M.C.V. EGAN ❧Defining Ways❧

Cora — Survival is my full-time job. Delivering groceries to the Kiss of Death MC should’ve been just another stop… until Rancor stepped out of the shadows and looked at me like he already knew my secrets. His quiet strength is wrapped in scars and heat. He’s the kind of man who could break the world but touches me like I’m the only soft thing he’s got left. I should run. Instead, I keep driving through those gates, craving the one man who makes me feel safe in ways I don’t dare say out loud.

Rancor — I buried my heart years ago. Grief, violence, and prison killed anything left inside me, and I was glad. It meant I didn’t have to feel anything. Then Cora walked into the compound and cracked me open with a single glance. She’s brave without meaning to be, a storm in a small frame, and the first woman to make me feel anything since the night my life ended. One touch, and I knew I’d protect her with my last breath. One kiss and I knew I’d kill for her. I’ve already lost too much to lose her, too. Especially not to the same family who already ruined my life.

Cora

The gates of the Kiss of Death MC compound loomed ahead, iron and rust and threat. I knew the place was called Kiss of Death because there was a big-ass sign on the gate. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel of my beat-up sedan. No one wanted to deliver here, and for good reason. My second delivery here felt even worse.

The first time I could blame ignorance, on not knowing better. This time I drove through those gates with full knowledge of what waited inside. At least, I hoped I did. The people inside these gates had been nothing but kind to me. Tipped well, too. I still found it hard to let my guard down in a place literally named Kiss of Death.

The sedan’s engine coughed as I pressed the accelerator. The sound seemed too loud, even in a place that could get noisy. The rumble of a bike starting up had me jumping. As the guy caught sight of me, he froze and shut down the bike. Next thing I knew he was rolling backward, pushing the bike with his feet until he returned to the inside of the garage. I rolled forward, past the gates.

Camo netting stretched between the buildings, creating shadows in the afternoon light. The warehouses formed a perfect square like some kind of military precision in architecture. If I didn’t need the money, I definitely wouldn’t be here.

The main building rose ahead. I’d been directed there last time, so I aimed for the same spot. I thought about the envelope from my first delivery. Cash, all of it, with a tip that equaled half the order total. That money had bought groceries for a week, gas for two. It had been the difference between making rent on time and asking my landlord for another extension I wouldn’t get.

The parking area materialized ahead. I pulled in next to a row of motorcycles, their chrome catching the filtered light through the netting. My sedan looked all kinds of wrong among them.

I shifted into park and killed the engine. The silence felt worse than the noise. Now I could hear everything. Distant music from somewhere inside the compound. Male voices, laughing. It all sounded so normal I wanted to laugh at myself. Obviously they’d been grateful to get someone to deliver here and had treated me well. The phone app tracked my movements, kind of like a safeguard, so I really had little to worry about. I hoped.

My fingers fumbled with the door handle. Metal, cold against my palm. I pushed it open and the hinges squeaked, announcing my presence to anyone within earshot. The air outside tasted different than in my car. Heavier. It carried scents I couldn’t identify; motor oil and something sharp underneath, something that made my lizard brain want to run.

Movement from the clubhouse caught my eye. Hannah bounded out waving as she hurried to me. She’d been the one to meet me last time.

She hurried toward me with an easy confidence and a bright, genuine smile I envied. Her dark hair caught the filtered light, pulled back from her face in a way that revealed high cheekbones and those striking hazel eyes. She wore jeans and a simple T-shirt, and a black leather vest. I’d noticed last time the vest was similar to her husband’s, though the back proclaimed her as “Property of Knuckles” where his simply said “Kiss of Death MC” and “Nashville, TN”. It sounded barbaric, but this woman didn’t seem oppressed in any way. In fact, when I met her the last time, her husband had dropped a kiss on top of her head as he’d passed her and hadn’t let Hannah carry anything from the car.

I raised a hand in an awkward wave, immediately feeling stupid for the gesture. But Hannah’s expression softened further, and she picked up her pace. I moved to the back of my car and lifted the trunk lid, ready to help her unload.

