Page 2 of Unbound By You (The Viper’s MC #1)
SILAS
I asked her for one thing, one goddamn thing. Did she listen? Of course not. The moment my sister shuffled into the living room, with shock in her eyes and the pain etched across her black and blue face, all thoughts of Harlow disappeared like smoke caught on an errant breeze.
It'd been too long since I last saw Lexi, and it seemed time had been good to her despite her current appearance. That undeniable strength we both got from our dad clung to her like thick armor. It just wasn’t enough to combat that prick’s god complex.
If I hadn't spotted Evan earlier tonight, lounging at the bar with his prissy pack of mama’s boys and some plastic-faced skank bouncing on his lap while he ran his mouth about Lex, I wouldn’t have seen her like this. But fate's funny like that.
Evan isn’t some nameless Joe I could drag into the dark alley beside the bar and work over without him screaming like a little bitch for help.
He had power from his daddy’s connections.
People in uniforms would come knocking on my door if I so much as chipped his nail.
But that didn't mean he'd walk away from his poor choices unscathed.
No, I'd make sure he bled for what he did. I just had to work up a plan and be patient until then. Something I’ve never been good at.
I finally calmed Lexi down and got her back to bed, where she curled into the fetal position, groaning.
I didn’t know if it was from pain or because her stomach was empty from vomiting up what had to be more than half a bottle of whiskey.
I found the empty bottle in the trash and nearly cracked it in my hand.
With her safely tucked in, my mind shifted back to the gorgeous woman with dark brown hair and the lithe body I was currently hunting across the city.
Did I cross a line with Harlow? Probably.
Absolutely, if I asked my sister to weigh in on the subject.
But that's my specialty. I live my life one day at a time. Enjoying the open road, getting my hands greasy in the shop and bloody beneath the compound’s dingy floor.
It works for me. That’s why when I had her moaning and grinding her undoubtedly sweet cunt on my thigh, I couldn’t stop.
But now the critical question was: Where the hell had she run off to?
Roaming the streets in the wee hours of the morning wasn't how I envisioned spending the rest of my night. I’m running on fumes after hours locked in the basement, trying to squeeze answers from the double-crossing rat who thought he could play both sides.
My knuckles still throb, and all I want is a hot shower and my king-sized bed.
Yet, here I am, pushing three in the morning, cruising through the fog that’s swallowed everything in its path, leaving me wondering if it’s time to call it.
But then, another vision of Harlow busts through my mind. She’s out here somewhere, doing God only knows what. The last thing I need is her getting in the way of whatever plan I’ll devise tomorrow when I can think straight.
The low growl of my engine cuts through the silence, adding to the eerie feel of the neighborhood.
My Harley’s not exactly subtle. Any halfway-alert neighbor could be calling up the cops right now, especially on this side of town.
Still, my gut feeling tells me that somewhere nearby, a wildcat is on the prowl.
One with a grudge and likely zero sense of self-preservation.
As much as she might want vengeance for Lexi, Evan is mine. He deserves more than slashed tires or whatever nonsense she’s planning.
No. He deserves pain that lingers and marks up his pretty-boy face.
What he did to Lexi? It’s unforgivable. What kind of man thinks it’s okay to put his hands on a woman?
And this is coming from someone who solves most problems with his fists.
When I get my hands on him—the bruises, the welts, and fear will consume him before he’s gone for good.
And my sweet, innocent baby sister will never have to worry about that piece of shit again.
I roll up to a red light, scanning the fog-covered intersection. The world feels ghostly, with Halloween only a couple of weeks away. Then something catches my eye, a glint in the distance, a flash of reflective metal under the lamplight.
My pulse kicks into overdrive, and I don’t wait around.
With no one else on the road, I ease through the intersection and pull back on the throttle.
There it is again, playing peek-a-boo between wafts of dancing fog.
The familiar shape I helped her pick out all those years ago: sleek, dangerous, and red as sin.
Harlow's bike nestles behind a wall of perfectly pruned hedges between two houses like she was trying to hide. Too bad for her; it’s like she dropped a flare on the sidewalk to guide me home.
Gotcha, baby.
Pulling to the curb, I kill the engine and swing my leg over.
With my bike off, I scan the area and can’t help but notice it’s quiet, too quiet, but I know better than to trust the stillness.
She’s around here somewhere. She has to be.
I move to her bike and lay a hand over the seat. The leather’s cold.
Shit .
She could be long gone by now, vanished down any number of shadow-choked streets. But then again, Harlow isn’t the type to care who sees her coming. She parked here for a reason, convenience.
That's when I hear the faintest rustle, something scurrying through the underbrush. It’s coming from the walkway behind the wrought-iron fence guarding a stately colonial home. It might've been a raccoon. Or someone’s fat house cat out for their nightly excursion.
I grab the cold metal bars and pull myself up, hoisting my body over in one clean motion before my boots land silently on the concrete path.
Creeping along the side of the house, I keep close to the wall.
A single porch light flickers on the far end, but I stay glued to the shadows, avoiding any motion sensors or, God forbid, cameras.
Who knows what else might be logging the movements over here, people with money love their toys.
Then I see it. A figure on the second-story balcony breaks through the fog. Long, dark hair sways behind her as she slipped through a set of doors like an apparition.
What thefuck is she doing?
My eyes scan the open space between where I’m tucked away and the side of the house she just disappeared into. The ivy-covered trellis is the only obvious way up. She could’ve climbed it, but there’s no way that fragile lattice is going to hold my ass up there.
That leaves me with two shitty options: break in from the ground and risk tripping an expensive alarm system with the local PD on speed dial or go up the hard way. The second option comes with fewer consequences. Well, fewer bullets, hopefully.
Most families in this zip code are card-carrying members of the award-winning gun club. Some shoot clays. Others probably practice on furry trespassers. The last thing I want is a slug to the chest.
I adjust my stance and sprint across the open patio, gaining momentum.
My hands catch the cement lip of the balcony, and my muscles scream as I haul myself up to the second floor.
I release one hand, grab the railing, and swing over onto solid ground.
Pulling the black bandana from my back pocket, I quickly tie it around my face, covering everything but my eyes.
Here goes fucking nothing.
I slip through the French doors, careful not to let them creak.
The office is dark, except the computer's screensaver casting a faint glow across the large desk.
Bookshelves line the walls, and next to them stands a glass cart holding expensive-looking crystal vases filled with dark liquid. Everything smells old and expensive.
Rich people.
Across the room, silver picture frames glitter on the mantel, lined up like perfect little trophies.
I approach, eyes narrowing. Evan’s smug mug is reflected back at me in every photo like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
And the kid probably never has. Graduation.
Family barbecues. Vacations with his parents.
And one photo of him tucked in real cozy like next to a roaring fire with a girl who isn't my sister.
He’s the center of every frame. Your typical only child. A golden boy. The mayor's son.
How many times has his daddy cleaned up his messes? Paid off cops to silence his victims' pleas for help and paved the way for him to keep hurting people without consequences?
But not this time. This time, the invoice is due in full.
A loud thud echoes above me and jerks my attention to the ceiling.
I slip into the hall, climb the stairs two at a time, and reach the top, landing on the third floor.
A long, narrow hallway stretches out in front of me.
The identical doors lined up at perfect angles, are closed, except the one at the far end.
I creep forward, soft-footed and on bated breath. A garbled voice filters through the thick wood. It’s low, urgent, and I can’t make out the words. Then I see it and don’t hesitate to shove the door wide open.
"What do we have here?"