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    Daddy at the Altar: Iron Claws MC, #1
    Daddy at the Altar: Iron Claws MC, #1
    Daddy at the Altar: Iron Claws MC, #1
    Ebook103 pages1 hour

    Daddy at the Altar: Iron Claws MC, #1

    By Claire St. Rose

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Daddy at the Altar is book 1 of the Iron Claws MC trilogy. Books 2 and 3, Biker at the Altar and Bad Boy at the Altar are available everywhere now!

    I SWORE OFF WOMEN LONG AGO. BUT IT MIGHT BE TIME TO BREAK MY PROMISE.

    Because I haven't felt hunger like this since my first love died.
    Ariana might look untouched and innocent…
    But by the time I'll done, she'll be utterly wrecked. Thoroughly ruined.
    And pregnant with my baby.

    Years ago, as I put the dirt on the coffin of my dead old lady, I made myself a promise:
    Never again.

    I'd kept that oath in the years since.
    No emotions.
    Nothing permanent.
    One. Night. Only.

    But that was before Ariana waltzed into my life.
    She might hate me – but I just don't give a damn.
    Because she's everything I've always wanted.
    And I'm not gonna rest until I have her.

    Not just for a taste.
    Not just for a night.
    No, this one needs to be long, slow, and special.
    I want to savor breaking her down.

    Because once she's putty in my hands, I'm going to drag her to the altar.

    I don't just want a woman.
    I want a wife.
    A baby.
    A future.

    And she's going to give me all of that…
    Or else.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublishereBook Publishing World
    Release dateOct 10, 2018
    ISBN9781386828273
    Daddy at the Altar: Iron Claws MC, #1

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    3.5/5

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    • 2/5
      Arianna is an absolutely horrible person. I couldn't get past the first few chapters. Her self-righteous hate and bigotry was constant and extremely off-putting.

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    Daddy at the Altar - Claire St. Rose

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    DADDY AT THE ALTAR: Iron Claws MC (Book 1)

    By Claire St. Rose

    I SWORE OFF WOMEN LONG AGO. BUT IT MIGHT BE TIME TO BREAK MY PROMISE.

    Because I haven’t felt hunger like this since my first love died.

    Ariana might look untouched and innocent...

    But by the time I’ll done, she’ll be utterly wrecked. Thoroughly ruined.

    And pregnant with my baby.

    Years ago, as I put the dirt on the coffin of my dead old lady, I made myself a promise:

    Never again.

    I’d kept that oath in the years since.

    No emotions.

    Nothing permanent.

    One. Night. Only.

    But that was before Ariana waltzed into my life.

    She might hate me – but I just don’t give a damn.

    Because she’s everything I’ve always wanted.

    And I’m not gonna rest until I have her.

    Not just for a taste.

    Not just for a night.

    No, this one needs to be long, slow, and special.

    I want to savor breaking her down.

    Because once she’s putty in my hands, I’m going to drag her to the altar.

    I don’t just want a woman.

    I want a wife.

    A baby.

    A future.

    And she’s going to give me all of that...

    Or else.

    CHAPTER ONE

    H ey Larson! Where you off to? Pound asked.

    Vince Larson turned around to face Pound but continued walking backwards toward his bike.

    I thought you'd stay for the show. Pound pantomimed massaging tits on his own chest with a goofy grin.

    Vince gave Pound a smile that he didn’t feel. Naw, man, I need to get some sleep. I haven’t been to bed since before the product run yesterday. He’d had to set things straight with one of their business contacts who thought he could bypass them in their dealings. It had been a twelve-hour ride roundtrip, and it was a good enough excuse to head out.

    He didn’t want to mention today’s date—it would be dragging up old shit.

    But Pound protested. Come on, Larson. I’m sure one or more of the lovely ladies inside would be more than happy to tuck you in!

    Vince shook his head and grabbed the leather jacket slung over the seat of the motorcycle, bearing the silvery image of an eagle with giant talons clutching an American flag that was ripping in half. It was the patch of the MC, the Iron Claws, and he wore it proudly. He’d been patched in twelve years ago, and his biker brothers were the only family he had now, the only people he trusted.

    Slinging his leg over the bike, he told Pound, I’ll see you early in the morning, man. We have to take inventory, make sure nothing went missing with the break-in last week.

    Disappointed, Pound approached him and slapped him on the back as he revved the engine on the bike. Sure, man, I’ll be here all night. I might need a bucket of cold water poured over me in the morning, though, ‘cause there’s a bottle of Patrón with my name on it in there, and I plan to get fucked up.

    Vince gave him a salute and rode off, the night particularly dark, clouds covering what sliver of a moon there was. How appropriate, he thought, considering the anniversary he was recognizing tonight. He cursed into the wind as an image of Kristi popped into his mind.

    His old lady had been a good woman, but she’d been weak. She’d claimed not to have a problem with his lifestyle, but when it came down to it, she didn’t have the heart to be an old lady, and she’d grown to hate the MC.

    He cursed again, this time directing his anger inward, for being so blind to her coping mechanisms. He’d been so caught up in the game he hadn’t realized she was addicted to pain pills till it was too late. One year ago tonight, he’d come home from a party at the clubhouse to find Kristi on the floor, not breathing. Next to her were an empty bottle of Vicodin and an empty fifth of Stoli.

    Her overdose had shattered him, and Vince had thrown himself into club business without second thought. He’d been trying to pick up the pieces of his life ever since but couldn’t seem to make a complete picture without his old lady. It probably served him right – karma was a real bitch. He’d made other people suffer, and there was no better way to make him suffer than to take away the one tender, loving thing in his life.

    His bike wavered beneath him, the road slick, and he gripped the handlebars tighter, trying to maintain control. But it was too late, and as his bike swerved off the road, his last thought was, This is what they call poetic justice, you lousy shit.

    CHAPTER TWO

    Hey, Ariana, we got a call!

    Ariana Powell looked up from the patient she was checking in on, a young girl who’d broken her arm on the soccer field that afternoon. She’d brought the girl in earlier, and they’d bonded as she set the arm. Now it was her partner, Sal Bozeman, who was rushing toward the double doors that led to the ambulance bay at the hospital. She quickly said goodbye to the girl and followed Sal out the door.

    We just got back. Where are Rosen and Bailey? They had another unit on duty tonight who should have been on this call.

    Sal jumped behind the wheel as she clicked her seatbelt. They’re too far out, we’re closer. It’s a call-in from some guy driving home, saw a motorcycle smashed against a light post just off Route 5 near the reservation.

    Ariana made a bitter face. It’s about time. I knew one of those guys who thinks he’s a badass would eventually bite it. Serves them right for drinking and driving. Or riding, or whatever they call it.

    Sal slid a meaningful look at her. Get it under control, Powell. He’s still a patient, and we have to treat him like everyone else. Besides, you don’t know that he’s been drinking.

    That’s all they do, she scoffed. They throw their weight around, intimide everyone into doing whatever they want, treat women like property, and get drunk. When was the last time any of those bikers donated to charity? I bet the list of them with felony records is as long as my arm. She shook her head in disgust as she tied her long, blond hair back

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