Viper’s Regret (Drago’s Inferno MC #1)

Prologue

Kayla

The late afternoon sun is warm against my face as I finish pulling out the last of the weeds in the flower bed and look up.

Standing, I press my hands against my lower back and arch, wincing slightly at the faint soreness there.

Pulling off my gloves, I sit down on the wooden porch steps and take a long drink from my water bottle.

“Need water?” I call out to my husband.

“I’m good,” he tells me, turning his head long enough to give me a quick smile.

I can’t take my eyes off Roman as he drives the last screws into the last raised bed.

Sweat glistens on his forearms, making the colorful tattoos there seem almost alive as his muscles flex with each twist of the drill.

He’s shed his shirt, and I can’t stop watching the way his broad back ripples as he moves.

Even after three years together, the sight of him still makes me catch my breath.

“Almost done, Sunshine,” he calls over his shoulder, as if sensing my gaze on him.

Looking around with satisfaction, I take another drink of water.

Our backyard is transforming before my eyes; what was once just a patch of grass when we bought the house is slowly becoming my dream garden.

Six cedar boxes now form a neat grid, ready for soil and compost. Next summer, they’ll be overflowing with vegetables and herbs.

Roman steps back, admiring his handiwork before wiping his brow with his forearm.

The tattoos that cover his skin tell stories; some I know, others I suspect I never will.

The club tattoos tell the most important story of all.

The Devil’s Reject emblem prominent on his back marks him as property of the MC as surely as his wedding ring marks him as mine.

“What do you think?” he asks, gesturing to the completed beds.

“They’re perfect.” And they are. Exactly the dimensions I asked for, corners square and true, wood sanded smooth so I won’t get splinters when I tend to my plants.

He grins, that rare, unguarded smile that transforms his face from the hard, intimidating VP of the Devil’s Rejects that everyone else sees to the man only I know. My husband. My Roman.

As he gathers up his tools, my mind drifts back to the first time I saw that smile.

Three years ago, I’d been a newcomer to the small town of Redbird.

I hadn’t planned on staying in Montana after college, but I’d found a good job and when it came down to it, I didn’t want to leave the mountains of my home state.

The night we met, my co-workers had insisted I join them for drinks after work. We’d gone to a tiny little hole in the wall place called, appropriately enough, The Dive Bar. We hadn’t been there long, maybe about twenty minutes, when I felt a prickling sensation at the back of my neck.

Like I was being watched.

When I turned, I found myself locked in the gaze of the most striking pair of eyes I’d ever seen.

They were ice blue, almost unnaturally bright against his tanned skin and dark beard.

He sat at the bar, surrounded by other men in leather cuts like his, with patches I didn’t yet understand the significance of.

In that crowded, noisy space, something electric passed between us.

I’d looked away first, heart suddenly racing. But not thirty seconds later, he was there, sliding into the empty chair beside me.

“What are you drinking?” he’d asked, his voice low and rough.

“Lemon drop,” I’d answered, immediately feeling silly next to this man who radiated danger and raw masculinity.

But he hadn’t even blinked. Just nodded and ordered me another, plus a beer for himself. “I’m Roman,” he’d said, extending a hand covered in tattoos.

“Kayla,” I’d replied, my smaller hand disappearing in his grip.

We’d talked for hours. My coworkers eventually left, but I stayed, captivated by this man who spoke little about himself yet listened to me with an intensity that I’d rarely experienced with other men.

Eventually, I realized how late it was and knew I had to get home. Before leaving, however, I’d given him my number, something I never did with men I’d just met. Especially men who looked like they ate girls like me for breakfast.

Our first date came only a few days later. Not dinner or drinks as I’d expected, but the county fair. I remember my trepidation when he pulled up on his motorcycle.

“You ever ridden one of these before?” he’d asked, those blue eyes dancing with something like mischief.

I hadn’t. My mother had been a nurse and had had strong opinions about how foolish and unsafe she found motorcycles to be. But something about Roman made me want to be daring.

The fair had been magical; cotton candy and carnival games, his large hand warm against the small of my back as he guided me through the crowds.

He’d won me a ridiculous stuffed panda at the shooting gallery, hitting every target with an accuracy that should have alarmed me but instead left me impressed.

As the sun set and we walked back to his bike, his arm had slid around my shoulders, pulling me against his side. “Have fun today, Sunshine?” he’d asked.

I laughed at the nickname, tilting my head to look up at him. “Sunshine?”

His face had softened then, thumb brushing my cheek. “Yeah. Watching you enjoy yourself today… it was like basking in a sunbeam.”

I fell in love with him that day, though I wouldn’t admit it to myself until later.

After losing both my parents in a car crash during high school, I’d built walls around my heart.

I’d learned how quickly the people you love could be taken away, how little the universe cared about your plans or your happiness.

But Roman had scaled those walls effortlessly.

He understood my loss in a way few others did; his father was also dead, his mother gone before he could even form memories of her.

We were both orphans in our way, both alone until we found each other.

At least at the time, I thought we were both alone.

By the time I realized that wasn’t completely true, he’d already held my heart.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Roman’s voice pulls me back to the present as he settles beside me on the steps, our shoulders touching.

