CHAPTER 1
FAME
There’s a very specific sound a dual-coil tattoo machine makes when it’s in the hands of a scratcher. A whirring buzz stutters and audibly hops, announcing the absolute inexperience of its user. I’m not exaggerating when I think I’d be less shocked to walk in the front door of the MC’s compound to the sound of gunfire.
“The fuck is going on?” I ask Ace’s lumber-yeti boyfriend when I spot him leaning against the doorway of the communal kitchen. I’m still not entirely sure what to think of the guy, but I give him the respect he’s due. He saved Ace in more ways than one, and for that he gets the benefit of any doubt I might have lingering.
“Your princess has a new hobby. Guessing it wasn’t on your radar?” His smirk is annoying enough that in another life, I’d have let it needle me.
These days, I’ve embraced my chill. At least, that’s the lie I tell myself when being the fucking president of this club threatens to send my stress levels into the stratosphere. Konrad and I came home to salvage the only family we’d ever known whenwe learned Jax was paroling out and the group home where we thought Ace was safely placed had folded. Ghost Born MC was formed to solidify the brotherhood we’d claimed. All of us bastard sons of convicts. Ghosts.
Raising Ace, well, more accurately, rehabbing him after foster care turned him damn near feral, soon took a backseat to all the shit that’s come our way. That’s still coming our way, really.
“Amaliya’s making that racket?” It feels a little disloyal calling the whir of a tattoo machine a racket considering I spend the better part of every day holding one. When I come home from the shop, I want a little peace and quiet.
Now that I’m the last man standing, the only one without a partner, finding that calm space around here seems less possible than ever. Lately, it’s as if everyone in this place is circling drama nonstop. The moment we resolve one shit show, another fire ignites.
“See for yourself. The terrible two are playing a rousing game of fuck around and find out.” Gunner steps into the room and moves to the side, allowing me to see into the kitchen where the sound is the loudest.
Hunched over the table in the center of the room, Amaliya’s jet black hair makes a curtain that almost completely hides the machine that’s gone mercifully silent. Seated beside her, close enough to hold a piece of rubbery fake skin to the table but not close enough to permit accidental touching, is Ace.
“The fuck are you doing, LeeLee? I know damn well I told you no tattooing.” After a decade of military service, leading men during dangerous missions, my tone would have any of my soldiers crapping themselves in fear.
Little Miss Amaliya Balakin, pampered princess of the Bratva Pakhan of the West Coast, merely shrugs a shoulder and continues staring at the fake skin Ace holds in front of her. Not even a twitch of muscle betrays a lick of concern at being yelled at. I swear, were it not for the favors Anatoly Balakin has pulled for us, and the uneasy allegiance our MC has formed with his crew, I’d have her bratty ass over my knee faster than she can roll her cobalt blue eyes.
Yeah, I called ‘em cobalt. Though I spent the better part of my twenties crawling through jungles and marshes with a rifle slung over my shoulder, these days, I spend my time slinging ink. After too many years seeing pretty much nothing but camo green and spilled-blood red, color has become damn near an obsession.
Now, Amaliya’s blue eyes sit right at the top of my obsessive list of favorite colors. Not that I’d admit that shit, even in the face of torture. Which her father would absolutely attempt if he thought for one hot second I lusted after his only daughter. The one Jax and Blakely saved and whom he entrusted into our protection while he sorted out some treachery within his organization.
“Ace, Gunner, out. Now.” Unlike LeeLee, Ace is unable to ignore me. Not only did I assume the role of legal guardian until he aged out of the system, but I’m the president of the fucking club where he’s a patched member. I may no longer be his guardian, but I’m damn well his prez, and he’ll show some fuckin’ respect.
The way his shoulders shake, as he scoffs silently while passing me, skirts the line of disrespect, but if there’s anything I’ve learned from dealing with him over the past few years, it’s to choose my battles. As much of a pain in the ass as Ace has been since Konrad came back, he’s prepared me for how to best deal with brats.
Good thing, too. Because Amaliya Balakin is a brat like none other.
CHAPTER 2
AMALIYA BALAKIN
“You should look at me when I speak to you.” Shaw’s rough voice does things to my insides. Melty, gooey, filthy things that would make the man blush if he knew. Which makes it that much more imperative he have no idea how deeply he affects me.
“Oh, you were speaking to me? It sounded like someone was shouting at me, using your voice.” Since the morning I woke up here, after Jaxon and Blakely found me drugged and tied up in the backseat of a stolen sedan, poking at Shaw seems to be the only time I feel like myself. Does that make me a spoiled princess? Maybe. Shaw must think so, judging by his gusty sigh.
“Amaliya, please look at me when I’m speaking to you,” he grits out, probably choking on thatpleasejust a bit.
“Sure, Daddio. You have my full attention.” I tuck my hair behind my ear and tilt my face to meet his stare. I hate my hair. It’s so dark brown it’s practically black, long enough to trip on, and stick straight.
My father forbade me to cut it, saying a woman’s hair is where she stores the strength she needs to topple kingdoms. I’ve always kept it braided or looped into a bun, so it’s out of the way, but lately, finding a rubber band in this house is like searching for a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. Even when I manage to borrow hair ties from Blue or Blakely, the damn things disappear the minute my eyes are closed.
“Dammit, Amaliya, stop calling me that. I’m not your father.”
It drives Shaw nuts when I call him Daddy or Daddio. He pretends not to understand why I do it, but we both know I’m not envisioning him as a substitute for my father. Not even a little bit.
“I haven’t called the pakhan ‘Daddy’ a single time in my entire life. Most of the time I don’t even call him Father. Nice try, but go away. I’m busy.” I make a shooing motion with the hand not holding the tattoo machine.
I know the instant I set it down, Shaw will snatch it. He’s got it in his head I can’t be a tattoo artist like he is because my father’s convinced him I have some special destiny arranged for the future. Something grand and important that can only happen once the menfolk are done with their bloody turf wars and power grabs. They think I’m unaware of what goes on behind the curtain, but I’m neither stupid nor comatose, and I’d have to be both not to know.
Anatoly Balakin expects me to marry for power and allegiance. To breed for the benefit of the brotherhood he’s dedicated his life to. That’s the grand destiny he envisions for my future. Whether or not Shaw knows and buys into the plan, every day he keeps me here is another day he assists my father in keeping me alive long enough to marry me off. Make no mistake, my father caresabout me. Inasmuch as men of his ilk are able to care about their children. But he’s an old school Russian mobster. Which means, just like in most crime families, my value is tied to what it brings to the organization.
