2: The Great Christian Voss

FIVE YEARS LATER

DAMIEN “REAPER” VOSS

“It’s the sixteenth.” My lighter flicks open, flame snapping bright. The guy kneeling at my feet flinches like I’m about to torch him. Pathetic. My men hold him down while he spits excuses.

“Your money’s coming, Reaper, I swear—”

I sigh. Loud. “That’s what you said last month.” I snap the lighter shut, let the silence chew him up. “So tell me—am I stupid, or are you suicidal?”

He stammers. I don’t listen. I’m already irritated I even had to show up for this. Normally, I send Bones, my Sergeant-at-Arms, to shake down debtors. But it’s either this or be at my old cranker’s house, listening to him lecture me about Wendy Osborne.

The heiress who keeps throwing herself at me like I’m her goddamn prize. Out of all people, she could’ve chased Christian—the polished twin, the safe one, the one our old man parades around. But no. She wants me.

Can’t say I blame her. Exceptional taste and all. But become a pawn in a marriage to link two rich families? Hard pass.

“Jude.” I call my VP. I don’t need to look to know he’s there. He slides up beside me like a shadow. I feel my temper rise and grit my teeth. “Where’s my brother?”

“At Voss Atelier’s opening, Prez.”

Christian runs the public face of Voss Enterprises: suits, speeches, glossy headlines. I run the parts people prefer not to see. Aside from Princes of Sin MC, the club is all mine. Voss Atelier, the newest addition to Voss Enterprises, a fashion house, is his new obsession — funny, I thought those belonged to me.

Jude hands me a handkerchief. I wipe the blood off my cheek — nothing serious, just a debtor with a bad aim — then pull my leather jacket on. The idea of crashing my brother’s parade puts a grin on my face.

“Rough him up a bit,” I tell Jude. “Then let him go.”

The man stammers, kneeling, “Reaper, thank you! I owe you my life—”

“Oh, you do.” I lean close, smile lazy and dangerous. “And don’t forget it. If I don’t have my cash by month’s end,” I shrug, casual as breathing, “I’ll kill you myself.”

* * *

I park the Harley — my bike on some days, the love of my life on others — in the first open spot I see. I toss the keys to the valet and clap him on the shoulder. “Take good care of her, okay?”

He goes white. Probably heard the rumors about the “bad Voss brother.” People like to pretend I’m some kind of monster. I hold back a chuckle. I prefer to think of myself as mostly chill.

If anyone’s the uptight one, it’s my identical twin, Christian — still sulking because Wendy once called me the hotter brother. That’s the real cruelty.

But you didn’t hear it from me.

What can I say? Long hair, tattoos, motorcycle, dick piercing — women dig it.

I head for the entrance, taking in the décor. Credit where it’s due: my brother’s taste in interiors is better than his taste in women. At least he’s got that going for him. The headquarters is buzzing, packed with champagne-flute guests and fake smiles. A few “Mr. Voss” greetings trail after me, but I let them bounce off.

That’s when I catch a familiar face. Vona, my brother’s assistant. She flushes the second she spots me, tucking a piece of her glossy brown hair behind her ear, pretending she’s not staring. Cute. She must be competent if she’s survived three months with Christian, which makes her his longest-lasting assistant. But she doesn’t exactly radiate professionalism when I’m in her orbit.

“Damien,” she breathes, aiming me a coy little smile. “Mr. Voss wasn’t expecting you tonight.”

“Does this mean he won’t let me see him?” I arch a brow, though we both know I don’t give a damn. Christian knows it too.

“He was hoping you’d come. He’s entertaining guests, but I know you’re not interested in anything like that.” Vona bites her bottom lip and winks, sliding closer until her fingers graze my arm. Bold. Too bold. She’s never tried that before. “If you want, we can…”

I bark out a laugh, loud enough to make the couple beside us freeze mid–champagne grab. Poor Vona flinches at the sound. I peel her hand off my arm like it’s gum stuck to me and pluck a flute off the passing tray.

“I’d rather not.” Before she can say anything else, I walk away and wave her off.

It doesn’t take long before I’m reminded exactly why I prefer beating fuckers up and running clubs to socialising with fake rich people. At some point, I’ve talked to half the room and still no sign of the main man. Fine. I give up on Christian for the night and head straight for the one thing that never disappoints: good alcohol.

I claim a stool at the far end of the bar, signal for a glass of whatever’s strongest, and lean back to watch the parade of overdressed fakes swirl past.

That’s when I see her.

Not because she wants me to — hell, she’s not even looking. She’s hunched over her drink, fingers tracing the rim of her glass like she’s thinking about breaking it. Dark curls falling over her shoulders, sharp lines to her posture, eyes I can’t quite catch from here. Something about her — the way she sits too still in a room buzzing with chatter — snags at me.

The bartender sets down my drink. I pick it up and, before I know it, I’m walking over.

“Seat taken?” I nod at the empty stool beside her.

She doesn’t even glance at me. “Depends. Are you planning to talk?”

A laugh slips out of me, low and surprised. “Depends. Do you plan on listening?”

That earns me her eyes — sharp hazel, with a birthmark under one that makes me stare a second too long. Cat eyes, slit-pupiled if the light hits right. She studies me like she’s sizing up a threat.

“Suit yourself,” she mutters, turning back to her drink.

I lean in, can’t help it. “Have we met before?”

She clicks her tongue against her teeth, tosses back the last of her glass. Then she finally looks at me, really looks, with a curl to her lips that’s pure challenge.

“That’s your line? Disappointing. I expected more from the great Christian Voss.”