Claiming Celia (18+) SAMPLE

2: Talking Bodies

GRAVE

Fucking Silver Tongue.

I pry my attention from the hall where the club's S.A leads away the woman with the hollow expression. She's new in town. I know that for a fact. I would remember someone so beautiful, yet so forlorn when you look into her eyes.

She's vulnerable as fuck—that registers with me. It's like looking in a mirror but her innocent face is staring back. It's unsettling and I want to change it. I will.

I should be worried that Silver has seemed to have taken her under his wing. Though I guess it's his job, but so is talking. He's got a loud fucking mouth and if he weren't so smooth with it he would probably be a dead man by now.

The other club members are gathered around the long oval table in our clubhouse's meeting room. Our prez, Konrad, sits at the far end watching and waiting for them to settle.

It's a damn early morning and especially after what went down last night. Three of our guys went missing on a ride to a neighboring club. We weren't even the first to know that fact. Two of them were prospects that we aren't certain are still alive.

Death is a reality we have to face on a daily basis. Our lives aren't for the softer flesh; which is why it's more likely that our Tail Gunner—Tomb—is the only one still alive.

I'd guess that the one damn reason he was caught was for doing his job—making sure no one is left behind. Tomb would have protected the prospects even with his own life at risk.

Us Reapers can hold our own. The new prospects had only been around for a week. Not at all long enough to learn how to survive and navigate club life. Right now though, that's the least of our worries.

It's possible that we have an enemy. The club territory Tomb and the prospects were driving through belonged to the Grim Knights. We've had our differences with them over the years, but never has a club member been taken. It's looking more and more like the fragile peace between our clubs has just shattered.

What's more, if word gets around to other clubs that the Reapers are easy pickings, we're going to have a lot of fucking heat at our doorstep. Our territory is larger than most and coveted for that reason.

At the end of the day safety of the whole always trumps over the few, even if we want nothing more than to save our brothers.

I take my seat between Konrad and Crush, the Reaper's Enforcer. His real name is Ashur. We take to using nicknames in the club because it's a fun as shit way to identify each other and keeps the members safe. If there's ever a time that one of us needs to disappear or a member decides to turn in his patch, then they can do so without looking over their shoulder. Few have done it, but sometimes shit happens and there's no choice.

Across from us, the other enforcer Switch and member, Blade, sit. They're an inseparable duo; they do everything together. It's only fitting that their names captured that aspect along with their individual personalities.

Switch has a face that no matter how hard he might try to stop it, displays whatever mood he's in and what he's thinking. His jaw is set in a clench and his eyes are dark as he watches the other patches gather around. He's always been broody, but today it's more obvious which means he's on edge. Not a good sign.

Crush nudges me with his elbow as if asking if I noticed the same thing. I nod in confirmation and look to the prez when silence finally destroys the clamorous result of last night's events.

Placing his hands on the table and looking over every member with sincerity, Konrad relays, "The prospects were found early this morning." His expression hardens. "Patch won't be returning to the club. He's alive, but for now, it's best that he stays hidden." He looks to Switch, preparing to change the angle of the topic. But our last standing prospect interrupts.