Coerced into Submission: New Orleans

National Chapter (RBMC Book 6)

Crimson Syn
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COERCED INTO SUBMISSION
Royal Bastards MC
CRIMSON SYN
Copyright © 2023 by Crimson Syn
Syn Ink Books LLC
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information
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 CONTE NTS

Dear Readers

Prologue
1. Snare
2. Catalina
3. Snare
4. Snare
5. Snare
6. Kristina
7. Snare
8. Catalina
9. Catalina
10. Snare
11. Catalina
12. Jameson
13. Kristina
14. Kristina
15. Snare
16. Macabre
17. Snare
18. Snare
19. Riddick
20. Catalina
21. Snare
22. Snare
23. Catalina
24. Jameson

Epilogue One
Tormented By Regret
Spectre’s Raven
About the Author
Also by Crimson Syn
 DEAR READERS

Hello my Synners,

Welcome back to the National Chapter. When we left off in Wrecked in Malice, Snare had
been tasked with following Catalina Solano. The daughter of a crooked politician. In Belle
Macabre, Jameson had put Macabre on a run to track down Snare who is apparently now
gone Rogue.
In the interim, Macabre is about to find out some serious information about Rancid’s
men, while Powertrain is going to be put on a run that will take him somewhere
unexpectedly dark.
But before all this. Snare and Catalina are on the run. And Snare will stop at nothing
from saving the woman he loves.
So make sure you get comfortable as this story dives deeper into the heart of the New
Orleans National Chapter, and chaos is about to ensue.

If you haven’t yet, make sure you grab Belle Macabre, as Macabre is essential to this
story:
https://geni.us/BelleMacabre-RBMC

And Stay tuned at the end for a glimpse into our Treasurer, Powertrain, in Tormented
by Regret. https://geni.us/TormentedbyRegret-RBMC

Naughty Reading,
Crimson Syn
P ROLOGUE
 CATALINA

I COVERED my ears and crouched down in a corner of the bedroom, while the sound of sirens
filled the air. Outside, the ambulance's lights cast a red glare against the white walls of
my mother's room, as she was being taken out on a gurney, a white sheet covering her
body.
I had just come home from school, a good student, focused on my studies, hoping it
would free me from under my father's hand. The older I got, the more I found out that
my dad was not the hero I thought he was. He was into some bad stuff, paying
campaigns for politicians, just so he could get away with murder. The current campaign
for Mayor Beaumont was just another tactic for the law to look the other way.
My mother couldn't have the freedom that I had. Night after night, the emotional
abuse would tear her down. I always wondered why she took him back. He never beat
her, but he'd threaten her with killing her time and time again. Hell, he even planned how
he was going to get rid of her.
As I got older, I'd scream, kick, curse at him. He never dared come near me since I'd
threatened him with going live on social media with his abuse. That led to my mother's
neglect. I thought, maybe stopping his words would help her, but his indifference hurt her
more.
I loved my mother deeply. She was everything to me. My friend, my confidant, my
protection from the world. And now, as I crouched by her bedside, remembering her eyes
blankly looking back at me, I realized I was truly alone now. That love she gave me, I
would never feel again.
A female social worker came into the bedroom and sat down on the floor next to me.
"My name is Raven, what's yours?"
"Catalina," I whispered, hugging my knees to my chest, afraid to speak for fear of a
river of tears flooding out.
"That's a pretty name," Raven said gently.
"Yeah," I managed to say.
"Catalina, I know that this must be very hard for you."
"You don't know anything. You don't know me."
The lady quieted, thinking for a second. "You're right, I don't. But I know pain. I know
what the loss of a mother feels like."
My eyes were drawn to hers, and I scrutinized her carefully. She appeared youthful, in
her early forties, and incredibly beautiful. Midnight black and blue strands of hair were
woven into a lengthy braid that trailed down her back. Her eyes were sharp but kind, and
her voice was gentle, almost melodic.
"I want you to understand that it's not your fault," she said.
"I know that. It's my father's fault," I replied.
"As long as you recognize that and don't blame yourself. I've also lost a lot, and I can
tell you that it's okay to cry."
I nodded. "I can't. I'm frightened. I'm afraid I won't be able to stop."
"It's natural to be afraid, but repressing those emotions will only hurt you in the end.
It's good to let it out. You're safe here. I won't tell anyone."
She didn't say anything else, but sat with me as tears streamed down my face. I wept
into my knees, comforted only by the sensation of her hand on my shoulder. SHe had
been kind to stay with me for as long as I needed her. When she left, that loneliness
penetrated the air. I never saw the woman again after that. She had given me her card,
but I never contacted her.
My father stumbled into the house a few hours later, as he always did, drunk and
violent. I stood at the top of the stairs, holding a bat, ready to defend myself if he turned
his rage towards me.
 "Qué haces? Get out of my way, where's your mother?" he slurred.
Disgusted by him, I stared him down. He hadn't even bothered to pick up his phone to
receive the news that his wife was dead.
"Muerta," I uttered.
"What are you talking about, get out of my way," he demanded.
I swung the bat over my right shoulder in a menacing way, and he stopped short.
"You're going to hit me with that? I'll cave your head in with it," he threatened.
"Get out," I repeated, my voice low and steady.
"Where is your mother?"
"I already told you she's dead! You can find her in the hospital morgue."
"You killed her?" His growl was low and menacing. Any other time I would have
cowered, but tonight I wanted to kill him.
Suppressing my rage, I swallowed hard, my hands shaking. "You did. You killed my
mother. And I swear to God, if you do not leave, I will kill you."
He took a step back, swaying slightly as he held on to the railing. He simply stared at
me, dumbfounded. As he stood there, I saw the glimmer of reality hit him, and he finally
understood the seriousness of the situation. He backed away silently, not sure what
words to say. I could sense the confusion in him, the denial, followed by the grief.
Grief.
A man like him was incapable of it. It would ruin his image. And as expected, he
locked himself in his studio and didn't come out for days, avoiding the press, the
questions, and the judgments.
I was stronger than I thought, making sure I graduated just like I had promised my
mom. My father didn't show up for my graduation, nor did he show up when I moved
away to college. That's when my true rebelliousness began. I did anything I could to
blemish his reputation.
Enrique Solano was a cruel man who never stopped putting the blame on others. He
was a selfish man who only cared about one thing.
Money.
Because with it came power, and he needed that in the make-believe world he lived
in. A world he had thrown me into, a world I had no idea how to escape.
 1
SNARE

