Stitch: Satan's Fury MC Read online

  Stitch

  Satan’s Fury MC

  L Wilder

  Stitch

  Satan’s Fury MC

  Copyright © 2015 L Wilder

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication or any part of this series may be reproduced without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Some of the places named in the book are actual places. The names, characters, brands, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and owners of various products and locations referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication or use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Warning: This book is intended for readers 18 years or older due to bad language, violence, and explicit sex scenes.

  Editor – Marci Ponce

  Levi Stocke

  www.facebook.com/levi.stocke

  Photographer – Mariusz Jeglinski

  www.facebook.com/mariusz.jeglinski

  mariuszjeglinski.com

  Cover design and book teasers – Monica Langley Holloway

  www.facebook.com/Kustombooks2reviews

  and Carrie at Cheeky Book covers

  cheekycovers.com

  Be sure to check out my pages:

  www.facebook.com/AuthorLeslieWilder

  Webpage:

  www.lwilderbooks.com

  Newsletter:

  facebook.us11.list-manage.com/subscribe?u=6f10ae9ade496c2b4e3ca7a92&id=daf5289164

  Amanda Faulkner PA – (my amazing PA)

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  Give her a shout if you are an author in need of promoting your book. She does an amazing job.

  She also runs an amazing blog:

  www.facebook.com/Bookclubgonewrong

  Dedication

  To My Family

  Thank you for being there when I needed you the most. Your love and support has meant the world to me.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Acknowledgements

  Excerpt from Maverick: Book 1 in the Satan’s Fury MC Series

  Prologue

  ‡

  “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird. If that mockingbird don’t sing, Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring,” my grandmother sang. Her voice was low and soft, and I finally started to calm down after another one of my nightmares. They started shortly after I moved in with my grandparents. I was eight years old when my parents were killed in a car crash, forcing my sister Emerson, and me to move from the only home we’d ever known to live with my father’s parents. We barely knew them, but they were the only relatives we had. I never knew how good we really had it until it was all ripped away. It had almost been a year, but I was still having a hard time adjusting to the change. That night I’d made the mistake of accidentally wetting the bed. My grandmother held me close, trying to comfort me while she continued to sing. I knew her words were a lie, that my mother was dead and gone, but listening to her soothed me. “If that diamond ring turns brass, Mama’s gonna buy you a looking glass.”

  Pound.

  Pound.

  Pound.

  His fist slammed against the wall as he walked towards my room. Horror washed over me as I listened to his footsteps coming down the hall. The floorboards creaked under the weight of his body, my dread intensifying with every step he took.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  My head was pressed against my grandmother’s chest, listening to her heart thump rapidly while he started to shout, “Don’t coddle that boy, Louise. Stop lying to him! His mama’s dead. She can’t buy him a damn thing! He’s no fucking baby. We’re not raising him to be a goddamn pussy!” he barked as he stood in the doorway with a scowl on his face.

  “George,” she started, but he quickly cut her off, raising his palm up in the air, silently ordering her to shut up. She always tried to get him to stop, but it never worked. Once he got it in his head, there was no changing his mind.

  “Don’t,” she pleaded as I curled deeper into her lap when he started stalking towards me. With his finger pointed directly in my face, he growled, “You wet that damn bed again, boy?” Rage vibrated off of him as he spoke, and I knew what was coming. He was furious, and only one thing happened when he got that worked up.

  The barn.

  My grandfather was a military man, born and bred. He still looked the part too, sporting his buzz cut and the same athletic build he had in all of his army pictures. Every minute of every day was controlled by his orders. He ran a tight ship with impossible expectations. The old man was a force to be reckoned with and he hated any sign of weakness. Which meant he detested me. He hated that I was so weak, that my parents’ death still tormented me. He was determined to make a man out of me, even if that meant killing me in the process. There was a time, when the beatings first started, that he was careful, not wanting to leave any evidence of the abuse. But as I grew older, he made sure to leave the marks. He got some kind of sick satisfaction seeing the whelps on my back, smiling whenever he saw me looking at them. He wanted me to see them, to feel the raised scars on my flesh, so I would always remember. He grabbed my hand, yanking me from my grandmother’s lap and snarled, “Get your ass to the barn. I’ll teach you not to wet the fucking bed, boy.” I could smell the mix of old spice and bourbon swirl around me as my body collided against his side.

  “George, it’s late,” Grandmother Louise pleaded.

  Ignoring her, he pulled me out of the room and down the hall. As I stumbled behind him, I caught a glimpse of Emerson sitting up in her bed, tears streaming down her chubby little cheeks. She was only four years old, but she knew what happened out in the barn. Even though it sucked that I was his main target, I was thankful that he’d never taken her out there. The old man had a soft spot for her, and she could do no wrong. I wasn’t resentful. I felt the same way about her.

