burns he’d sustained. It was only the start of it, unfortunately. Most of his back was covered with them as well, the backs of his legs too. Pain sliced through me as I recalled those days at the clubhouse when he’d been fighting for his life. He’d suffered so much. And he was still standing, still fighting on. Now he was fighting for my dad, for me. He was one hell of a man.
He scrubbed his