"I NEED you to follow Catalina Solano. Keep her under surveillance and don't let her out of
your sight," Riddick instructed me as we stood at the riverfront, watching the young
woman shop in the marketplace.
"I don't see why we need to follow her," I replied, questioning the necessity of this
task.
"It doesn't matter. Jameson wants her followed. She's Enrique Solano's daughter, and
at any point, her father may contact her. Also, keep her away from Abigail. I don't want
that woman anywhere near her," Riddick replied with a serious tone.
"Does Abigail know about all this?" I asked.
"No, and she doesn't need to know. Do what you can, but keep Catalina the fuck away
from my pregnant wife," Riddick said firmly. "This is your chance to move up in the chain
of command. Get out of being just a Prospect and become a true member of our
organization."
I felt a sense of gratitude towards Riddick for everything he had done for me. He had
become more than just a friend, but a loyal brother who had offered me a job, a roof over
my head, and friendship. I owed him more than he knew.
"I won't let you down," I promised, accepting the responsibility he had given me.
Riddick placed a hand on my shoulder. "Remember, I'm vouching for you, which
means my name is on the line. Keep her under your watch. If you fail, I'll come after you
myself."
I nodded, fully aware of the consequences of failing this task. Riddick meant business,
and I knew better than to mess with this side of him. The look he was giving me meant
he wasn't in the mood to take any shit.
"I'll make sure to keep my eye on her."
He left me to it. A babysitting job that quickly turned into something darker. In my
days as a cage fighter for Kingpin up in Nashville, I'd had my share of women. Most
wanted a relationship, something I just couldn't give them. Fuck, I had nothing to give.
No woman would want that, which for the most part meant they'd leave me, or use me to
gain the traction they wanted within the clubhouse. If you slept with a member it would
give you some sort of prestige among the other house bunnies. These were women who
gave themselves freely, seeking out a man who would fulfill their fantasies, and making
sure the brothers needs were also taken care of. At least until one was stupid enough to
fall for their charms.
I had never asked a woman to stay and they knew I wouldn’t. I simply moved on
when they left my side, without looking back. But the more I watched this woman, the
more I realized I was missing out on something.
She seemed almost unreal and she was different than the women I’d been with. She
seemed genuinely happy, and her laughter was infectious. She represented the possibility
of something more, something that I had been missing in my life. Before her, women had
been nothing more than temporary pleasures to me, but she was something else entirely.
Despite the dark nature of my task, I found myself drawn to her, wanting to be near her
and experience the joy she seemed to radiate. Catalina Solano represented something
that I had never known before – the possibility of true happiness.

