Rogue (Sons of Sangue Book 4)
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Authors: Patricia A. Rasey
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ROGUE
A Sons of Sangue Novel
Book 4
PATRICIA A. RASEY
© 2016 by Patricia A. Rasey
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. (v1)
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Don’t miss the other books in the Sons of Sangue vampire MC series:
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“Every book from this author catches you hook line and sinker. Each one gets better and better and makes you fall in love with all the men...I cannot wait for the next book. It cannot get here fast enough. Once again Patricia Rasey blows you away with her writing skills. A must read!!!”
—Rogue: Joey, GoodReads
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"Outlaw vampire bikers. The women who tame them. What's not to love? Patricia Rasey's new series Sons of Sangue is hot!"
—Viper: Monette Michaels, author of Security Specialists International series
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"A lot of the arcs started in the first book have some closure in this one along with a surprise at the end. Ms Rasey again does a perfect job of blending the life of a MC club along with the life of vampires.”
—Hawk: Cindy 0, SnS Reviews
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“Intensity is an understatement for the hot mess that plagues the Sons of Sangue in GYPSY. Deceit is thick in the air. Brotherhood is tested. Revenge is a must. Sexual tension is taken to a new level. That’s just the beginning. Patricia Rasey has the reader going full throttle into a wicked storm. Action from beginning to end, twists that hit you like a brass knuckled fist and lust building like a bomb waiting to go off...”
—Gypsy: Deana, Coffee Books Life
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Vampire MC member
Anton “Rogue” Balan
, aka Blondy, has turned his back on the powerful Sons of Sangue, betraying the brotherhood he once considered his family. Or so his vampire brethren think. Changing his appearance, his persona, and signing up with rival gang, the Devils, Rogue has gone deep undercover to catch the La Paz Cartel’s kingpin. Having lost a woman he once thought he would spend eternity with, Rogue now feels he has nothing left to lose . . . that is until a temptation named
Kimber James
invades his dangerous world.
Strait-laced Kimber has a problem and his name is Anton Balan. After an impulsive night of passion with him more than a year ago, the small-town librarian still has the hots for the sexy biker next door. She can’t deny her desire for Anton, even though she suspects he’s hiding a secret even darker than his affiliation with an outlaw MC. As for Rogue, no matter how much he tries to refuse the scorching need he has for Kimber—as much as his duty depends on it—he’s powerless to deny his rising feelings for her. And when a blindside by an enemy he once trusted puts Kimber’s life at risk, Rogue’s tarnished honor is put to the ultimate test.
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To my readers, for without you
I would have no one to share my stories with.
Thank you for reading my work!
Thank you to my cover artist, Frauke Spanuth, from Croco Designs for creating the Sons of Sangue covers, and making Rogue one of my favorite covers to date.
To my editor, Catherine Snodgrass, for helping me see what I cannot and helping me make my story the best possible.
Imbeciles!
Each and every one of them.
Anton “Rogue” Balan sat sideways on the black leather seat of his custom Harley Davidson Road King, his booted feet kicked out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. Sweat slipped down his spine and dampened his tank as well as his mood. Two of his current MC brothers stood bloodied and bruised in the center of the gravel parking lot as they continued to beat the shit out of one another. Anton couldn’t recall what started the blood bath, though likely nothing more than a vulgar joke or insult aimed at someone’s mother. The Devils were a savage bunch.
One year, one month, and six days.
Lord, he wasn’t sure how much more time he’d have to spend in the company of these fucks. A day would be too much.
The scent of human blood wafted to his nose. He had to tamp down the rising lust for arteries or wind up sporting fangs and having to explain the unusual change in his appearance. It had been a little over three days since he last fed. Anton needed to make the trip north, and soon, to get communion. He couldn’t chance the death chill — the translucent presentation of skin — making a sudden appearance due to his lack of feeding. For all pretenses and purposes, his life depended on his anonymity and ability to blend in.
Well, as much as a six-foot-five, two hundred and fifty pound vampire could.
He had left his old life behind. His once blond hair had been dyed black and cut short. The hair color went along with the moniker Blondy. Now, those around him knew him as Rogue. Anton had buried Blondy over a year ago when he had taken the job asked of him. The Devils had only been too happy to help rid him of everything that reminded them of his past life with the Sons of Sangue, their rival MC.
