Finding Her (Defiant Souls #2)

Prologue

Listen to me, and listen well, amor, because I’m only saying this once.

I am not the haunted figure I used to be. There was a time when I was reckless—wild, untouchable, a ghost in the night who gave no fucks about rules or consequences. I took what I wanted, did what I pleased, and left destruction in my wake without so much as a second thought. But then it became a job. A duty. A necessity. And that’s when everything changed. That’s when I learned to prioritize. To protect. To kill with purpose.

Now, I do what I have to, and I savor every goddamn moment of it.

By day, I run my club—the family I built with my own two hands. We don’t wear suits or hide behind polished boardrooms. We are inked skin, ripped denim, and leather riding through the streets of Ridgewood, making damn sure no one dares fuck with what’s ours. Our presence isn’t just seen—it’s felt. We don’t answer to anyone, and we protect this town like it’s stitched into our very souls.

And we don’t do that gender discrimination bullshit, either. Strength is strength. Loyalty is loyalty. What’s between your legs doesn’t matter—only what you bring to the table. If you can’t respect that, you’re not welcome among us. It’s as simple as that.

But when the sun goes down, I become something else. Something worse.

A ghost. A shadow. A dealer of death.

The darkness inside me doesn’t just stir at night—it consumes me. It slithers through my veins like venom, an intoxicating, poisonous elixir that fuels the predator within. Every movement I make is calculated—every breath is measured. I move like smoke, unseen until it’s too late. My kills are swift and methodical—each one a reminder that I was built for this. Raised for this, trained to embrace death like a lover and wield it like a weapon.

My name carries weight. A reputation so sharp it cuts before I ever have to lift a blade. No one dares cross me; no one touches what’s mine because the consequences will be brutal, bloody, and absolute. I was raised to be a killing machine—nothing more, nothing less. And I take pride in that. I protect my own with unwavering ferocity. My club is my family, my only allegiance, and I will kill to keep them safe.

They know what I’m capable of. They don’t know the weight of the darkness I carry—the ghost of a boy who never had a choice.

My bastard of a father made sure of that.

From the moment I could stand, he drilled into me that failure wasn’t an option. That pain was a lesson, and weakness was death. He broke me down and rebuilt me into something merciless, something lethal—just like his father did to him. And just like he expected me to do to my future children.

Yeah. Fuck that.

At eighteen, I wanted out. I wanted to take all that rage, all that training, and channel it into something else—join the military, tear shit up, live by my own damn rules. Kill on my terms. But there was one thing that held me back.

Esmé.

My little sister. My one good thing.

For her, I became the monster in the shadows, the demon lurking in the dark corners of the world, so she would never have to. I gave up my own dreams, my own ambitions because nothing—nothing—mattered more than keeping her safe.

And then, one night at the bar, I fucked up.

Some out-of-town assholes rolled in, throwing their weight around, acting like they owned the place. I kept my cool until they put their hands on Sasha.

Sasha isn’t just some club girl. She’s one of us. She’s fire and fists, a survivor who clawed her way out of the dirt. I found her sleeping in a homeless camp while I was hiking, and I knew—instantly—that she didn’t belong there. She was like me. An outcast. A fighter.

So when one of those fuckers grabbed her, yanked her close, I saw red. His jacket sleeve rode up, flashing ink—some gang mark I should’ve paid attention to. But I was too far gone. Too pissed off to care.

One glance at my crew. A single nod. And then hell broke loose.

We didn’t fight them. We destroyed them.

When it was over and the dust settled, I dragged the bastard who dared touch her out to the bikes. No hesitation. No mercy. I tied him to the back of mine, kicked up the engine, and let the gravel do the rest.

Five minutes. That’s how long it took for his screams to stop.

By the time I was done, he was unrecognizable. Even I could admit—I might have taken things too far. The drinks clouded my judgment. The anger tipped me over the edge. But I didn’t regret it. Not for a second.

And now, I’m paying the price.

Because what I didn’t know—what I should have known—is that the man I killed wasn’t just some random asshole. He belonged to someone. Marklov.

A name whispered in dark corners—a cartel leader who doesn’t tolerate disrespect. And now, thanks to my little outburst, he’s got his sights set on me.

Not to kill me.

To own me.

Marklov doesn’t want revenge. He wants something worse. He wants me to work for him—to be his weapon, his executioner. And with his right-hand man rotting in the dirt, he’s made it clear that I owe him.

One wrong move, and I lose everything.

Now, I have to play his game. Follow his orders. Walk the razor’s edge between survival and slaughter.

Because in this world, there are only two choices.

Kill.

Or be killed.

And I’ve never been the type to die easy.

But here’s the part that fucks with my head–the part that drives me mad. Marklov didn’t just want me for a job or because I was reckless and killed one of his men. He wanted me because he knew of me. He knew my face, my background, and what I was. He knew things about my life that I had never told a soul about. He knew what he was doing and pulled me into his trap.