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Book: Devil's Inferno (Blacksteel Bandits Motorcycle Club Book 3) by Evelyn Glass
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Authors: Evelyn Glass
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she screamed, “No!”
The word echoed through the morning air. The slam of the front door joined her frightened declaration. A familiar voice sang through the air, “Mir?!”
“Tyler!” She shrieked, twisting and jerking against the fingers clamped along her arms. A hand slapped across her face, pain lighting across her cheek. She cried out, a yelp loosing from her lips.
“Mir!” He shouted, rounding around the corner of the diner. The slam of car doors and the smell of burning rubber and the sputter of flying gravel graced his ears. Briefly, he caught sight of Miranda struggling against two men in a sedan. The driver's bald head caught his eye.
Red clamped across Tyler's thoughts. Who the fuck did this? His ears perked up at the sound of crunching gravel. He spun, pinning a familiar figure with his heated glare.
Francesca ducked into her black sports car, revving the engine in a rush. Without thinking, Tyler charged at the car. Just as the vehicle began sliding through the parking lot, he slammed onto the hood. From inside the car, he could hear Francesca scream. She slammed on the brakes. The sudden stop sent him bounding off the car hood and landing just in front of the wheels.
The pain that arched up his body didn't stop him. Hell, it didn't matter. Nothing mattered if Miranda were kidnapped. Possessed by sheer rage, Tyler climbed to his feet and scrabbled over the hood of the car. He yanked the driver side door open and hauled Francesca from the car. Despite her flailing, he managed to pin her to the side of the car with a metallic thunk . He bent low, his dark brown eyes catching her wild hazel gaze. He could smell her fear as he snarled, “The Hell did you do?”
She gasped and dropped her bag before he shook her and slammed her back against a black sports car. A yelp barely left her lips before he shook her savagely. Her hands flew to his, her nails digging into his knuckles. He ignored the slight pain that grazed on his hands.
“The Hell did you do, Munoz?” Tyler demanded, his fingers digging into Francesca's shoulders. He knew marks would be left, dark purple bruises along her shoulders and clavicle. It wasn't anything the woman wasn't used to, though.
Francesca steeled herself, glaring heatedly at Tyler. Her lips curled into a thin sneer. She said the words as if she were reading from an inner script, stunted and curt, “Pete wants to talk.”
“The fuck you think they'll do with her?” He carried on, barely registering her words. He shook her again, her back thudding against the car. No matter how many times he shook her, no matter how much damage he did, he knew it wouldn't alleviate the mounting fear in his thoughts. If Pete had Miranda, who knew what would befall her. It equally enraged and terrified him.
“She understand the life,” snarled Francesca between shakes. Her fingernails sunk into his flesh, blood oozing from the crescent marks on his hands.
Tyler paused, his words becoming icy blocks of disgust, “No, she fucking doesn't.”
“Yeah, right,” snorted the woman, rolling her eyes.
“She's my high school sweetheart,” he growled, slamming Francesca against the car harder than the last few times. He tightened his hold until a whimper sifted from her lips. “She doesn't know the grit of this life.”
Francesca's eyes widened, sudden realization slammed into her thoughts. She hardened her expression a moment later. “Well, that's not my fault!”
Disgust peppered his thoughts. “And to think she wanted to help your sorry ass.”
“What?”
“She told me how that stupid fucking tat had something to do with the Torres family in Mexico or some shit.” He nodded to the rosary across her chest. Francesca's gaze darted to the blood red beads inked into her skin. Her face paled and little, incomprehensible sputters left her lips. Tyler didn't notice. He carried on with a darkening scowl, “It's
The word echoed through the morning air. The slam of the front door joined her frightened declaration. A familiar voice sang through the air, “Mir?!”
“Tyler!” She shrieked, twisting and jerking against the fingers clamped along her arms. A hand slapped across her face, pain lighting across her cheek. She cried out, a yelp loosing from her lips.
“Mir!” He shouted, rounding around the corner of the diner. The slam of car doors and the smell of burning rubber and the sputter of flying gravel graced his ears. Briefly, he caught sight of Miranda struggling against two men in a sedan. The driver's bald head caught his eye.
Red clamped across Tyler's thoughts. Who the fuck did this? His ears perked up at the sound of crunching gravel. He spun, pinning a familiar figure with his heated glare.
Francesca ducked into her black sports car, revving the engine in a rush. Without thinking, Tyler charged at the car. Just as the vehicle began sliding through the parking lot, he slammed onto the hood. From inside the car, he could hear Francesca scream. She slammed on the brakes. The sudden stop sent him bounding off the car hood and landing just in front of the wheels.
The pain that arched up his body didn't stop him. Hell, it didn't matter. Nothing mattered if Miranda were kidnapped. Possessed by sheer rage, Tyler climbed to his feet and scrabbled over the hood of the car. He yanked the driver side door open and hauled Francesca from the car. Despite her flailing, he managed to pin her to the side of the car with a metallic thunk . He bent low, his dark brown eyes catching her wild hazel gaze. He could smell her fear as he snarled, “The Hell did you do?”
She gasped and dropped her bag before he shook her and slammed her back against a black sports car. A yelp barely left her lips before he shook her savagely. Her hands flew to his, her nails digging into his knuckles. He ignored the slight pain that grazed on his hands.
“The Hell did you do, Munoz?” Tyler demanded, his fingers digging into Francesca's shoulders. He knew marks would be left, dark purple bruises along her shoulders and clavicle. It wasn't anything the woman wasn't used to, though.
Francesca steeled herself, glaring heatedly at Tyler. Her lips curled into a thin sneer. She said the words as if she were reading from an inner script, stunted and curt, “Pete wants to talk.”
“The fuck you think they'll do with her?” He carried on, barely registering her words. He shook her again, her back thudding against the car. No matter how many times he shook her, no matter how much damage he did, he knew it wouldn't alleviate the mounting fear in his thoughts. If Pete had Miranda, who knew what would befall her. It equally enraged and terrified him.
“She understand the life,” snarled Francesca between shakes. Her fingernails sunk into his flesh, blood oozing from the crescent marks on his hands.
Tyler paused, his words becoming icy blocks of disgust, “No, she fucking doesn't.”
“Yeah, right,” snorted the woman, rolling her eyes.
“She's my high school sweetheart,” he growled, slamming Francesca against the car harder than the last few times. He tightened his hold until a whimper sifted from her lips. “She doesn't know the grit of this life.”
Francesca's eyes widened, sudden realization slammed into her thoughts. She hardened her expression a moment later. “Well, that's not my fault!”
Disgust peppered his thoughts. “And to think she wanted to help your sorry ass.”
“What?”
“She told me how that stupid fucking tat had something to do with the Torres family in Mexico or some shit.” He nodded to the rosary across her chest. Francesca's gaze darted to the blood red beads inked into her skin. Her face paled and little, incomprehensible sputters left her lips. Tyler didn't notice. He carried on with a darkening scowl, “It's
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