The Blacksmith Daredevil Novels & Stories

And from where she sat, it appeared more guys hung out by the chutes. The bulls shut out the first ten competitors. Colby was up and he’d drawn Black Bart, a nasty bull, who’d gone unridden in the last seventeen outs. Channing remembered Jared getting tossed on his head right out of the gate when he’d tried to ride Black Bart. She leaned closer, not realizing she was chewing her lip until she tasted blood. She had to calm down. The rodeo season was long and injuries were plenty. She had to trust Colby knew what he was doing.

That voice. My eyes snapped upward—and there he was. Damien Volkov. Towering in the doorway, filling the space like a shadow made flesh. He wore a tight black T-shirt that clung to his chest, jeans faded from age and wear, and boots that looked like they had walked through hell itself.

He climbed out of the earth like a demon rising from hell. He was covered in dust and blood. His left leg was made of black stone. And in his hand, he held a Hammer that looked like a tombstone. "Dad?" I whispered. Damian stood up. He looked at the charging Peacekeeper. He didn't dodge. He swung the Hammer. CRACK. It wasn't a sound. It was a tectonic event. The Hammer hit the Peacekeeper. The soldier didn't fly backward. He ceased to exist. The force of the impact atomized the armor, the flesh, and the void energy instantly.

Desire burns in his eyes as he scans me from head to toe. I clear my throat and grin at him. I hate myself for what I'm about to do. But fùck it. "Truth or Dare, Damien." "Dare." His voice is husky. "I dare you to fùck me." ***

Not many men could take the Hawk by surprise, and for an instant Hawk was as fascinated as he was irritated with the smithy. "I didn't hire you. Who are you?" "Adam," the smithy replied coolly. "Adam what?" The smithy pondered, then flashed a puckish smile "Adam Black" "Who hired you?" "Theard you were in need of a man to tend a forge." "Stay away from my wife." Hawk was startled to hear tire words leave his lips. By the saints, he sounded like a jealous husband! He had intended to push the question of who had hired the smithy, but apparently he was no more in control of his words than he had been of his feet, at least not where his new wife was concerned

Damn! "It's not a big deal." "Not a big deal? Maya do you know who runs the Iron Wolves?" "Some guy named Dominic." "Dominic Blackwood. As in the Dominic Blackwood who goes here." Riley sat down on Maya's desk chair pushing the clothes onto the floor. "Please tell me you didn't get involved with him." "I'm not involved with anyone. My bike broke down. His club fixed it. That's literally all that happened." "Dominic Blackwood doesn't just fix random people's bikes out of the goodness of his heart." Riley leaned forward like she was about to share classified information. "He's bad news Maya. Like really bad news."

Derren said. “Why?” Angela asked. “See, the blacksmith isn't exactly an ordinary blacksmith, and he's not someone you can reason with,” Derren said. “Well, I have to try. I can't give up on my mission just because the blacksmith is a mindless, inhuman being,” Gabriella said. “Well, you're very much welcome to try,” Derren said, turning to the door of the blacksmith's cottage. Gabriella and the other girls also turned to the door and saw someone standing there.

Sweat ran down the back of my neck. The blacksmith was completely bald, but with a huge walrus moustache. He wore a heavy leather apron that made him look like he had nothing on underneath. I desperately hoped that wasn’t the case. He ignored me and continued to bang away — Pang! Pang! Pang! — red sparks flying in every direction. The hammer could have been borrowed from Thor. He picked a glowing object off the anvil with large pincers and plunged it in a bucket of water. Steam shot into the air. “What is it?” he finally said without looking at me.

"Those sneaky bastards. Don't worry, we will take care of them. Just hang tight." We slow as planned like we are scouting a turnoff. The two bikers do the same, keeping a distance from us. We keep driving until I hear them sounds; Tank and the prospect's engines roaring from a distant. They don't realise they are trapped until it's too late. We don't kill, that's not the plan. I clip one's tire and watch as he skids, crashing into dirt. Ghost tackles the second, pinning him with a knee to the back. Tank and the other prospects arrive, zip-tying them.

"The Ravagers brought their new ringer. They call him 'The Butcher.' He likes to see how much chrome he can peel off other people's bikes while they're still moving." I looked toward the Ravagers' tent. A man built like a brick wall was staring at me, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. He didn't look like a racer; he looked like an executioner. My mind flashed back to Dax's warning in the garage: They aren't planning on letting you cross the finish line alive. "Thanks for the tip," I said, pulling my helmet on. The familiar snugness of the padding helped muffle the chaos of the pits, centering my focus.