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Ezekiel “Carnage Creator” Ford.
Brother of the Royal Bastards MC.
Brutality incarnate.
A lone wolf.
The one they call in from the dark when they need shit done—and there’s no one better for the job than me.
I have a tainted soul, oil black, and hungry for bloodshed.
The world is a cesspit. I give zero fucks about it, and it gives zero fucks about me, so when some mafia prick with a vendetta toward our club tries to torture me for sport, the last person I expect to come to my rescue is a small female with a sassy attitude and a death wish.
She’s a complication, burrowing her claws deep into the layers of my fucked-up psyche.
Part of me wants to keep her there, drench her in the very essence of who I am until she’s nothing but a weeping mess, craving the relief only I can give her.
She’s bringing my walls down, showing me maybe there’s some good in the world after all. Until my brothers find us and it’s not me they’ve come for—it’s her.
She’s not who she’s been pretending to be.
She’s the devil dressed in the tight-ass skin of a bitch I’ve become addicted to.
I don’t care who has to bleed for me to keep feeding the habit:
My brother.
Our enemies.
Her.
If she’s not in my bed and on the back of my bike, she’s not going to be on anyone’s.
