I am Dressed in Sin (Death by Daybreak MC, #2)

by C.M. Stunich

Because if it goes down in flames, they’ll ride to their deaths on chrome stallions right along with it. And I … I will follow.

That doesn’t mean, however, that I wouldn’t be down for a nooner. Or a three PMer. Or a whenever-the-fuck fuck.

I also know that love doesn’t mean giving into every single thing a person wants. Sometimes, you have to push back or say no.

The way Sin’s crooked mouth twists up in a smile makes me feel a bit dizzy. Why does he have to be so pretty?

“Well, Ryan best keep his Harley and his giant cock and balls to himself, or I’ll bury him underneath the rhododendron out back of your gram’s house.”

I love these stupid motherfuckers. The thought chokes me up,

But even among heretics, I stand out.

I’m not sure what it is, exactly, that I’m promising myself I can do. Rescue Reba? Marry Beast? Win the war? Take over the club? Destroy the mafia? Get four officers as my paramours. Who knows? Does it matter? Whatever it is, I’ll conquer it. I’ll climb it.

“I can’t believe you’re alive,” I whisper, swallowing hard and stroking some of her bloodred hair back from her pale face. This is, was, and will forever remain one of my favorite moments in life. It trumps most things I’ve experienced and then ties the rest.

“For every day that you delay, we destroy something. Every day, we add another person to the tally.”

Even the men I love have hands drenched with blood, hearts of smoke and shadows, pasts dipped in pain and loss. They are not whole. Neither am I. But I don’t need that. I need someone with jagged edges, someone who can handle all my sharp points, my biting acidity, my nihilistic tendencies. Multiple someones, preferably.

“I don’t need that. I need the four of you to trust me, to treat me like a human being. Be my armor against the rest of the club. Let me thrive like a fern beneath the shadows of the trees.” I walk away from Crown, my boots sinking into the softness of the forest floor. “If it were sunny, the fern wouldn’t do well. Under the trees, it thrives. Its function in the world is different, but it’s no less important.” I point at a large, lush fern growing out of a nearby trunk, knowing that I’m going out on a limb here with a ridiculous metaphor. Still, I can’t help it. My life is bathed in metaphors and prose; it’s the only way it makes any sort of sense. “This is a resurrection fern. It grows out of the tree, but it doesn’t hurt it. They have a symbiotic relationship.”

I want Crown to push that fire into me until I’m burned to ash and drifting on the wind.

I love them both. I want them both. Like an ice cream cone with multiple scoops.

I recognize it because I’ve been carrying it around with me for so long: pain. One of the reasons I think I feel for these four assholes is because they have it, too, and like calls to like.

“Don’t let your past mistakes haunt you; let them guide you instead.

As Reba said, passion has ruined me. Passion has tainted me. But passion is also the only thing keeping me going right now. Joy, as I’ve said before, is so fragile. Passion, on the other hand, burns like fire and destroys everything in its path. It’s meant to cause destruction; it’s meant to burn.

That’s it. That’s all I’m asking for. Memories that will light the way into the darkness.

“I won’t let you fall,”

Anger, I can handle. Sadness, got it. Violence. Jealousy. Pain. All of those are as familiar to me as a sunrise, constants that I can count on. But forgiveness? Hope? Love? I don’t know. Passion is understandable; love is weird.

“You don’t always have to walk through fire and pretend like you didn’t get burned. Be honest, Gidge. Feel the feelings. Otherwise, they’ll take control of you; they’ll own you far better in denial than they ever could in acceptance.”

Colton’s hands are worshipful, his mouth a blessing, but his cock is a sin.

So I just cuddle—cuddle? ew—closer to him

“You better,” I grumble. “Because the next pact you idiots make about me behind my back leads solely to castration.”

“You only get married once, Gidge,” Reba says, and I cock a brow at her. “There is such a thing called divorce. It’s been around for a while. You ever heard of King Henry the Eighth?” “Don’t be contrary for contrary’s sake,” Reba admonishes, slapping my arm.

“I’d rather you ate a bag of dicks and died,” I hiss back at him,

it’s a twenty-four seven funhouse of death and violence over here.

I’m taking four lovers with me to the bridal shop. Four lovers, a future nun, and my estranged mother. How exciting.

“You belong to me.” He said that, which is fine, but in reality, it’s the other way around. Colton belongs to me.

“Go fuck yourself, Grey,” I tell him, playing with Fem’s fur. “I have better things to do than floss, moisturize, and starch my underwear.”

Because of course he would be walking me down the aisle. Giving me away. It’s what he’s always wanted. Even if I find the tradition to be a disturbing bit of prehistoric patriarchal nostalgia, I’ll allow it.

Leroy Kesselring aka Cat, the President of the Death by Daybreak Motorcycle Club, puts his finger on the trigger. Aims. Fires. Happy wedding day, Gidget. A white dress, a hot fuck, a bomb blast. Sounds about right. I am dressed in sin, bathed in it, consumed by it. And in sin I shall remain—right down to the cold, hopeless depths of my own grave.