Page 3 of Knox (The Devil’s Luck MC #6)

KNOX

T he place was like a pressure cooker.

A moldy, humid, dim pressure cooker that smelled like weed, piss, and stale food. As soon as I took in the layout, I almost backed out of my own mission. Almost. I didn’t break promises.

Cigarette and weed smoke made the air hazy and clouded, making a contact high inevitable.

There was no ventilation, of course, because why would there be?

There had to be something that could stain the peeling wallpaper.

No AC, either, because apparently, no one envisioned dozens of sweaty, drunk, money-hungry men slinking in here and drowning their sorrows one way or another.

Pick a depravity—gambling, drinking, smoking, or pissing someone off enough to get stabbed.

I quickly scanned the stained floor. All the splotches were grayish, making it impossible to tell what they were, especially in the flickering yellow fluorescent bulbs with flies trapped inside.

Yeah, I’d totally rather be here than by Grant’s cozy firepit with my MC brothers.

There was no music to mask the click of poker chips, low conversation occasionally spiking with a roar of frustration or victory and clinking beer bottles.

My gaze drifted to the bar where a heavily made-up woman was cleaning glasses with a nasty-ass rag, watching me with barely masked interest. I was probably the only self-respecting bastard in this place to actually look like a contributing member of society.

I wondered what she would do if I had worn my Devil’s jacket.

I’d likely be knocked on my ass on the doorstep with a broken nose if anyone recognized me as a member.

A sharp bark of laughter drew my attention to the center of the den. There were six men around the poker table of battered wood and scratched-up green felt. The game was well underway, but that was the last thing I focused on.

No, I was focused on her .

The daughter of the most dangerous man in Reno, Caroline Bates.

Several emotions curled in my gut as I took in her appearance: dressed in black leather head to toe and damn near looking like a Bond girl, which was far from the typical expensive white attire she wore to ruin the lives of my MC.

The icy-blonde hair yanked into a high ponytail looked painful as fuck.

But it did the job of making her look as untouchable as she was.

Her expression did that, too. Cold, detached, in control—the definition of a poker face.

It was obvious to even the most dimwitted bastard that she knew every move she made was calculated.

She didn’t even flinch when a man twice her size slammed his glass down in frustration.

It was all in the eyes. Those blue eyes that she inherited from her sadistic father.

They were on her cards, on the hands of the others, on the felt table, on every drink and cigarette.

On me.

For the briefest moment. It was only to see who walked through the door, so nothing special. And if she recognized me as her father’s mortal enemy, she didn’t show it. If she did , I wasn’t her priority.

It was this ugly lot of lowlife vultures around her. They watched her every controlled move, every slow curve of her slender fingers tipped with stupidly long, pointed red nails that glinted even in the greasy light.

I kept my eyes on her as I stalked to the bar.

I only half heard what the bartender asked in a syrup-sweet purr.

I glimpsed her lean over to press her tits together in her low-cut tank top in my peripheral.

Either she was actually trying to flirt, or it was some con so I would think with my cock and not my brain while something important slipped right by me.

“What you want to burn your throat, honey?”

Caroline slid a fat stack of chips forward. It was performative, like the bet was more of a message than a move.

One of the guys curled his lip to reveal teeth as yellow and gnarly as the lights.

He had a thick, tacky gold chain around his thick-ass neck and smudged glasses low on his crooked nose.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he drawled, stroking his beard with his free hand as if it counted as making a move.

“Wouldn’t want Daddy’s little girl to blow her whole allowance on a couple of bastards like us. ”

The bartender’s nails dragged down my jacket sleeve. “Don’t ignore me, sweetheart. You’ve got such pretty blue eyes?—”

I shot her a silencing glare. I wasn’t pissed at her, but damn, I couldn’t let anything distract me from Caroline. I had no clue what she was doing here or why. I had to figure it out. “Whiskey and silence.”

She straightened, scowling before sloshing the cheapest bottle they had into a dirty short glass and sliding it from across the bar. “Choke on it, dickhead.”

I caught it before it flew off the bar but didn’t drink. I would have barked a laugh in a less tense situation. I turned back to Caroline and the tacky chain guy.

Caroline leaned back in her chair, flicking her ponytail. “I don’t need Daddy’s money,” she said, soft but cutting. “But you’ll be giving me yours by the end of the night, Bryce. Along with whatever’s left of your pride.”

The guy’s jaw clenched, but he let the roast slide when the next guy’s turn came.

He was burly but a different kind of thick than Tacky Chain.

There was a slight sway to his shoulders—drunk.

But danger was still simmering in his hooded eyes as he glowered at his cards, flicking between them and Caroline.

I suddenly had a bad feeling in my gut. My fingers tensed around my glass.

Caroline sipped her drink—probably something tropical—and urged coolly, “Waiting on you, Asher.”

The bad feeling sank heavier. I recognized that name.

He was a Wolverine.

Why the fuck was she playing against her own MC member—and a drunk one at that?