IT ALL STARTED innocently enough. Watching her, following her around. I started noticing
little things, like the way she pushed her hair back behind her ear when she felt shy. A
lock of it would still fall over her eyes, hiding those pretty features from me. Or the way
she fidgeted with her skirt when she was anxious. She didn’t like crowds so instead I’d
follow her into bookstores where she’d buy herself a cup of coffee and read for hours. She
mostly lead a quiet life, going ot her college courses, studying, but then there were those
small rebellious acts she’d like to indulge in. A social media post, a tattoo that she’d
gotten on her thigh, a night out dancing. Those were my favorite nights, when I’d watch
her and every now and then, while she danced to her sexy rhythm, I’d get close enough
to run my fingertips along her flesh, trace her belly button and inhale her scent, before I
disappeared once again into the shadows.
But months of that only built up to so much more, and it wasn’t until I was standing
outside her window that I noticed a shadow appear by the back door of the house. Now
the house had decent security, guards at the gate and all, but if I was able to sneak in,
then anyone could. And this asshole had taken the chance. I didn’t know who he was. A
thief, a sadistic killer, mafia. And in these few moments I went from being a watcher, to
becoming a protector. I followed the man into the house, one of back sliding doors had
been left open and I cursed security for not checking.
Catalina was home alone. She preferred it that way than being at the dorms.
Especially since her father had disappeared. And I couldn’t blame her, if she felt safer
here. The man was wearing all black, and was holding a gun, and attached to it was a
silencer. This wasn’t a robbery; this was an assassination.
I geared into action, tackling him before he got the back staircase in the kitchen that
led up to the bedroom. He grunted as he fell back against the floor, his gun shooting out
of his hand. We struggled a bit before I was able to tear his mask off. He was Hispanic, in
his forties, a brutal scar ran down his nose which gave him a mean looking mug, and skull
tattoos were inked along his bald head. He quickly pushed me off him, struggling to stand
before I lunged for him again. I was able to get a good punch in before he backed up into
the kitchen.
 I wasn’t thinking, I was only reacting, and taking the knife off the board I flipped it
down in my hand preparing for a fight. He found what he could to hod me back as swing
after swing I tore at his forearms. He swung at me hitting me in the jaw, and I lunged at
him with consecutive blows. We were quiet, knowing we couldn’t alert anybody in the
house or surrounding area that we were there, and that made him falter. Taking the
kitchen rag I wrapped it around his neck, pulling tight. My cage fighting had taught me to
be cold and merciless when it came to winning. It was kill or be killed.
As he struggled, trying to reach for the gun, I grabbed the knife on the counter and
stabbed him. He gurgled, falling limp as I released him. Blood seeping into the dish
towel. I stared down at him, his eyes wide as he struggled to breathe. I slid his sleeve up
and sure enough, the Bloody Scorpion emblem was tattoos on his right wrist. Taking the
knife out, I made sure not to step on any blood as I headed out the way I came in. I
wasn’t about to leave any prints, I was smarter than that. Ducking my head, I ran into
the swamps adjacent to the house, disappearing before sunrise.
The next day the house was flooded in police, and I had to stay away for a while.
Those days had been torture for me. Not knowing how she was, if she was safe. Soon
enough, after a week or so, I went back and that’s when things went south. Following her
wasn’t enough, I wanted to get closer. So that night I broke into the house, careful to
avoid the cameras. I slowly made my way up the stairs and into her bedroom where she
lay sleeping.
What I was doing was unlawful, hell it was downright immoral. Breaking and entering,
stalking, invading her space, but I found the sound of her breathing peaceful. I would sit
there for hours, like some crazy fucking lunatic, just watching her. And then I reached out
and touched her. And that touch became fire. It was intoxicating that night after night I
would push myself to go further. A touch of her thigh led to a kiss on her forehead, a kiss
led to tracing her lips, that led to touching the tip of her nipples, and the thrill of it made
me keep going back for more.
One night, when I entered her bedroom she’d been freshly showered. Her hair was
still wet, a book laying by her side, and in the faint light I caught a glimpse of her
panties. I stroked her body, caressed her in feather light touches. And then I touched her
there. She shifted, propping her leg open and I lost it. I wanted a taste of her. I hungered
for it. And unfortunately, I lost all sense of virtue in those seconds. I wanted to chance it.
Just one taste.
Getting down on my knees I slowly touched her, outlining her pussy lips, noticing they
were bare. That made my cock grow hard, and I gently shifted her panties to the side,
exposing her. I waited, seeing if she’d move, if she’d breathe wrong. And when she didn’t,
I took my taste. Sneaking my tongue into her crevice, sliding it against the silkiness that
surrounded her clit. I kept back a moan as I did what I wanted to her. It didn’t last too
long before she shifted, turning her side, and I had to stop, but that didn’t mean I didn’t
come back and do it again, and again.
I even got to the point of bumping into her on the way to class or coming up behind
her to dance. Feeling the curves of her body mold to mine as she swayed drunkenly
against me, brushing her curvy ss against the bulge in my jeans. When she’d turn to
speak to me, I’d turn away, disappearing once again.
I eventually got some sense knocked into me and had to stop myself. So I kept away,
telling Jameson I had to focus on the bar. He’d put another prospect to watch her during
the day, and I kept away as much as I could. I was a good man, at least I kept trying to
tell myself that. But deep down inside, I knew that if I ever had a chance, I’d make her
mine.
 2
C ATA LI N A

