While were young, p.1
The Devil's Flower, page 1
part #1 of The Eternal Beings Series
The Devil’s Flower.
ISBN 978-1-60592-501-1
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
The Devil’s Flower Copyright 2012 Lisa Collicutt
Cover Art by Fiona Jayde
This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any existing means without written permission from the publisher. Contact Noble Romance Publishing, LLC at PO Box 467423, Atlanta, GA 31146.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.
BLURB
Killing isn’t exactly on Rosalie Lockwood’s list of things to do when she runs away from home. But despite her search for peace; guns and motorcycles become her latest fashion accessories as Divine interference leads her to Steele, co-leader of the Fallen Paladins motorcycle club.
Leathered and tattooed, Steele’s presence scares off most people he comes in contact with—but not Rosalie. She’s immediately drawn into the dangers of his biker world—and into his heart.
While Rosalie is busy learning how to shoot a gun and ride a motorcycle, Steele is busy avoiding her and his budding feelings for her. He wants her out of his life and away from the dangers he represents. But when some of the gang turn on her, he has no choice but to tell her his secret.
He and Rosalie are immortal enemies, each with one purpose in life—to kill the other.
Once the truth is revealed, Rosalie must prove to Steele and his brethren that she’s not the killer they fear by saving their souls. But in order to do that, she must become soulless herself.
The Dark and Light Realms collide as Rosalie chooses between life, death, and the ever-after to become that which she is fated to destroy.
THE DEVIL'S FLOWER
By Lisa Collicut
Dedication
For my husband Whyman, who suggested I write a novel about a woman’s motorcycle club. Well I didn’t do that, honey. Instead, I took your idea, added some wings, ripped away a few souls, and spun my own twisted tale.
And for Rosalie Reeves (the real Rose), this one’s for you. I heart you.
Chapter One
Darkness descended over the freeway. Rosalie turned the key in the ignition a final time. Nothing. A string of unladylike words flew from her mouth as she bashed the side of her fist on the steering wheel. Her only result was pain. Two states from home, her car had run out of gas, her cell phone had died, and she had to pee so badly she could taste it.
Rosalie flung herself out of her Beamer and slammed the door. A two-foot incline, from the side of the road to the woods, would have been troublesome for her had she worn sneakers. In her designer heels, however, the descent looked impossible. But she had no choice; she either had to embrace the challenge or wet herself. So, with a good grip on a branch extending from a sparse tree at the bottom, she began the trek downward.
In the midst of her ordeal, the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving in its wake a pink-streaked sky and a chill in the air. Beyond the edge of the woods, but within the noise range of sparse traffic, she did her business.
As she headed back to her car, a feral sound stopped her cold. She peered around a tree, and her eyes grew wide. Isolating her from her car stood a growling, black mass. She stayed frozen in place, her heels sinking into the soft earth.
The bear lumbered closer.
Rosalie's heart thumped wildly. She yanked her heels from the mud and ran. Branches and sticks raked her skin as she ran deeper into the woods. Her breathing grew labored. Her throat felt like sandpaper. The toe of her shoe caught on an exposed tree root. She hurtled to the ground, ripping her dress on the way down. Before her face collided with the earth, her palms broke the fall, leaving the sting of twig-burn behind.
As Rosalie breathed in the scent of the decaying forest floor, her jarred brain screamed out a warning. Get up! Keep moving! She forced herself to her feet and ran until she broke into a clearing. In the near darkness, she could just make out a road ahead. It wasn't the freeway; there was no traffic on it. She risked a quick glance behind her and saw a glimpse of the black mass still following, almost lazily. She bolted for the road. As she clawed her way out of the ditch, an exaggerated rumble made her catch her breath and slide backward.
A sleek, black motorcycle came to a screeching halt in front of her, spraying road dust into her face. A hand adorned with a fingerless, leather glove and various metal rings reached out to her.
Rosalie wiped dirt from her eyes and looked up. The hand connected to a heavily tattooed, sinewy arm, ending in a leather vest. Beyond the vest, a young but threatening face framed in dark, windblown hair stared down at her.
"Get on," the biker yelled above the roar of the engine, his hand still extended.
Rosalie considered making a run for it, but where would she go? Back into the woods? She hesitated, until she heard the bear's growl above the rumble of the motorcycle. Defying the warning bells tolling in her head, she grabbed the half-leathered hand and let him haul her out of the ditch. When the biker slid forward, she took the hint and swung her leg over the bit of seat sticking out behind him.
As the motorcycle accelerated, Rosalie squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her forehead between the biker's shoulder blades. Her dress blew up around her hips, but her arms were wound around the biker's waist so tightly to keep from falling off, she wouldn't risk letting go to hold the fabric down.
After a few minutes of exceeding the speed limit, the biker pulled over to the side of the road.
With the onslaught over, Rosalie lifted her head and slid off the motorcycle, adjusting her torn dress around her legs.
* * * * *
Steele let the motorcycle idle and turned to face the girl he'd rescued. Under the dim light of sunset, she looked a mess. Tangles of toffee-brown hair fell in front of her face as she played nervously with the flimsy, pink material of her dress. The fabric had ripped all the way to the top of her thigh. With a dainty touch, she gripped the two halves together and looked up for the first time, flicking a straggle of hair from her face.