It didn’t matter because, all of a sudden, Asher exploded. He slammed his cards down and bolted to his feet. He knocked his glass over so it spilled on the table, soaking everything in an instant. All the other players abandoned their cards and alcohol.

Asher pointed an ugly finger at Caroline from across the table. “You fucking set me up, you bitch.”

Caroline barely blinked. She looked at the new mess in disdain like she was actually upset about her chips getting drenched in the stale beer soaking into the felt.

Even from a distance, I saw the flicker of something in her eyes, but she doused it real damn fast. She may have been raised in this life and had Daddy’s protection, but in the face of an unhinged drunk club member, it was hard not to feel threatened.

She knew he was dangerous, but if she showed any weakness, even that flicker of fear, Asher would take it as an invitation to make a move. What kind of move, though?

“You said others would fold,” he growled. “You lied.”

My glass was forgotten, and I curled my fingers into fists at my side. Then I tried to shake it off.

This isn’t my fight. Just watch, Nathaniel Knox, and don’t dig your grave even deeper than it already is. She’s Bates’s daughter.

Caroline crossed her arms, watching Asher with an impressive mask of disinterest as if she knew she was untouchable. “And you were idiotic enough to fall for it.”

If I got caught between two Wolverines and things went south, Black Jack was going to seal my casket himself. But Devil’s Luck had rules regarding the fairer sex. I said it myself: We don’t hurt women.

And apparently, my ass thought it applied to not letting other clubs hurt women. Especially when it was their boss’s daughter.

Caroline Bates had fucked up almost all my brothers in one way or another. I might as well have been next for all I knew. Maybe my invitation here was a trap somehow set by her.

She didn’t deserve my assistance, and yet, whatever the case was, I felt my original mission here vanish the second Asher lunged for Caroline.

That was when I moved too.

I stepped between them before he could reach her. I grabbed Asher’s outstretched arm and twisted it, slamming him onto the table so hard it echoed through the room. The table creaked as if ready to collapse.

“Touch her,” I growled, my voice low, edged with lethal promise, “and you’ll be shitting out your teeth for a week.”

The room had gone silent at Asher’s first accusation, but now every pair of bloodshot eyes was on us. I felt the tension swell like a balloon, ready to pop at any moment.

Asher’s breath heaved when our gazes met. He didn’t move from where I pinned him, as if his alcohol-hazed brain hadn’t caught up to the fact that he could put up a struggle. Then it clicked. “ Devil .”

Caroline jerked to her feet. “Asher, don’t you fucking dare move right now,” she warned, as terrifyingly unyielding as her father, then fixed me with a glare hateful enough to cut steel. “What the fuck are you doing, idiot?” she hissed. “Do you have any idea what you just walked into?”

I smirked at her, laying the charm on thick. “Do you?”

Then Asher twisted out from my grip and swung with the arm that I wasn’t holding. “You’re dead .”

I blocked it with my free arm easily before his fist could slam into the side of my head. I was taller than him at six-foot-two, but he was almost twice my breadth. But he was drunk, and I was sober as hell and wanted this fight.

I’d been wanting to beat the shit out of a Wolverine for damn near a year.

This was my chance. This was my excuse , the permission to unleash all my pent-up anger and frustration for the month the Devils had been sitting on nothing, waiting for the Wolverines to make a move instead of hiding like cowards.

Asher yanked free, swinging again, all drunk rage and bruised ego. I caught his wrist midair and twisted it upward at the elbow. The sound of bone snapping was followed by his yowl of agony.

The room erupted into chaos of scraping chairs and drawn weapons, but I didn’t flinch. I drove the heel of my hand under Asher’s jaw, cracking it upward with a crunching sound.

I wasn’t a messy fighter. I believed in control. You lose control in a fight? You lose permanently. And I didn’t like losing. Or dying.

Asher’s head snapped back and he stumbled heavily, dazed. Tacky Chain caught and steadied the Wolverine before he fell like a tree. He was lucky I didn’t break his jaw. But as he tried to come to, blood trickled from a split lip.

Damn it felt good to see a Wolverine get what was coming to him. He deserved worse than that but the ass-whooping felt like justice.

Adrenaline thrummed through my veins. It bordered on a high. The pressure cooker had finally blown its top.

Who’s next ?

Then a booming voice cut through the din. “Get the fuck out of here.”

Someone grabbed my shoulder and hauled me backward—the bouncer. I caught Caroline’s gaze. In a split second, I recognized calculation in their depths, trying to decide what exactly I was.

I had made myself a target. I fucked up big time by letting even a single Wolverine see my face.

I would leave this stink hole, but first…

I whirled faster than the bouncer could react and I knocked Asher out with a single punch. The dude collapsed.

Then I was dragged out of the venue.

The door slammed and locked behind me after I was shoved onto the pavement.

I dusted off my jacket and inhaled deeply, looking out at the dingy scenario. On the exhale, I said to myself, “That felt good .”

“Oh, did it ?”

I looked over my shoulder in surprise to see Caroline Bates standing there, hands on her hips, looking at me with a cold expression.

Shit.