Property of Brute & Axl (Kings of Anarchy MC: Mississippi #1)

Prologue

Finleigh

T iptoeing quietly through any type of foliage is impossible; doing it because someone is actively looking to kill you is even worse.

My feet are shredded from stumbling over the rugged rocks and logs all night, and my clothes…

they’ve been turned to rags—tree branches couldn’t care less if you’re running for your life.

And it’s a miracle that I’ve avoided the deadly creatures that own Ora Swamp.

Time is running out, though. My bones rattle with fatigue, and my muscles seize from dehydration. My mind’s terrified and working overtime on how to get out of this alive.

This was supposed to be a relaxing weekend. Time to myself after a successful gallery showing by a new artist at my family’s gallery, The CollinSphere. The first time in three months, I was able to stop running around.

When I arrived at the family cabin outside of Bay Springs, with a small bag and a cooler filled with food, I’d barely gotten anything unpacked before an airboat filled with a handful of unfamiliar men approached our dock.

I quickly locked myself inside, but honestly, my car would’ve been a smarter choice.

I could have driven away at least. Hindsight is 20/20 for a reason.

It didn’t take long for them to discover my location, cruelly taunting me with vile suggestions of how they wanted to violate me. It took even less time for them to grab me while trying to crawl out of the bedroom window.

Hands on my hips had me screaming as they pulled me back in and tossed me on the bed, where they ripped at my clothes and forced my legs open.

I shudder remembering the pain. The assault.

The blood. So much blood. The way their breath stank as they huffed and puffed on my face while taking what they wanted from me.

I still don’t understand how I got away. They started drinking and smoking pot, filling the cabin with smoke and the rancid smell of cheap beer. One by one, they passed out while I cowered in a corner of the bed in my ripped shirt and panties dangling around my ankle.

As the sun set, I quietly grabbed a pair of bike shorts from my bag and slipped into them. I couldn’t risk taking more because one of the men began mumbling and groaning. Terrified he would wake up, I slowly made my way to the front door and slipped out.

Without hesitation, I bolted into the dense forest surrounding the cabin.

It was minutes before the shouting began, someone bursting through the cabin door, and shots being fired in every direction.

One bullet nearly clipped me, instead sailing into the trunk of a tree I was running past. When a startled scream escaped me, they focused in on my direction, and now, I can’t stop going.

My body is sore from the beating, the rape, the sheer force it’s taking for me to stay on my feet.

And worst of all, I’m uncertain if my baby is okay.

I’m nearly five months along now, and that’s part of the reason I came here this weekend.

I’d finally decided to look for the men who impregnated me.

Brute and Axl. Dirty talking bikers from one of the most dangerous and notorious motorcycle clubs in the country.

We spent one deliciously filthy weekend together in Jackson.

I’d been out celebrating the acceptance of my gallery; they’d approached me in a dive bar, and as they say, the rest is history.

Except they left me a gift. One I hadn’t known I wanted but would now protect with my life.

And I have to believe that if I can just get to their club in Gulfport, I’ll be okay.

Hiding behind a massive tree trunk, I take a minute to calm my breathing and get my bearings, hoping to reorient myself in the direction of Route 84. Once I do, I can make it to Collins and find help for the rest of the way.

Closing my eyes, I concentrate beyond the sounds of the swamp, searching for the rumbling of tires on pavement. When I lock in, I pivot and start making my way east. As the noise of vehicles gets closer, I become more frantic and dig my way through the long grass and trees.

Just as I break free, a car speeds past, another shot blasts, and I’m propelled forward with a burning sensation in my shoulder as I hit the ground on my knees. Another shot, and this time, they don’t miss. This time, blood seeps down my face, and I fall flat.

My eyes focus on the road as an eighteen-wheeler approaches, the whistling sound as it passes steals my consciousness, leaving me staring at the men hunting me, with glee on their faces.

They caught me.