An angel, he thought. She reeked of innocence. Flashes of guilty behavior shot through his mind at the possibilities of what he could do with her. What a night he could have with this young beauty. He sighed. But then he would have to kill her, and he wasn't in the habit of killing innocents.
"What's your name?" he asked, trying hard to sound as unfriendly as he could. Usually, that wasn't such a challenge.
"Rosalie." Her voice matched her angelic looks. "Do you have a name?"
"Steele."
"Well, thanks," she said, giving him a nervous smile.
"Yeah, no problem."
"Where are we?"
Steele leaned casually against the handlebars and gave her a half-grin.
Rosalie took a step backward.
Steele sensed her fear, which added to his thrill. He leaned forward slightly. He hung one arm lazily across the handlebar and put the other hand flat on the warmed back seat where she'd sat moments ago.
"We're on the road to Nowhere."
Her eyes widened, and so did his grin.
She gulped and shook her head.
Steele read the confusion on her face. "Nowhere? Colorado? Haven't you heard of it?"
He lifted an eyebrow in question.
"N-no. Is it a real place?"
"Yup. Twenty miles up the road."
As her gaze darted from Steele to the trees behind him, then to the broken pavement beneath the motorcycle tires, he kept his eyes fixed solely on her.
"Um, I hate to bother you—"
He shrugged. "You're not."
Steele knew his presence was threatening, but her fear amused him. He read it over her entire body, in the way she stood, trying desperately to hold the flimsy fabric of her dress together, her knees slightly bent, and her shoulders hunched forward. Almost as if she wished she were invisible to him. Even though he knew he intimidated ninety-nine percent of the people he came in contact with, for some reason, her fear excited him the most.
"Right, well, do you think you can give me a ride to my car?"
He'd been wondering how she'd gotten herself chased by a bear and figured she'd left a vehicle behind somewhere. He couldn't resist her innocence; good thing he was riding alone, or else she might not be so lucky.
"And where, exactly, is that?" he asked, toying with his prey.
"It's back on the freeway."
Steele's grin vanished. He turned to face the front of the motorcycle and revved the engine, taking his frustration out on the throttle. "Get on."
If he ever experienced a moment of weakness in his life, this was it. He would take the girl back to where she belonged, as any good, law-abiding citizen would do. But he was no law-abiding citizen—nor was he good. His mind worked against every fallacious instinct he'd ever had to do the right thing.
Through the little side mirror, Steele watched Rosalie situate herself behind him. Instead of holding on, she flattened her hands out on top of her legs to hold her dress down.
"Well?" He yelled over his shoulder before taking off.
"Well what?" She yelled back over the roar of the engine.
"Aren't you going to hold on?"
"Oh."
She let go of her dress and rested her hands loosely against the sides of his vest, her chest against his back. The warmth of her body penetrated his leather and seeped under his skin. He straightened, shifted into first gear, then gave the
throttle more gas than necessary. The motorcycle spun in a complete circle, kicking up an arc of road dirt around them. When he faced the exact direction he wanted, Steele twisted the throttle and took off. She wound her arms tightly around him, her hands clasped across his chest.
In the mirror, Steele watched the flimsy, torn material of her dress blow up around her waist, exposing her entire leg, hip, and a tiny strip of pink satin panty.
He grinned, satisfied.
* * * * *
In the mirror, Rosalie saw his arrogant grin, but kept her hold. Either that, or fall off the backless bike seat.
To Rosalie's surprise and relief, he took her in the direction of where she'd left her car. But after driving longer than she thought necessary, she motioned for him to pull over.
She loosened her arms, but stayed on the motorcycle.
"We passed the spot where I left the car. I know we did." She pointed to a road marker. "I passed that while driving. I'm sure of it."
Her heart sank into her stomach. Someone had stolen her car. Her life was in that vehicle: her bankcards, credit cards, and her clothing, along with her dead cell phone.
"Are you sure?"
She nodded. "I'm sure."
An awkward moment passed. The biker had done what she'd asked of him. Was she supposed to jump off the motorcycle now and hitchhike somewhere? When he didn't say anything, she did just that. She got off the bike.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm not sure." She raked her fingers through her tangles, weeding out bits of forest debris. "I'll hitchhike, I guess."
"To where?"
She turned her gaze to a short string of headlights zooming past. "I don't know that, either."
A tense moment passed. Rosalie stood on the side of the freeway, biting down on her bottom lip, knowing she was in a desperate situation. She watched Steele's jaw tighten, hardening his features, adding to his attractiveness.
"Well, you can't hitch a ride looking like that," he said, giving a disgusted look to the rip in her dress. "You'll just end up in a ditch somewhere, a homicide victim. Then you'll wish you'd given yourself to the bear."
Immediately, his face softened, and she knew he regretted speaking to her so harshly.
"Christ!" he said, twisting around to the front. "Get on."
He cracked the throttle, revving the engine hard.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"Nowhere."
