Property of Pagan (Kings of Anarchy MC Wyoming #1)

Prologue

Aislynn

The first time I laid eyes on Pagan Sinclair was a revelation.

His all-knowing onyx stare met mine across a crowded room, and everything shifted, not only under my feet, but also inside my soul.

The way he edged toward me was mesmerizing.

His big, muscle-rippling, steel-like body crept like a panther moving in for the hunt, and it thrilled me.

I remember feeling the danger of him, the purity of his menace, and the deep-rooted wickedness that clung to his bones.

The Pagan Effect rocked my foundations so forcefully, so emphatically, that I shook with it from the inside out.

I wasn’t a stupid girl; the knowledge that one day he would shatter my world into tiny pieces was as real to me as a living, breathing entity.

Everybody warned me. My brothers, my friends, even my mammy, but I brushed their gentle concern off with the age-old adage that if I were honest, I knew, even then, was utter bullshit.

I can fix him.

However, I came to learn pretty quickly that nobody could fix something that was broken beyond repair. You could glue the bits together and make it resemble what was once whole, but it would never be the same, and it would never be perfect.

But then, wasn’t perfection just an illusion? Weren’t we all broken in some way?

The night I first laid eyes on Pagan Sinclair was a revelation.

And it was also the beginning of my demise.

—————

I was the youngest of four siblings, and the only girl. My da, Lorcan, had passed just weeks before. It had left me feeling vulnerable, like a level of safety I’d always taken for granted had been ripped away.

Da had left a stake of the family bar, The Lucky Shamrock, to all of us, with the main shareholder being Callum, my eldest brother and the only O’Shea sibling to have any interest in carrying on the family business.

After my daddy’s passing, Callum married an old acquaintance of the family, Maeve Monroe. Between them and my middle brother, Donovan, they’d given the bar a total overhaul and created a range of new brews.

The big reopening party for the Lucky Shamrock was underway.

The place was packed, the music loud, and the drinks were flowing.

Laughter and chatter filled the room along with bodies swaying in time to the pumping, sexy music filtering through the speakers while they waited for Dischordium—a local band who were on the verge of hitting the big time—to begin their set.

I’d been talking to my sister-in-law, Maeve, and a few of the men from the local motorcycle club, the Speed Demons, who had been regaling me with stories about their members and the shit they got up to.

That was when I saw him.

Pagan.

He walked through the door, and the air around him seemed to thicken. I couldn’t see much of his face, but I was immediately aware of his size, his aura, and his edge.

“Are they bikers?” I asked my sister-in-law. “They don’t look like any Speed Demons I’ve ever met.”

Maeve looked over her shoulder to see who I was talking about when Atlas, the Speed Demons’ sergeant at arms, lifted his hand and yelled, “Over here, Pagan.”

My heart fluttered.

“Oh,” Maeve exclaimed. “They’re the Kings of Anarchy boys. It’s a new MC based near Rock Springs. We went to a party at their clubhouse a couple of weeks back. It was grand.”

My gaze traveled over the group of men heading our way.

I’d heard about the Kings of Anarchy.

Months before, the Speed Demons had welcomed them into Southern Wyoming in an effort to keep a handle on the rising crime in the area.

The Demons ran the more unsavory characters from our town, but it was becoming harder to keep a hold on things.

By striking a deal with the Kings, they’d passed on the problem and the headache, while at the same time gaining an ally.

The Speed Demons used to be a one-percenter club, but gave up that status years before and now earned their money legitimately. However, the Kings were an outlaw club with chapters all over the United States. I’d even seen their Colorado chapter occasionally riding around town in Denver.

Their reputation preceded them, and everybody knew their club motto.

Nobody fucks with the Kings.

Maeve was an archeologist who, most days, wore glasses and said awesome a lot. She’d led a sheltered life after being adopted by Patrick Doyle, the head of the Irish Mob in New York. Her soul was pure, and the thought of her going to an outlaw MC’s clubhouse was a surprise to say the least.

“Jesus,” I murmured. “I can’t believe sweet, shy Maeve Monroe is going to biker parties. Patrick will have a conniption if he finds out.”

My gaze fell on Pagan’s stomach muscles rippling under his tight, white tee, and I had to hold back my sigh.

Confidence oozed from him, and he high-fived a couple of Speed Demons as he sauntered past them, his white teeth flashing in the muted, golden light of the bar.

His shaven head should have put me off, but if anything, it gave him an even more menacing air, which only piqued my interest further.

