All paths lead to destruction in the new Torpedo Ink novel from #1 New York Times bestselling author Christine Feehan.
Savin “Savage” Pajari is convinced he’s not worth a damn thing. He’s not like his brothers. He’s a sadistic monster, a killer—a man no woman could truly love. So it completely throws him when a stranger risks her life for his, pushing him out of the way and taking the hit that would have sent him six feet under. If he had any kind of sense, he’d leave her alone, but Savage can’t get the woman with a smart mouth and no sense of self-preservation out of his head. With one kiss, he’s lost. Seychelle Dubois has spent her entire life not feeling much of anything, until Savage comes along and sets her whole body on fire. Kissing him was a mistake. Letting him get close would be a catastrophe. He’s the most beautiful—and damaged—man she’s ever met. He has a way of getting under her skin, and what he’s offering is too tempting to resist. Seychelle knows so little about Savage or the dangerous world of Torpedo Ink, but his darkness draws her like a moth to a flame. Loving him could mean losing herself completely to his needs—needs she doesn’t understand but is eager to learn. But what Savage teaches her could destroy her.
Christine Feehan is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Carpathian series, the GhostWalker series, the Leopard series, the Shadow Riders series, and the Sea Haven novels, including the Drake Sisters series and the Sisters of the Heart series. Learn more online at christinefeehan.com.
Savage took his time pulling off his gloves while he straddled his bike. He was giving himself time to look around the parking lot, noting every vehicle there. Savage was able to map out areas in his head, like grids on charts, placing each car, truck or bike exactly where it had been, even months later. He rarely forgot even the smallest detail and he practiced every single day. That was automatic, to map out territory, not to miss even a hint that something was off. He memorized faces. Names. He could recognize a bike he’d seen once and know who rode it.
He walked around the outside of the building, noting escape routes, windows, exits for employees. At the moment, none of the Diamondbacks were at the bar. That wasn’t unusual either. They didn’t tend to frequent this one. He skirted back around to the front entrance and made his way inside.
It was crowded far more than it had ever been the few times he’d been there. Several women turned and looked at him, two smiling an invitation, swaying to the music the band was playing. Worst band ever. The drummer was actually behind the guitarist on the beat and the keyboard player lagged completely. He didn’t understand how Maestro and the others could take the shit music. All four had incredible ears and anything not in tune just about drove them insane. He had a good ear and it was killing him.
He looked the two smiling women over. They wore tight jeans and tanks, boots and heavy makeup. He knew the type. They were looking for a rough ride, a biker they could take home so they had bragging rights. Neither knew what rough was, but the blonde might do. He ignored them both and walked toward the stage. His brothers had a small table set to the right side of it, mostly hidden in the shadows.
Then the singer’s voice cut in, and he stopped dead in the middle of the room with people pressing close all around him. His heart clenched hard in his chest. He refused to rub the spot, refused to give in to the need. He would recognize that perfect pitch anywhere. She was singing, not speaking, but it was that same melodious voice that haunted his dreams. Seychelle Dubois.
He stayed still, not wanting to be seen, allowing the other patrons to move around him. The bar was dark, and many couples or groups of women were dancing. He slipped behind the row of tables and leaned against the wall, his gaze fixed on the woman who had all but ruined him this last month. Savage studied her. She was under the lights and he could see her skin looked soft and invited touch.
Her mouth was generous. Made for sucking cock—his cock. She was shorter than he remembered, but he’d only seen her on the ground and in a bed. She had curves. Real curves. The kind of figure a man could hang on to.
It was hell. It was heaven. He felt as if he was actually a real man, not a walking killer with no emotions. She was in a short little burgundy cocktail dress that hugged her hips and emphasized her small waist. An intriguing glimpse of skin showed between the halter top and the tight skirt. The top clung to her tits. And she had them, full and round.
That damn top was open down the middle, showing enough skin, showing the lacerations that ran up the side of her body—the ones that belonged to him. The dress was short enough to show the deep wounds crawling up her leg unashamedly, all of which belonged to him. Those tits, that dress: he’d like to say they were what made the blood pound through his cock so hot he was afraid he’d burn up. He wasn’t the only one either. Damn her. If she were his, there would be hell to pay.
From ANNIHILATION ROAD published by arrangement with Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC. Copyright © 2021 by Christine Feehan.