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Don't bring a kiss to a knife fight.
Roadkill. Violent. Brash. Obsessive. In the closet.
Clyde. Cunning. Ruthless. Biker royalty. Trapped on the other side of the same closet.
Roadkill.
I've hated Clyde Turner since the moment I laid eyes on him. I hate him for existing, for tempting me, for being everything I can't have.
Ice-blue eyes, a cocky smirk that makes my fists itch, a damn Hell's Butchers MC prince. I want him violently, but since I can't have him, I will destroy him. I killed his f*cking brother, and he's next.
When a fire traps us together, death feels inevitable. With no way out and nothing left to lose, we trade confessions like poison-laced promises.
I say I wish I'd f*cked him. Just to break him. Just to see disgust twist his perfect face.
His reply is like a bullet.
"I would have let you..."
Clyde.
I should've burned to death in that fire, because now my worst nightmare has come true. Roadkill knows. He knows the secret I've spent years burying beneath blood, alcohol, and loyalty to my club.
I have to kill him. There's no other way.
But a knife fight leads to kisses and a deal struck in the dark. We'll keep it quiet. No one needs to know. Enemies with benefits, nothing more. A stolen moment here, a touch there, with no strings and no club betrayal.
Until one of us is dead, I'll let myself fall into his bed, and in the meanwhile, I'll keep looking for the bastard who killed my brother.
The aftermath.
Nothing stays buried forever. Not secrets, not sins, and certainly not feelings. What starts as a forbidden tryst becomes something deeper. No matter how far we run, the shadows of our clubs and the weight of our hatred threaten to destroy us.
Some things you can't come back from.
But that doesn't stop us from one last kiss.
And then, just one more.
