Killing the Alpha: Fangs of Anarchy part 1

Fangs of Anarchy

Part One—Alpha Down

Copyright ©2014 Dakota Cassidy

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the copyright holder. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then purchase your own copy from appropriate distributor. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement from the author of this work.

Copyright © Dakota Cassidy 2014 All Right Reserve

Cover Art:
Renee George

Table of Contents

Other Works by Dakota Cassidy

Note From The Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

JOIN Dakota Cassidy’s Newsletter, The Tiara Diaries!

Other Works by Dakota Cassidy

Paranormal Novels

The Accidental Series:

The Accidental Werewolf—Book 1

Accidentally Dead—Book 2

The Accidental Human—Book 3

The Accidental Demon—Book 4

Accidentally Catty—Book 5

Accidentally Dead Again—Book 6

The Accidental Genie—Book 7

The Accidental Werewolf 2: Something About Harry—Book 8

The Hell Series:

Kiss & Hell—Book 1

My Way to Hell—Book 2

The Wolf Mates Series:

An American Werewolf in Hoboken—Book 1

Contemporary Novels

The Call Girls Series:

Talk This Way—Prequel Novella

Talk Dirty to Me—Book 1

Something to Talk About—Book 2

Talking After Midnight—Book 3

The Ex-Trophy Wives Series:

You Dropped a Blonde on Me—Book 1

Burning Down the Spouse—Book 2

Waltz This Way—Book 3

Note From The Author

Dear readers,

Please note:
Fangs of Anarchy Part One—Alpha Down
begins a multi-part serial. This is an episodic paranormal romance with new releases approximately every two to three weeks. These are not intended as stand-alone reads and there will be cliffhangers. Not big ones. Just little ones. Swear it. So no throwing stuff at me. J

Huge thanks to Adrienne Simpson-Trent who was my rock on Twitter when I binge-watched
Sons of Anarchy
(people! That show makes a girl need some hand holdin’!). I joked I should write vampire bikers, and she came up with this amazing title, and here we are!

Also, to my BFF Renee. Really, who would I share this ledge with if not for you, darling? Who else can I count on to call me up at night and soothe my frazzled nerves while we yak for eight hours straight about trying something new just because we can? I love you, punkin’. J

And always, to my husband Rob. You suck at plotting a happily ever after, which is what must makes you so good at a real life one. I love you more than I love my spleen.

Chapter One

“Whelp, you’ve done it now
,
” Irish McConnell muttered as his raven eyebrow rose on the sleek canvas of his granite-hard face. It was just the one, but it was always enough to make Claire Montgomery weak in the knees.

That and the perpetual stubble on his jaw. She wanted to feel it rubbed over every part of her, feel the scratchy tingle of his whiskers against her skin.

And yep, she’d done it all right. She’d outdone done it like she’d written the book.

“You have blood on your hand,” she pointed out, grunting as she stood to face him inside Boomer’s, an abandoned bar on the outskirts of their small town of Rock Cove, Maine. Her muscles ached and her eyes was a bit sore, the scratches on her arm still raw but healing quickly.

Irish held up his hand to the light, looking at it with mock disgust. “And you know how hard real blood is for me to resist, Claire. What a crappy position to put me in.”

He said it as if it were
her
fault he’d walked into the middle of this. As if she’d offered him the genuine article to purposely tempt him.

“Blame, blame, blame,” Claire mumbled under her breath, looking down at the mess one of her favorite dresses had become.

Irish strode toward her, taking in the scene, his skin stretched taut over his high cheekbones. “
Jesus Christ
, Claire.”

“Leave Jesus out of this,” she huffed, forcing herself to stay calm while wiping the sweat from her brow with her forearm.

Irish looked at the mess on the littered bar floor, the neon sign blinking above his chiseled features making him look paler than he really was. His hair, like the feathers of a raven’s wing, gleamed slick and black in a short ponytail at the base of his skull.

His brow furrowed as he swiped the bottle of water she’d left on the bar, using it to rinse off the blood he’d managed to get on him from the door handle. He pulled a used cocktail napkin from one of the only nearby tables still standing and dried his hands.

Claire straightened her spine and waited for him to lose his cool. This scenario wasn’t going to happen without a heated exchange. Not if Irish was involved.

Their verbal sparring was legendary—she relished it. He made her use her brain, her words, and from the moment she’d met him, it had turned her on.

Yet Irish said nothing as he stood at the bar, roughly hewn, immorally sexy in his worn leather jacket and scuffed boots, bulky arms and thick thighs. Instead, his gaze fastened on hers and he waited until she broke first.

She always broke first. It was that stare. Penetrating her, devouring her, eating her up from the inside out.

“Say something. Say
anything,
Irish. Say it and be done.”

The leather of his jacket, identical to the one all his club members wore, creaked when he lobbed the napkin to the table, the sound abrasive and jarring to her sensitive ears. He pointed upward with a finger, still streaked with a crimson thread of blood. “Jesus.
He
might be your only hope at this point.”

Her sigh of exasperation echoed in the empty room. “Always helpful.”

Irish’s eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. “Did you want me to rock you gently in the corner and blow unicorn kisses at you, Kitten, or do you want me to handle this first then give you the browbeating you deserve?” he asked, waving a lean hand around the room.

