BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books by Kristina Blake Page B

the bar. I've been waiting years to arm myself and take Richards out.
                  I move around the side of the house and vanish from her view. If she ultimately decides to follow me, at least I can use her hesitation now to my advantage. I steal quietly through the yard and push open the back kitchen door. It yields at once beneath the press of my gloved hand, gliding on soundless hinges as it swings open. I let myself inside.
                  I turn the corner out of the kitchen and move swiftly up the stairs. Athleticism has its uses outside of riding well and looking good, and the ability to be soundless in my own right is one of them.
    I find the door to Richards' bedroom. I breathe in a deep breath, squeeze my eyes shut, and banish all thoughts of the terrified woman waiting outside for me. Now is not the time for remorse. I yank the door open.
    Richards is standing in a white bathrobe, freshly showered; in one hand he holds a stack of papers, and in the other he swirls a glass of red wine. He has halfway raised it to his lips by the time I rudely admit myself into his bedroom. His hand stalls, and the glass slips from his hand. It falls through space, agonizingly slow; I watch it hit the expensive carpet and spray its equally expensive contents across the white fiber. A wine stain on his rug is about to be the least of Richards' worries, but it will nicely compliment the particular redecoration I have in store.
    "No." His voice, and the accompanying denial, are torn from him; he doesn't even seem cognizant of the fact that he is speaking. His terrified eyes fix me as if he is convinced he is looking at a two-dimensional ghost of a man he once knew, rather than the flesh and blood man himself. "Halligan. He killed you. By the river. I saw him kill you! The papers said you were dead!"
    "Don't trust everything you read." I raise the gun and level it at his head. Richards backs himself up; the backs of his knees hit the side of his bed, and he falls into a seated position atop the mattress. I lower my arm by inches.
    "Oh, God. Jesus. You can't kill me, Carter." He reaches a shaking hand up to push his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. "I wasn't… I didn't… I was complicit, okay? But I never wanted to go along with it! And I never actually thought we would go through with it. I thought it was all an intimidation tactic; to scare you into…into…"
    "Take off your glasses," I command. No emotion, just base directives. I will wait until he complies. I have all night.
    Then again, maybe I don't have as much of the night as I hoped. As the man sobs, and his fingers flex to follow orders, I hear the floor give a telltale creak in the hallway behind me. I don't turn around. There is only one other person it could be, and I don't want her to see the homicidal expression on my face.
    "Flint." Ana's quiet voice comes to me out of the shadows. "It's getting late. I think we should head out now."
    For a moment, I have no idea what she's on about. Can't she see that I'm holding a gun to a man's head? That I'm about to pull the trigger? I have to pull the trigger. This man stole everything from me, and he got away with it. Nothing in his excuses now speaks to the human in me…or rather, the fragments of what are left.
    And I can't let Ana speak to me, either. I have to remain strong, and hold my arm steady. I tighten the muscles around my elbow, until my arm is one long, deadly line, terminating in the instrument of death that will deliver the final bullet into Richards' skull.
    "Flint." Ana again. "You don't have to do this. Please. I know you don't want to do this."
    A tremor in my arm. I suppress it. "Go back downstairs, Ana," I reply in the same even tone of voice as the woman is maintaining, even though I feel a war raging within me. "You don't need to see this."
    "You don't, either," she insists. "Come on. Let's get out of here."
    "You don't know who this man is, Ana!" My voice breaks as my tone