"Oh."
The fear of being left behind on the side of the freeway in the dark made Rosalie swing her leg over the motorcycle without hesitation. The force of the take-off made her body jerk backward. She grabbed Steele's vest and pulled her body close to his. The scent of the leather under her nose overpowered the scent of road dust.
As they traveled down the exit to Nowhere, Rosalie tried keeping her head up and her eyes open so she could take in the scenery. She wanted to make a mental note of any point of interest, so she would have some idea where she was in case she had to find her way back to the freeway. Who knew where he was taking her? Maybe he had something planned all along. Maybe a biker buddy of his stole her car as part of their scheme. Her stomach knotted.
A road sign loomed ahead. Rosalie barely read the word Nowhere as they zoomed past. And nowhere was right. She hadn't seen a house, or a building of any kind, for that matter, nor had she seen another vehicle since they'd exited the freeway. As the knots in her stomach tightened, the motorcycle made a sharp turn onto a dirt road. Rosalie tightened her grip.
Soon after, they came to a small settlement of decrepit houses lining both sides of the road. Just past the last house, Rosalie saw a large cluster of motorcycles parked in every direction, in front of what looked like a bar, or a biker clubhouse.
* * * * *
Steele turned off his headlight and pulled his motorcycle around to the outside of the parking lot, away from the lighted sign over the door. He cut the engine. Under the circumstances, he thought a quiet entrance would be best.
The sky had completely darkened. When Rosalie slid off the seat behind him, his back cooled instantly. He jumped off and turned toward her. How fresh and innocent she looked, and he was about to lead her into the lion's den. This would certainly challenge his strength in more ways than one. He shoved immoral thoughts from his mind. He was going to give her back, so to speak. He would make sure she ended somewhere safe, and that would mean being far away from him and this clubhouse.
He wished he had something to cover her up with, though. The cold did things to her body that were sure to send the lions into a frenzy. And what did he care? For once in his hard-core life, his actions were unexplainable. Why did he feel the need to protect this bitch? Because she’s not a bitch, that’s why.
* * * * *
The night air made Rosalie shiver. She wrapped her bare arms around herself. Boisterous laughter and loud music coming from within the bar reached her, and she had second thoughts about going inside.
She could feel Steele's cool, gray eyes scanning her body, and she grew more uncomfortable. She lowered her gaze to the scuffmarks and dirt on her once-pink heels and asked, "Do you have a cell phone? I could use it out here and wait down at the corner for someone to come and get me. That way, I wouldn't have to bother any of your friends."
She lied, of course; she had no one to come and get her. She'd ended up two states from Texas. She would have to call the police, and they would call her mother and stepfather. But she wouldn't go back to her stepfather's abuse.
Steele burst out laughing.
She looked up.
"How safe do you think you'd be out there in the dark without me to protect you?"
Rosalie frowned at his arrogance. She had no comeback. She didn’t need his protection. Did she? Just the same, when she mentally weighed the two options—sticking with him or chancing it out there on her own—being near him seemed the better choice, even if not necessarily the safest one.
"Okay, Rose, keep quiet and stay near me."
"It's Rosalie." She corrected him, annoyed at his suddenly dismissive tone. She swallowed her fear and followed him as he wove his way through the maze of chrome.
The half-lighted neon sign hanging above the bar door had the same image on it as the three-piece patch on the back of Steele's vest. Arched across the top were the words Fallen Paladins. Underneath, a wavy-bladed dagger speared a halo, its tip stabbed inside the letter V. On either side of the dagger, a black wing tipped downward. Only one lit up; the other buzzed as it shorted out, flickered on, then went dark again. Under the winged dagger sat the word Colorado, arched upward. Tendrils of fear gnawed their way through Rosalie's gut. She held tightly to the rip in her dress and took a deep breath as she stepped onto the rotting doorstep.
Steele opened the door to his world and walked inside.
Like a lamb led to the slaughter, Rosalie followed.
Chapter Two
The pungent scent of stale beer, mixed with an undertone of patchouli and various types of smoke—not all of which smelled legal—assaulted Rosalie's senses. She snapped her mouth shut and swallowed, trying to camouflage the sweet bitterness of the bar air on her tongue.
Even in her heels, Rosalie stood a good six inches shorter than Steele, and she couldn't see much past his muscled shoulders. She waited for him to make a move.
* * * * *
Steele had walked arrogantly through this same door hundreds of times, but never felt the way he did now. He didn't know why he felt the need to protect this girl, yet he had to do it without showing weakness. In that moment, he hated himself for rescuing her. As a rare bead of nervous sweat trickled down his forehead, he wished he'd let the bear have her.
"Hey, Steele's back," said Blake, a dark-skinned man wearing a leather skullcap, with dreadlocks and a worn leather vest similar to Steele's. "Did you get payback?"
"Yup." Steele reached in the front of his jeans, pulled out a red plastic bag about the size of a large freezer bag, then tossed it on the nearest table.
With a ravenous look in his eyes, Blake grabbed the bag and emptied its contents onto the battered wood.
"Sweet snowfall in summer," he sang out.