  My bare feet dragged along in the dirt and grass as he pulled me into the barn; the large wooden doors slammed behind us, leaving us in the dark. The smell of straw and livestock whirled around me as he jerked me further into the dark. There was a time when I would try to pull away from him, but I quickly learned there was no use fighting him. I was trapped, unable to break free from his grasp. After binding my hands over my head, he reached for his favorite leather strap.

  “If your father was still alive, he’d be disgusted with you. Such a fucking disappointment. You’re just like your damn mother. Worthless,” he grumbled as the strap
whipped across my back. A searing pain shot through me, like hot coals burning through my thin t-shirt. I forced myself to hold back my cries as he continued to thrash the leather against my back, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing me break. Unfortunately, that only made him angrier causing him to hit even harder. Thankfully, it didn’t take long for me to pass out from the pain, my body falling limp against the restraints.

  There were many more nights like that, more than I could even begin to count. At least some were quick, not like the times he’d make me wait for it. I hated those nights the most. I’d spend the whole day tending to the animals and the grounds, praying the entire time that he might forget about punishment he’d promised. He always remembered though. With a wicked smile on his face, he would pull me inside the barn, laughing whenever I pleaded with him to give me another chance. I would beg, promising to try harder… be better, more obedient, but he was completely unaffected. I soon learned it was pointless. He relished in the pain that he inflicted on me; I could see it in the way his eyes would glaze over. It seemed my pleas were just a pre-game warm-up filling him with anticipation for the main event. He was one sick son-of-a-bitch.

  Over time I got stronger. I learned to take myself out of the moment, dreaming of the day I might be able to get away – the day I would be free from him. I was almost fifteen before that time finally came. That was the night he almost killed me. The night he decided to trade in his leather strap for a strand of barbed wire. As the metal spikes gouged into my back, he’d yank them free, ripping away my flesh. When he was done, he left me to bleed to death in one of the horse stalls. I had no idea how long I’d been lying there when Emerson managed to sneak out to help me. She tended to the wounds on my back and shoulders, crying the entire time. She pleaded with me to run away, to get away while I still could. I knew she was right. I didn’t have a choice. I took the clothes and food she’d thrown in my backpack and left. I hated that I had to leave Emerson behind. I wanted to take her with me, keep her close. But I knew Grandmother Louise would look after her and keep her safe, something my grandfather would never allow her to do for me.

  I thought that living on the streets would be better. I thought I’d be able to free myself from all the abuse, fear and suffering my grandfather inflicted on me, but l was wrong. So fucking wrong. I’d only traded one hell for another. What my grandfather failed to teach me, I learned the hard way while living out on the streets. I was scared all of the time, and starving most of the time. There was no one that I could trust; it seemed like everyone was out to get me. I had to be smarter and meaner than any of the filth that surrounded me. I stole. I fought. I even killed a guy – stabbed the son-of-a-bitch right in the throat when he tried to force himself on me.

  The hunger, the fear, and the emptiness almost broke me. When I’d finally had enough, I decided to take the advice of a man who ran a halfway house down on the eastside. He was more decent than most and he seemed to really care about the kids that came to him over and over. He told me that since I had managed to stay out of jail, there was a good chance that I could join the military.

  Despite how much I loathed my grandfather, I decided it was something I needed to do. Maybe it was to prove the old man wrong, show him that I could face adversity and thrive. It was probably the same reason my father joined all those years ago, just to prove that bastard wrong. Regardless of the reason, I needed the stability the military could give me. I craved it and being in the service was one of the best things I’d ever done. My troop became my family. We trained together… fought together. We became stronger, more disciplined together. It was the first time I had someone watching my back, caring whether I lived or died and I was actually happy there. I figured I’d spend my life serving my country, but just when things were going well, everything fell apart. My platoon was transporting supplies to one of the neighboring villages when the lead carrier ran over a land mine. Soon after the second carrier was ambushed, leaving most of my troop either dead or dismembered. It was a sight that will be forever burned into my memory. Seeing my brothers either dead or missing limbs broke something inside of me. The old hardness and coldness returned. Whatever weakness or compassion that was left in me was wiped out that day. When I left the service, I was capable of doing unthinkable things, and I could do them without a touch of remorse.

  They say your past defines you. I’d say they were right.

  Chapter 1

  Wren

  ‡

  “Five more minutes, and then it’s time to finish up your homework and have dinner,” I warned Wyatt. He looked so content sitting at the end of the sofa with his little legs tucked underneath him. His fingers were rapidly tapping the screen as he worked diligently to create a new world on his video game. The things he could create on that little device always amazed me.

