Lahat ng Kabanata ng Sharing My Best Friend’s Brother: Kabanata 1 - Kabanata 10

Christine "I have to ask," Evelina says, her voice soft but unwavering as she shifts Cameron in her arms, rocking him like she's done it a million times. "Are you sure about this? Going back to him?" I lift my mimosa and take a measured sip, letting the citrus bite linger in the back of my throat. I don't really drink anymore—not since I became the only person standing between my son and the rest of the world. But sleep has been a distant memory since Cameron was born, and today, I need something to dull the edges. Just enough to survive this flight. "I'm not going back for him," I answer, keeping my tone calm, composed. "I'm going back for Cameron." Evelina's mouth hardens into a line, all sharp judgment and quiet fury she doesn't bother to disguise. We're alike in that way—neither of us capable of faking what we feel just to make someone else comfortable. "He locked you in his house and shut you out while you were carrying his child," she continues, her voice edged no

Grayson Fuck. Ashley Johnson is something else. I've had women throwing themselves at me since the day I took over the Crimson Reapers. Comes with the cut. The patch. The reputation. Before I got married, I was running through a different chick every night. Sometimes two. Shit, sometimes even three. Anything to shut out the noise in my head. To pretend I didn't need the pills just to keep breathing. Never lasted long. And I sure as hell never thought I'd be the type to keep going back to the same woman for a threesome—especially not my sister's childhood friend. We're not exclusive. Made that clear from the start. Just a no-strings hookup. Still, I figured it would blow up eventually. Ashley always struck me as the jealous type. The slap-the-shit-out-of-you-for-looking-at-another-woman type. Turns out, I was dead fuckin' wrong. Because right now she's sprawled out on this table, Diamond's head between her thighs, moaning like she was made for it—and l

King My cock aches like it's got a pulse of its own as I scroll through the family group chat—Alyssa and Niko going back and forth like they forgot I can fucking see it. My slut's still bragging about the head he gave her this morning, like rubbing it in my face won't earn him a punishment later. Knowing he can still taste her sweet pussy makes me want to hunt him down and claim it off his tongue myself. It's been too long since I've had her. Since I've tasted her. Fucked her. Felt that perfect body wrap around me like it was made for me alone. But life hasn't given me much choice. I've been busy. Collecting payments. Chopping off limbs. Keeping my family safe by reminding every son of a bitch out there what happens when they forget who the fuck I am. What I'm capable of. And now I've been standing in this warehouse fifteen minutes too long, waiting for one of our flaky-ass clients to drag his cowardly face in here with my cut. When they're late, it only means one t

GraysonThe headline glares up at me from my phone screen, and ice shoots through my veins.Ten girls, ages three to seven, missing in Moonshadow Creek over the past month.Fuck.My gut knots hard. There's only one thing this could mean.Some sick bastard is trafficking kids again.It's been eleven years since the Moonshadow Creek Massacre—since I put a bullet in my father's skull and wiped out every piece of shit that worked with him. But the memories never fade.I can still see those cages in the clubhouse basement. Still hear the rusted hinges scream when we forced them open. Still remember the way those little girls looked at us—silent, terrified, too broken to believe hope was real.We freed them. Sent them back to their families. Prayed like hell it was over for good.But it's not.It's back.And I don't know who the hell could be behind it this time.Last year, we killed Silas Carter—unknowingly the last thread tied to my father's trafficking ring. The sick fucker who bought my

Ashley I check my phone for the tenth damn time this morning, the screen flashing the same empty shit it showed me last night—no missed calls, no texts back.Three times I called him.Three times it rang out.And still not a goddamn thing. I try to play it cool. He's the president of a whole motorcycle club. Man's got an empire of outlaws to run; he can't exactly drop everything to blow my phone up like some lovestruck teenager. Besides, he deserves space. Boundaries. I remind myself I'm not his girlfriend—no matter how bad I want that title. I don't get to demand his time the way Christine used to.But tell that to my chest when it's caving in, or to my brain when it won't shut the hell up. Because I basically spent the whole night wide awake. Worrying.Craving.Laying in bed with my vibrator in one hand and his name stuck on my lips like a hook from some slow R&B track I couldn't shake. Nothing compares to the real thing.The way he manhandles me, folding me into whatever pos