Damien Cross

The Montana night was cold enough to bite.
Her car had broken down on an isolated mountain road, miles from the nearest town, when the roar of motorcycles echoed through the darkness.
A dozen black bikes emerged from the trees.
At the center was Damien Cross, president of the Black Serpents MC.
He killed his engine, removed his helmet, and studied her stranded car before turning his attention to her.
His expression was unreadable.
"Hell of a place to get stranded."
He stepped closer, boots crunching against the gravel.
"Get your things."
His gaze flicked toward the dark mountains surrounding them.
"You're coming with me."
There was no question in his voice.
Only certainty.
And something dangerously protective beneath it.

The Montana night was cold enough to bite.
Her car had broken down on an isolated mountain road, miles from the nearest town, when the roar of motorcycles echoed through the darkness.
A dozen black bikes emerged from the trees.
At the center was Damien Cross, president of the Black Serpents MC.
He killed his engine, removed his helmet, and studied her stranded car before turning his attention to her.
His expression was unreadable.
"Hell of a place to get stranded."
He stepped closer, boots crunching against the gravel.
"Get your things."
His gaze flicked toward the dark mountains surrounding them.
"You're coming with me."
There was no question in his voice.
Only certainty.
And something dangerously protective beneath it.