Property of Hero

Property of Hero ©2023 Glenna Maynard This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual people, alive or dead, business, establishments, locals or events is entirely coincidental. Any reference to real events, business, organizations or locals is intended only to give the fiction a sense of realism and authenticity. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means – electronic, mechanical, photographic (photocopying), recording, or otherwise – without prior permission in writing from the author. The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction. Contents Property of Hero Dedication 1. 1 2. 2 3. 3 4. 4 5. 5 6. 6 7. 7 8. 8 9. 9 10. 10 11. 11 12. 12 13. 13 14. 14 15. 15 16. 16 17. 17 Dear Reader, Coming Soon Acknowledgments About Glenna Available Now Property of Hero A debt is to be paid. My father’s life is on the line. He owes Kings of Anarchy MC thousands, and I’m his most valuable asset. One night of my life in exchange for the rest of his. Only Hero Miles doesn’t want to let me go. And I don’t know if I want him to. I’m his property now Dedication For those in need of a Hero. 1 The unmistakable roar of motorcycles thunders outside my bedroom window, drowning out the haunting voice of Lana Del Rey as I listen to her on repeat. There’s nothing sexier or more dangerous than the growl of a motorcycle vibrating through your bones. Sitting up from where I lay on my bed, I peer out through the broken slats of my blinds as their engines cut on the street in front of my home. I switch the music off as I hear my father muttering a curse or two under his breath as he stomps down the hallway. “Fuck. Shit.” Bang. Thump. Boom. “Open up, Dave,” a gravelly voice grits, sending a shiver down my spine. I count four motorcycles. Four large men covered in menacing dark ink, wearing jeans and black leather vests. I suck in a breath at the club’s name on the back of one. Kings of Anarchy MC. Everyone knows you don’t fuck with the Kings. I gulp as the pounding at the front door rattles the entirety of our doublewide trailer. Crack. The splintering sound of wood breaking splits through the air. The hair on my arms rises. What the hell did my father get tangled up in this time? I always suspected the Mob would come for him one day due to his gambling habit, but not a group of scary ass bikers. The gaze of one of the club members cuts to my window. His dark eyes narrowing in on me. I drop back from the window and hit the floor. Crouching at the foot of my bed, I’m debating another glance outside when my bedroom door flies open, bouncing off my dresser as it breaks away from the wall. The hinges and all coming right for me. I throw my hands up in a protective manner in a poor attempt to shield myself from the impact. Braced for the pain, I squint my eyes and grind my teeth while wondering if this is the moment that I’ll die for the sins of my father. I wait a beat for the door to hit me, but it’s slung sideways and propped against the dresser. My gaze meets that of one of the bikers. Mossy green eyes so deep and dark I could disappear in them like I did often as a girl in the forest behind my house. “Don’t move,” that same gritty voice from moments ago instructs me. I don’t know why I nod. Only that I do. “Back door,” he barks at someone as they move past him. I study the man before me, wondering what he wants with my father and what he plans to do, whether he locates him or not. I’m not surprised that he ran away. My mother always said he was a spineless coward, but he at least stuck around to raise me. Even if he did a shitty job. He stayed when she didn’t. Until now. It appears Daddy Dearest has left me to the wolves, or rather the KOA MC. I continue observing the biker. The patch over the right pocket on his vest says he’s the Vice President. I’ve heard stories about the Kings. None of them were good. Some call them outlaws. Men who live outside of the law. They make their own rules. A code they abide by at their will. Like cowboys, only their horses are made of steel. “Where’d he go?” “Who?” “Who?” He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, who?” “You’re not a bird. Don’t play stupid, little dove.” “Wouldn’t that make me an owl? Ya know. Hoo. Hoo,” I mock the sound at him. His lips twitch, giving way to a small smirk. “Where’s he keep his stash?” “Huh?” “Money. He got a safe?” “Why would I tell you?” “Because he owes me fifty grand.” My heart drops to my feet at the same time my eyes widen. “Fifty thousand dollars? As in real cash money?” Bile shoots up my throat in a fiery trail. Oh my God. This can’t be happening. The room spins as though I’m a kid again on a merry-go-round. I tilt my head to focus on the scar that slashes through his right brow. My stomach rolls and boils with the urge to vomit, and I know without a doubt I’m going to pass out. That little voice who lives in my subconscious screams at me to run. Only my body has decided against fight or flight all together. Dots float before my vision. The sensation of my head