“You came back.” Hannah’s voice held a warm welcome that seemed impossible in this place. She stopped a few feet from my car, close enough to be friendly but far enough to respect boundaries. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“The order came through.” I tried to keep my voice steady, professional. “Same as last time.”

“And you accepted it.” Something shifted in her expression, a subtle approval that made me stand a little straighter. “Most drivers reject anything with our address. The guys haven’t done anything, but this many ex-cons in one place makes people nervous, I guess.” She frowned. “People tend to overlook the good they do. Not every person guilty of bad things are bad people.”

I tilted my head to the side. “You know, I never thought about it that way. But you’re right. I shouldn’t judge people unless they give me reason to.” I looked away, suddenly ashamed of myself. “I’d be in a world of hurt if people judged me by what they saw on the surface.”

“Hey.” Hannah moved closer, reaching out to touch my shoulder gently. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad. We truly are grateful someone is willing to give us all a chance.” She smiled, squeezing my shoulder gently before dropping her hand.

“Um, can I ask a question?” I didn’t know why I asked her, but once I had, I intended to follow through.

“Of course.” She looked pleasantly curious.

“I saw a guy when I first came in today. He came out of that building,” I pointed back the way I’d come. “But he turned off his bike and rolled back into the shadows.” I swallowed hard. If I’d gotten too nosy I might well have crossed a line I shouldn’t have. But it was odd! Also, I might be feeling a little paranoid. But to my surprise, Hannah only smiled.

“The guys know this place isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. They also know that some people are scared of the noise, to say nothing of the men themselves. There’s not one of them who doesn’t look scary as hell.” She grinned. “But every single one of them sat through and energetically participated in the Christmas party they had for the women and children in the shelter they help protect. The kids adore them all.”

Before I could respond, movement behind her drew my attention. Another figure emerged from the clubhouse, moving with a deliberate slowness that made every step feel intentional.

My breath caught. He was big. Tall and broad-shouldered, and big in the way that suggested power held in careful check. His shoulders stretched a gray T-shirt to its limits.

His head was shaved clean, and somehow, the man was more intimidating for its starkness. But it was his face that made my fingers tighten on the grocery bag I still held. Weathered. Lined with stress that had carved deep grooves around his mouth and between his eyebrows. He looked like a man who’d forgotten how to relax, if he’d ever known.

He approached with that same measured pace, each footfall deliberate. The way he moved reminded me of documentaries I’d seen about predators. Not rushing. Never rushing. Because predators didn’t need to hurry when they knew their prey couldn’t escape. My heart, which had just started to calm, kicked back into overdrive.

“Cora, this is Rancor.” Hannah gestured between us, casually as if introducing neighbors at a barbecue. Thank God she didn’t notice my discomfort because how embarrassing would that be? “He’s going to help with the groceries.”

His gaze met mine, and I forced myself not to look away even though every instinct screamed at me to drop my gaze. His eyes were dark, nearly black in the shadow of the camo netting, and he studied me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

“Ma’am.” His voice was quiet and rough, as if he didn’t use it much.

“Hi.” The syllable came out higher than I wanted. I cleared my throat. “There are a lot of bags.” Brilliant conversational skills, Cora. Truly impressive.

But Rancor just nodded, a single dip of his head, and moved past me to the trunk. He smelled like soap and motor oil, the combination oddly intriguing.

I stepped back, giving him room.

He reached into the trunk and pulled out several bags at once, hoisting them like they weighed nothing. His forearms flexed, muscles shifting under skin decorated with what looked like a burn scar. Then he turned and walked toward the clubhouse, that same deliberate pace.

“So.” Hannah’s voice pulled my attention back to her. She’d moved closer, filling the space Rancor had vacated. “You deliver every day?”

“Most days.” I watched Rancor’s back as he walked away, the way his T-shirt stretched across his shoulders. “Depends on the orders.”

“That’s a lot of driving.” Hannah leaned against my car, comfortable in a way I envied. “You like it?”

Did I like it? I liked eating. I liked having electricity. I liked not being homeless. My job met those ends.

“It’s fine,” I said. “Flexible schedule.”

Hannah’s smile widened. Not mocking. Understanding. “Money talks?”