Following the little power play between the two low-ranking Devils, he’d make his excuses and get the hell out of Santa Barbara for a few days. He had about enough of his present company to last him a good long while. Maybe this trip he’d hide out at his farmhouse off the Oregon coast for a few days of downtime. He didn’t give a rat’s ass what Tank, the Devils’ president, might think of his unplanned trip for a little R&R. He had been doing nothing more than playing babysitter to a bunch of younger Devils, keeping them out of as much trouble as he possibly could.
Apparently, it was rumored the La Paz Cartel had fallen under the DEA’s radar and their kingpin, Raúl Trevino Caballero, had ordered the MC to lay low. To Anton’s dismay, as well as that of Cara Brahnam and her mate Kane “Viper” Tepes, who had helped him infiltrate the rival gang, he had yet to seal a meet and greet with the feared leader of the Mexican cartel.
Tank, on the other hand, had begun to trust in Anton implicitly. The Devils put in his charge either toed the line or received a beat down Anton was only too willing to give. Tank had told him on numerous occasions his crew had rarely feared anyone — that was until Anton had turned rogue against his own MC.
Little did Tank know, Anton would rather cut off his right arm than actually betray the Sons.
The shorter Devil, whom Anton knew as Spike, rushed the taller, thicker brother nicknamed Boston. The latter received his moniker due to his heavy New England accent. Boston sidestepped Spike and sent him sprawling to the gravel, before pouncing on his back, gripping his spiked hair, and shoving his bloodied face into the dirt and stones.
With a heavy sigh, Anton pushed off his bike, having had enough of the mostly one-sided beating taking place. His large hand easily spanned Boston’s thick neck as he pulled the man from his comrade. Rather than fight a losing battle with Anton, Boston thankfully went willing. Once Anton let go of his grip, Boston wiped off his bloodied hands on his grimy, navy-blue work Dickies. Spike took a considerable amount of time to crawl off the stone parking lot, ignoring Anton’s outstretched hand. The spiked-haired Devil spit gravel as he did so, maybe even a tooth as well. Anton wasn’t about to look too closely at the blood and spittle landing precariously close to his boot. Had the ass made the misfortune of actually hitting it, Anton would have given him a second beating.
He had little patience left. Hence his much needed R&R.
“I could’ve taken care of myself.” Spike spat to the gravel again, his shoulders slightly hunched. “I was just about to give Boston a whoopin’ like he ain’t ever seen before.”
Anton raised one brow. “Can it, Spike. Or maybe I’ll let Boston finish what you started in the first place. Guys like you don’t know when it’s time to shut your trap. Let me clue you in, you stupid son of a bitch. That would be now.”
Spike opened his mouth, then wisely closed it. He ran the back of his filthy hand across his lips and turned his glare on Anton. Dumb fuck knew better than to mess with him. All the boys standing in a semi-circle, watching the party, did. Anton had the patience of a saint, but push him beyond his limit, and these young punks put under his watch were lucky to remain vertical.
He winked at Spike, unable to help himself from further pissing off the scrawny bastard. “Keep it up and I’ll make you boys kiss and make up.”
The Devils standing to his left and right chuckled at his little quip. Boston, however, scowled as he slid onto his Low Rider. He turned the key and gave Anton his middle finger before hitting the gas and spraying gravel against the brick side of Hades’ Nest, the Devils normal hangout. Apparently, he wasn’t in the mood for make-up sex. Spike, on the other hand, just sneered a “fuck you,” before turning and walking back into the bar.
A song from Morbid Angel spilled into the parking lot before the door once again closed and muffled the sound. Anton ran a hand through his shorn locks and finger-combed the overlong bangs from his eyes. He headed for his own Harley and grabbed his skull cap, hanging from the rubber handle grip.
Bobby “Preacher” Bourassa approached him. He got his nickname from the twin cross tattoos on his muscled shoulders. That and the fact he used to be a preacher some years ago, before joining the Devils. The man was built like a beast.
“Where you off to, Rogue? Use some company?”
Bobby happened to be the one Devil Anton could say he actually liked. He placed the cap on his head and buckled it beneath his chin. “Not today, Preacher. I’m going north for a few days. You tell Tank I’ll be back in about a week. If he needs me, he can call. I’ll be a day’s ride out.”
