Claiming His Desire
Feral Breed Motorcycle Club Series, Book #6
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A shifter waiting to end it all…
A woman living her life surrounded by death…
A destiny few could survive.
Jameson craves death. Former president of the Four Corners Feral Breed den, he’s abandoned his post and left behind his brothers to escape the worst day of his life. The day he saw his mate—a woman he’d never met—lying dead on a concrete floor, leaving him with nothing to live for except the fight to rescue the kidnapped Omegas and haunting visions of seducing the woman he failed to save.
Aoife sees dead people. Lots of them. The necromancer does her best to help them transition from one plane of existence to the next, but they don’t make it easy on her. Neither do the visions of blue eyes that have been torturing her for the past year, eyes she swears she’s seen before, belonging to a man who fills her dreams with passionate adventures and a desperate longing no one else can satisfy.
A psychic’s dream takes Aoife on a cross-country journey that leads her straight into the battle at Merriweather Fields…and the path of her mystery man. When Jameson realizes his mate is very much alive—most of the time—his renewed zest for life leaves him in a treacherous predicament: protect the men and women of his breed, his friends and Feral Breed brothers, or keep the woman fate says is his perfect match out of harm’s way.
Loyalties shift the landscape and not everyone can find their way across when Death comes out to play in this final, full-length installment of the Feral Breed series.
Suffering
Fucking Sandman. The bastard had killed the calm I’d been trying to achieve, igniting my temper with only a handful of words. I paced the small room I’d claimed as my own in the rear of the basement. No one else stayed back here, at least not voluntarily. There were always a handful of shifters in cages in the lower basement level—the one most people never knew about—but the good little boy and girl shifters who came to Merriweather Fields preferred to live upstairs in the more modern and cushy accommodations offered to the staff.
I didn’t want cushy.
I wanted dark and dank, quiet and alone. A den to hole up in and hide. A place to die over and over again without drawing attention from the gossipmongers upstairs. Sandman worried about me finding an early grave, but I looked forward to it.
A hand pulling her long hair off her face, her teeth white as she bit her lip, concentrating on what she was reading. Alive, real, beside me.
I whimpered and curled into a ball on the concrete floor, tucking myself in the corner. She wasn’t real; the visions weren’t real. And yet they haunted me. Tortured me.
Because she should have been mine.
The mate the fates had given me—the woman I’d only seen from a distance one time before she invaded every moment of my day through false memories and impossible visions—was dead. Had been since the moment I spotted her. So the fact that I knew her smell, her taste, and the warmth of her touch was utterly and completely impossible.
And yet my mind played tricks on me, making me uncertain what was reality anymore. Making me wish for death. Because the sooner I joined her, the sooner I could stop the raging agony inside of me. Maybe. If death led me to anywhere other than hell, or if I was lucky.
I huffed a laugh that turned into another whine.
Since when had I ever been lucky?