TREMBLING, I peered through the small opening in the closet door. Shadows moved down the
hallway, their Spanish accent revealing them as Colombians, ruthless and intent on killing
anyone in their path. A high-pitched scream echoed through the house, followed by a
gunshot and a deathly hush. They were hunting for my father, who had disappeared after
owing money to the cartels. El Colectivo never forgave debts and always exacted a cruel
price.
I counted to ten, waiting until the shadows had passed before slipping out and
creeping down another corridor. The route led to the back staircase, which led to the
kitchen. If I could make it to the sliding door at the back of the house, I might be able to
escape.
"Hey!" A man's voice called out, causing me to freeze in my tracks.
"Did you find her?"
Ducking behind an armoire, I held my breath as two men hurried past me in the
hallway. "Nothing. The bitch is gone."
“She couldn’t have gone far. Encuentrala. Victor la quiere muerta. No one gets out
alive."
My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my ears. I knew that my father had
made some dangerous enemies, but I never thought it would come to this. I had to find a
way out of the house and get help, but every step I took felt like I was risking my life.
As I made my way through the dark house, I could hear the sound of furniture being
overturned and glass breaking. The men were tearing the place apart in their search for
my father. I had to be careful not to make a sound, but every creak of the old wooden
floors felt like a thunderclap in the silence.
Victor Arguelles, the leader of the Colombian Mafia, was on a mission to eliminate my
father and anyone connected to him. The Colombian Mafia's modus operandi was to first
target your family before going after the primary target. Despite being aware of this, my
father abandoned me in this dangerous situation.
Feeling helpless, I fished out my cell phone and recalled a message from Abigail that
she had sent a few days ago. Abigail and Riddick were heading to Las Vegas to elope,
and she had provided me with their new address. She urged me to visit her when they
returned. Little did she know that her message would serve as a lifeline for me. I gazed
at the address, praying that I could make it there in time.
The men dispersed, and I took off again, moving in the darkness as I approached the
back staircase. I had no weapons, hell I barely had time to put on shoes. I was awake
when I heard the sound of gunshots coming from the gate. At first I didn’t think anything
of it, but then I heard the shouts of my security. When I looked out the window there
were men already coming up the lawn. I counted six, maybe seven, surrounding the
house. Without hesitating I grabbed my phone and ran out my bedroom, shutting lights
as I went. I hid in the small closet door in the hallway, but I had to keep moving.
I reached the back staircase and heard movement. A man with a gun was coming up
the stairs. I took a quick look around searching for anything to protect myself with, and
spotted the candle sticks sitting on a small hall table beneath a mirror. They were pure
silver, and they could cause some damage if I was smart.
I grabbed one, careful not to make a sound as he slowly walked up the stairs. Sliding
up into a small alcove that stood on the left of the entryway, I waited. As he reached the
top step, I lifted the candle stick up over my head. If I was going to do this, I had to
make it count.
Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and as soon as he took that first step onto the
second floor of the house, I slammed the candlestick on his head hard enough to heard
something crack. He shifted, looking up in shock. I swung again, hitting him on the side of
the temple and his eyes rolled back as he fell backwards down the stairs. I held my
breath, waiting to see if anyone would notice the noise, and when no one came, I ran
down those stairs as fast as I could.
As I reached the bottom of the staircase, I could hear the sound of more men