She lifted her chin in pure defiance. Irish McConnell had turned her down once before, and it had hurt like someone had stuck a hand in her chest and ripped her heart out. She knew
why
he’d turned her down, and it was logical, sane even. Still, she didn’t ask for anything from Irish because of it. Ever.

Lifting her chin higher, Claire said, “I didn’t ask for your help.”

“Well, you’re getting it.” He checked to be sure the door was locked before stalking back across the length of the bar, his thigh muscles bulging and pressing against his tight black jeans, and dropping his gloves on the scarred bar top.

Which meant things were about to get really real. When there was dirty work to be done, Irish always set his black leather gloves in a safe place. They’d been his father’s, and no one touched those gloves unless they wanted to lose a hand.

Claire planted her fists on her hips and shook her head, tamping down the naked fear of certain retribution. “You’re not allowed to help me, remember? We’re on two different sides. You know, like the Jets and the Sharks. The Montagues and the Capulets.”

He grinned then, the deep grooves on either side of his lean cheeks deepening. As always, when Irish smiled, it was an unlikely surprise. Like a meteor shower or an eclipse. It was a rare gift he bestowed on few, sure to steal the breath from any woman’s lungs and leave her in a puddle of goo.

Irish wasn’t just any old vampire. He was a cranky, pissy, hard-to-please vampire. The unlikeable, gruff president of the biker club Fangs of Anarchy—and the most irresistibly delicious man she’d ever known.

“You forgot Mothra versus Godzilla.”

She rolled her eyes at him and jammed a finger in the air. “Exactly. You’ve made our differences more than clear over the years.” He’d made them especially clear last year at their town’s annual Christmas fair and charity drive. A flash of red heat crept up her neck at the memory.

“And you decided now was the time to finally listen to me? What kind of alternate universe did I just walk into?”

Okay, so it was inopportune, to say the least. But no way could Irish be involved in this. One whiff of it, and her pack would string him up at high noon wrapped in cloves of garlic on a bed of crosses. There was nothing those cavemen biker club members the Road Dogs would relish more than to take Irish out—despite their races’ tenuous truce.

Claire dropped down to her haunches to assess how she was going to manage this, her nose full of the copper scent of blood, but she didn’t regret a second of it. Not one. Not right now. It had to be done.

Forcing herself to focus on the task at hand, she dismissed the vampire. “Go back to your club. I can handle this on my own.”

He reached down, hauling her up by her arm until there wasn’t an inch between them. “Not on your life,” he said, forcing the words from his tight lips like a thick milkshake through a straw.

It was always like this whenever they were within a hundred feet of each other. Tense, hot, an all-out war of restraint.

Even at this dark moment, when her life was crumbling around her, Irish’s body pressed to hers made her catch her breath. Every line of him, every inch of him was sculpted, unbelievably hard and cool to her own overheated limbs.

Claire tensed against his grip even though she wanted to melt into him, lean against his solid frame, take solace in his strength before all hell broke loose. “Do you want to die? Because that’s what’ll happen if you don’t go. Somebody’s bound to see your bike outside.”

Irish’s nostrils flared, his coal-black eyes consuming her. “I hid it. I come here to Boomer’s sometimes to get some peace and quiet. You know, away from the club and the clan. Luckily, no one ever comes out here much because they’re afraid of being hauled off to the prison camps, this being so close to the borders and all.”

“Who knew vampires needed special alone time?”

“If you had to run the club and lead an entire clan of misplaced vampires, you’d understand. They’re like a bunch of greased cats. Anyway, I’m always looking out for the one rebellious teenage vampire who thinks he can rage against the machine and get past the government borders. When I saw Boomer’s sign was lit up, I got suspicious.”

Damn. She hadn’t thought to turn the sign off after… Clearly, she lacked the stealth of a ninja. “Obviously peace and quiet isn’t what you’re going to get here tonight. Now, go home. I have to clean up.”

Rather than let her go, he pulled her closer, molding her body to his length, letting his hand stray to the swell of her hip. “Do you know the kind of hell that’s going to rain down on you for this, Claire?”

“Oh, hell-schmell. No one has to know unless you tell them. You’re my only witness,” she taunted, arching her back to get a better view of Irish’s face, fighting her hot longing for him. “You don’t want the same thing to happen to you if you rat me out, do you?”

She gave him a saucy grin as though she hadn’t a care in the world—even though she knew by tomorrow, her pack might be hunting her down like so much small prey.

He wrapped an arm around her waist, his eyes now amused. “You mean werewolf versus vampire? Hot. So damn hot, but don’t tempt me. Because you’d lose, pretty lady, and you know it. I’m stronger, faster.”

“Way older.”

His eyes glittered. “That’s fair. But with age comes wisdom and a certain prowess you obviously lack. This was messy, Claire. Really messy.”

That was fair, too. It
was
messy. Boomer’s was a shitwreck of overturned tables, broken glass, and blood. So much blood. “Yeah. Things didn’t exactly go according to the plan.”

Hah. They hadn’t gone at all like the plan because there’d been no plan, per se. There’d been a lot of screaming she hadn’t anticipated, though. Had she known, she’d have brought duct tape and a ball gag. Still, in the end, she’d won the battle.