  “But I’m just about to slay the dragon,” he whined, never looking up from his game. His little nose crinkled into a pout at the thought of having to stop.

  “Don’t even start, mister. You know the rule.” He’d been playing since we got home from school, and he’d keep playing all night if I let him.

  “Okay. Five more minutes,” he answered in defeat. His shaggy brown hair dangled in front of his eyes, making me wonder how he could even see to play his game.

  “Dude. I think it’s time for a haircut.”

  He quickly ran his fingers through his bangs, brushing them to the side and said, “No way! This is how it’s supposed to look.” He gave me a quick glare, his dark eyebrows furrowed in frustration before he looked back down at his game. Seeing him sitting there, I couldn’t help but smile. He looked like your average eight-year-old boy with his wrinkled t-shirt and jeans, but to me, he was anything but average. I could see that Wyatt was an exceptional child, always marveling at all the wonders of the world. Every day he’d share something new he had learned, eagerly telling me every single detail of what he’d discovered. I loved hearing the excitement in his voice when he spoke, flicking his wrists at his sides as he focused on what he was saying. I had no problem admitting that my entire world was wrapped up in that little boy and there was nothing better than seeing him happy.

  “How about fish sticks for dinner?” I offered.

  “Nah. I want chicken nuggets.”

  “Wyatt, you had those last night. You’re going to turn into a chicken nugget one of these days,” I laughed.

  “That’s physically impossible, mom. Chickens are birds. People can’t turn into birds,” he fussed, shaking his head.

  My child, always so literal. I smiled and said, “I know, buddy. I was just teasing. Are you set on chicken nuggets?”

  “Yeah. I won’t get them tomorrow night. Dad never has them at his house,” he grumbled as he turned off his game. His brown hair fell into his face, hiding his look of disappointment. I cringed at the thought of him going to his dad’s. He’d been going to his dad’s every other Thursday for months, but it was still hard for him to transition from one house to the other. It also didn’t help that I was terrified every time he had to go stay with his dad. I tried my best to hide my concerns from him, but I could tell that he sensed something was wrong.

  I started dating his father, Michael, when we were still in high school, and I absolutely adored him. I loved that he was so strong and protective, not to mention devastatingly handsome. He came from a good home and was extremely close to his parents which I loved…at the time. I felt safe wrapped up in his arms, thinking that our love for each other would be enough to see us through anything. Back then, I really thought we’d spend the rest of our lives together. Unfortunately, the thing that I loved the most about him ended up being the very thing that scared me the most about him. Over time he became controlling and jealous to the point that I felt suffocated by him. I was nearly paralyzed by my inability to make a move without his approval. If I didn’t do things the way he expected me to, he’d get angry, so very angry. His temper was a force to be reckoned with. When he snapped, I
didn’t know how to protect myself from his wrath. I’d tried everything from talking him down with reason to silently enduring it. Nothing worked. I’d known about the fights he’d had at bars and various other places when his temper got out of hand, but I never thought that he’d be like that with me. The first time I saw the flash of rage that crossed his face was directed at me, I was stunned. I wasn’t expecting him to be thrilled that I had gotten pregnant so early in our marriage, but his intense anger caught me completely off guard. I’ll never forget the way he looked at me when he reared back his closed fist and slammed it into the side of my head. It was like he wasn’t even the same person. That beating was so bad the doctor was surprised that I didn’t miscarry.

  Michael cried for days afterwards, pleading with me to forgive him. He promised—he swore to me—that it would never happen again. Michael said he would do whatever it took to make our baby happy. I hadn’t even finished college yet. If I left him, I would end up moving in with my parents and raising my child without a father. Truthfully, I loved my husband, and I wanted – no, I needed – to believe him. I had to trust him when he said he would take care of us and give us the life he’d promised. Even though I was only a few months pregnant, my child had already become the most important thing in the world to me. It’s one of the reasons I named my son Wyatt, my little warrior. At the time, I had no idea how much the meaning of that name truly suited him.

  In reflection, I should’ve left Michael that night and never looked back. I honestly thought the incident would be a one time thing. I told myself that the shock and stress from the news of my unexpected pregnancy had just completely overwhelmed him and caused him to totally flip out. Unfortunately, I couldn’t have been more wrong. The attacks were sporadic but effective. I never knew what was going to set him off, and over time, I became a different person. I hated that I didn’t stand up for myself more, demand that he treat me better, but the fear was just so all consuming. I eventually learned to do whatever I could to make him happy, always trying my best to keep the peace. I was finally learning to deal with Michael and his temper, but when we found out about Wyatt, things got worse.