“Just thinking how hot my husband is,” I answer, smiling up at him. “You should work shirtless more often.”

He chuckles, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “Is that so, Sunshine?”

“Definitely,” I smile, leaning into him.

His arm slides around my waist, pulling me even closer against him. “So what do you think?” he asks again, nodding toward the garden beds. “Worth the wait?”

I turn to press a kiss against his stubbled cheek, breathing in his scent: sawdust and sweat and that indefinable essence that is purely Roman. “I love them. Thank you.”

A gleam enters his eyes, something heated and hungry that still makes my stomach flip. “That all the thanks I get?” he asks, voice dropping lower. “Thought you might have something more… enthusiastic in mind.”

I bite my lip, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. “What did you have in mind?”

His large hand slides under the hem of my t-shirt, calloused fingers warm against my skin as they inch upward. “I could show you,” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear.

My breath catches as his thumb traces the underside of my breast through my bra.

I’m about to suggest we take this inside when Roman’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

He freezes, then pulls it out, checking the screen. His expression shifts almost imperceptibly — a tightening around his eyes, a slight clench of his jaw. To anyone else, he’d look the same, but I know every nuance of his face, every expression, every shift.

“I need to take this,” he says, already standing.

Just like that, the spell is broken. Roman, my husband, becomes Roman, the VP of the Devil’s Rejects MC. He steps into the house, the screen door closing behind him with a soft click.

I remain on the steps, suddenly aware of the cooling evening air against my skin where his hand had been moments before. This is our reality: moments of perfect connection interrupted by the ever-present demands of his other life. His other family.

The brotherhood.

By the time I realized exactly what it meant to love a man with that patch on his back, I was in too deep to walk away.

Now, years later, I’ve made my compromises.

I don’t ask too many questions. I don’t demand to know where he goes on certain nights.

I pretend not to notice the occasional bruised knuckles, the hushed phone calls, the tension that sometimes radiates from him when he returns home in the early hours.

It’s the bargain I’ve struck to keep him, to keep us. Most days, it’s enough. Some days, like today, watching him slip into that other life right before my eyes, the distance feels vast and unbridgeable.

I take another sip of my water, staring blankly out into the backyard. My new beds stand ready before me, already carrying the promise of new growth, of life I’ll nurture come spring. A counterbalance, perhaps, to the other parts of our life together.

The screen door opens again, and Roman returns, slipping his phone back into his pocket. His expression is impossible to read.

“Everything okay?” I ask, though I know better.

“Yeah,” he says, taking his seat next to me again. “Just club business.”

I nod, swallowing the follow-up questions that rise instinctively. What kind of business? Is there trouble? Will you need to leave tonight? Instead, I let the silence stretch between us, willing to wait until he either volunteers more information or changes the subject.

He does neither, just sits beside me, close but somehow distant, his mind clearly still processing whatever was said on that call.

I could push. Part of me wants to. But I’ve learned that pushing rarely gets me anywhere with Roman when it comes to club matters. He keeps those worlds separate — me in one, the MC in another — and the walls between them are high and thick.

“I made a pitcher of lemonade,” I say finally, opting for neutral ground. “It’s chilling inside. Want some?”

He glances at me, and I see the gratitude in his eyes — for not pushing, for understanding, or at least pretending to. “Sure.”

I start to stand, but his hand on my wrist stops me. “Kayla.” My name on his lips is soft, almost apologetic.

“It’s okay,” I tell him, though we both know it’s not entirely true.

He tugs me down until I’m sitting in his lap, my legs draped over his thighs. His arms circle my waist, pulling me against his chest. “The garden beds look good,” he says against my hair. “What are you planning to plant?”

It’s a peace offering, this return to safer topics. I accept it, resting my head on his shoulder as I talk about heirloom tomatoes and different varieties of peppers, the herb garden I want to expand, the pollinator-friendly flowers I plan to intersperse among the vegetables.

As I talk, I feel the tension gradually leave his body. His hands resume their earlier exploration, slipping beneath my shirt, tracing idle patterns on my skin. His touch grounds me, reminding me of what we do have, even with the parts of his life he keeps walled off.

“Now,” he murmurs when I pause for breath, his voice rumbling against my ear, “where were we before we got interrupted?”

I turn in his lap until I’m straddling him, my hands framing his face. His blue eyes have darkened, the pupils dilated with desire. “I think,” I say, leaning in until our lips are nearly touching, “I was about to properly thank you for the garden beds.”

His answering smile is slow and wicked, making my breath catch. “That’s right,” he says, one hand sliding up my back to tangle in my hair. “And I’m thinking that kind of gratitude might be better expressed somewhere more private.”

“Is that so?” I tease, though heat blooms low in my belly at his words.

“Definitely.” His other hand cups my ass, pulling me more firmly against him so I can feel exactly how interested he is in my gratitude.

I smile against his lips, letting the lingering questions about the phone call fade into the background.

There will always be parts of Roman I can’t reach, secrets he keeps even from me.

But this — his touch, his desire, the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing in his world that matters — this is real. This is ours.

“Lead the way,” I whisper, and lean into his answering kiss.