“Sometimes, I guess.” No point in pretending otherwise. My car was clean, inside and out, and I took care with my appearance. I didn’t have anything fancy, nor did I know how to do makeup or anything, but I kept myself clean, my clothes washed and pressed. Obviously, I didn’t have much, but I had pride.

Rancor emerged from the clubhouse, empty-handed now, heading back toward us. My pulse quickened at his proximity. Stupid. His presence made my pulse jump and my body betray me. I’d seen good-looking men before, both nice guys and dipshits. For some reason, though, this guy just did it for me when he shouldn’t. Story of my life. Wanting things I had no business dreaming about.

He reached the trunk and grabbed another few bags. This time when he lifted them, his eyes cut to mine briefly. Just a flicker of contact, there and gone, but it jolted through me like touching a live wire. I looked away first. Examined my shoes as if they held the secrets of the universe.

“Where are you from?” Hannah asked, still making conversation like this was normal, like we were normal people in a normal place.

“Here. Nashville.” I shifted my weight. “Well, just outside the city.”

“You grow up here?”

“No.” The word came out clipped. I didn’t elaborate. Hannah didn’t push. She seemed to have a way of paying attention to my body language and feeling me out.

Hannah glanced toward Rancor, who was emerging from the clubhouse again. When she looked back at me, something knowing glinted in her hazel eyes. “I’m glad you came back. Hopefully I can make a friend because you did.”

Rancor collected the last of the bags. His fingers brushed the trunk’s edge near where mine rested. We weren’t touching, but we were close enough that I felt the heat of his skin.

He straightened with the final bags and paused. Looked at me full-on, not just a glance but actual eye contact that held for three long heartbeats. Then he walked away, and I remembered how to breathe.

When I finally brought my attention back to Hannah, I found her watching me with that same knowing expression, approval written in the curve of her mouth. I felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with danger and everything to do with desire I had no business feeling.

Rancor must have set his load down somewhere because he now stood near the clubhouse door, hands loose at his sides, watching us. Watching me. The weight of his gaze pressed against my skin like humidity before a storm.

Hannah shifted closer, close enough that her voice dropped to something almost conspiratorial. “You know,” she said, quiet enough that Rancor probably couldn’t hear her. “You couldn’t pick a better protector than any of the men from Kiss of Death.”

The words hit me wrong. Too direct. Too knowing. Like she’d reached inside my head and pulled out thoughts I hadn’t fully formed yet. “I’m just delivering groceries.” I kept my voice light, aiming for casual and probably missing by miles. “I don’t need protection.”

But even as I said the words, I felt the lie in them. I was one bad day’s work away from being homeless. I lived in a really shitty part of town because I couldn’t afford anything better.

Hannah’s smile suggested she heard everything I didn’t say. “Of course.” I didn’t know what to do with the implication hanging between us. That I needed protecting. That I might want protecting. Or, more aptly, that the men here, Rancor specifically, could provide the safety I longed for.

The idea should have offended me. I’d spent years learning to protect myself, to need no one, to be self-sufficient in every way that mattered. I’d always been stubborn. At least, I had been after I left my parents’ sphere of influence.

Marteeka Karland is an international bestselling author who leads a double life as an erotic romance author by evening and a semi-domesticated housewife by day. Known for her down and dirty MC romances, Marteeka takes pleasure in spinning tales of tenacious, protective heroes and spirited, vulnerable heroines. She staunchly advocates that every character deserves a blissful ending, even, sometimes, the villains in her narratives. Her writings are speckled with intense, raw elements resulting in page-turning delight entwined with seductive escapades leading up to gratifying conclusions that elicit a sigh from her readers.

Away from the pen, Marteeka finds joy in baking and supporting her husband with their gardening activities. The late summer season is set aside for preserving the delightful harvest that springs from their combined efforts (which is mostly his efforts, but you can count it). To stay updated with Marteeka’s latest adventures and forthcoming books, make sure to visit her website. Don’t forget to register for her newsletter which will pepper you with a potpourri of Teeka’s beloved recipes, book suggestions, autograph events, and a plethora of interesting tidbits.

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