My belly clenched as I leaned closer. “Who’s the one with the shaved head who looks like he’d slit your throat in your sleep? And why do I find him so hot?”

“Oh, that’s Pagan,” she explained casually, as if they were besties. “He’s their prez and very much a ladies’ man. Be careful he doesn’t break your heart.”

The proverbial red flags began to wave so intensely that I could almost feel them whipping at my face.

I ignored the heated crimson blooming across my cheeks and told her, “It’s not my heart I want him to break; it’s my vagina.

” I craned my neck to watch Pagan strut closer, full of bravado and bad attitude, and observed, “He’s got that Jason Statham thing going on, except he’s tougher-looking and way sexier. ”

“It’s definitely a vibe,” she agreed. “But I prefer a nice shirt, good hair, and Irish charm.”

“I don’t want to wed him,” I protested softly.

“Good,” Maeve said decisively. “He’s a criminal.”

“So’s your da,” I returned.

Maeve shrugged. “True that.”

Our eyes met, and we started to laugh just as a deep, husky voice said, “Nothing makes a beautiful woman even more gorgeous than seeing her laugh.”

The sound of his voice made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. I twisted around to see Pagan and his MC brother right there.

Hey!” Maeve exclaimed, giving him a hug. “How was your journey?”

He released her from their embrace and touched her face with his palms. “Cold.”

Something twisted deep inside my belly at the sight of them, so friendly. I was sure Maeve didn’t mean to flirt with him; she probably wouldn’t know how, but I could tell by the gleam in Pagan’s eyes that he was enjoying every second.

My mouth went dry.

“Hey!” a familiar, deep voice bellowed.

I turned to see my brother, Callum, charging through the crowd toward us. He grabbed Maeve’s hand and pulled her into him possessively.

Maeve’s hand rested on his stomach, and she rubbed soothingly. “Baby. It’s okay.”

He glared at Pagan and bit out, “It’s not. Nobody touches Maeve but me.”

Maeve let out a weird little squeak.

Pagan threw his head back and hooted out a laugh.

My cheeks burned.

What the fuck was Callum doing?

“Oh my God,” I admonished, slapping my brother’s arm. “What the hell’s going on with you? Why are you acting like the maggot?”

“Don’t like people touching her,” Callum retorted like a spoiled, sullen schoolboy.

“Fucking eejit,” I muttered, turning to Pagan and rolling my eyes. “Excuse my brother. He’s gone loo-lah over his wife.”

Pagan glanced at the way Callum held Maeve close before turning back to me and shooting me a white, dazzling smile. He thrust a hand out, his gaze traveling from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. “I’m Pagan.”

I felt my face flush and took his fingers in mine. “Aislynn.”

Pagan brought my hand to his lips and kissed it gently before muttering, “Wanna drink?”

My cheeks burned.

I sensed who Pagan was, and I also sensed what he was capable of, but it was like my body had a life of its own because I nodded.

“For fuck’s sake,” I heard my brother mutter.

“Leave her alone,” Maeve hissed. “She thinks he looks like Jason Statham.”

Pagan’s grin widened cockily, his dark, all-knowing stare never leaving my face.

My eyes widened, and I sent Maeve a glower.

Maeve made an eek face. “Sorry,” she said, smiling as my brother pulled her away, while whispering something in her ear.

Pagan leaned in, his aquatic, fresh cologne filling my senses, and with his mouth a hairsbreadth from my ear, he asked, “What are you drinking?” He spoke slowly, letting each syllable roll over his tongue, drawing out the sound like he wanted to taste it—and me.

I turned until our eyes locked and murmured, “You move fast.”

His mouth curved into a predator’s smile. “No time to waste, baby. I’m a busy man.”

It was cheesy, and I should’ve laughed, but something in his voice, a kind of wondrous reverence, made me suspect he meant every word.

“Whiskey on ice.” I pushed the words out, my gaze darting between the fathomless, black depths of his eyes.

He blinked, effectively breaking our spell, then leaned down and brushed his lips against my forehead, not quite a kiss, but still something. “A girl after my own heart,” he rasped before turning and sauntering toward the bar with his MC brother at his back.

I watched Pagan prowl, his brother flanking him like personal security—not that he needed it because the crowd automatically parted to let him through.

Women stared up at him over the rim of the glasses while men lowered their eyes to avoid confrontation, their faces flashing with instant respect, suspicion, and in a few cases, fear.