approaching. I knew I had to move quickly if I wanted to make it out alive. I sprinted
through the kitchen, knocking over pots and pans as I went, hoping to create a
distraction. I could hear the sound of footsteps getting closer, and my heart was racing
with fear. I knew I had to find a way out, and fast.
I made it to the back of the house and saw the sliding door just a room away. My
heart leapt with hope. I could make it if I just got to that door. But as I reached for the
handle, I heard a voice behind me.
"Well, well, what do we have here?"
I turned around and saw Victor Arguelles himself, standing in front of me with a smirk
on his face. I froze in terror, unsure of what to do.
"Looks like you're trying to run, little girl," he said, his voice dripping with malice. "But
you can't run from me."
He took a step forward, and I knew I had to act fast. I lunged at him with the
candlestick, swinging with all my might. He dodged out of the way, but I managed to
graze his arm. He stumbled back, and I took the opportunity to make a run for it. I was
almost there, when suddenly the click of a gun made me freeze.
“Uh-uh, Señorita Where do you think you’re going?”
My entire body was shaking as I lifted my hands up over my head. The first thing my
mind told me to do was to react unexpectedly. The man told me to turn and as I did, my
hand gripped the iron fireplace poker, hitting the gun from the man’s hand. Victor was no
longer in the vicinity and he’d sent his hitmen to finish the job.
“Hijueputa!” He screamed as I ran for the back sliding door.
I had my hands on the handle when he grabbed me by the hair and pulled me back.
“Come here.”
I was like a rag doll in his hands, being flung around the room. It was there I spotted
a heavy porcelain statue. As he swung me around, I managed to grab it. He was yelling
for the other men, and I had to quickly do something to quiet him. So I reached back and
slammed the statue onto his head.
“Fuck!” He cried out, grabbing his head and releasing me.
I kicked him hard in the groin, and watched him go to his knees.
“Te voy a matar, perra!”
He reached for me, and I swung again. The statue cracking against his skull. As he
moaned and fell to his side, men started entering from the front of the house. I burst
through the sliding door and ran into the darkness, my heart pounding with adrenaline. I
could hear the sound of footsteps chasing after me, and as I ran across the backyard, I
could hear the sound of gunshots and shouting behind me. But I didn't look back. I kept
running, my heart pounding in my chest, until I reached the safety of the streetlights. I
pushed myself harder, running faster than I ever had before.
Picking up my cell phone, I ran into the swamps adjacent, not caring about being
eaten by gators, just trying to get away as fast as possible. Thunder started to roll, and
rain started pouring down. I could see streams of light filter in through the trees as they
aimed their flashlights toward me, but I was well hidden.
Suddenly, Victor’s voice ran out. “Te voy a encontrar maldita! Tenlo por Seguro que te
voy encontrar!”
I trembled in fear as I made my way through that murky water. Eventually I was able
to step out and found the road. I collapsed on the pavement, gasping for breath, my
heart still pounding in my chest. I couldn’t stop here, they’d find me, so I ran into town as
fast as I could. I needed to find Abigail. She was my only hope.
 3
SNARE

I GAZED at my commanding officer, awaiting his signal. We were deep in the Afghan desert
on a critical mission, far away from civilization, amid a depressing war. When he signaled,
we moved rapidly and covertly, breaching the door of a decrepit house.
Shouts could be heard deep within, women screaming, men found raping young girls.
They'd already killed three young children. Their heads smashed in as they lay limp on
the floor. I ignored them, as sadly, we weren’t there for them.
Our target was Abu-Zar Azeem, a member of the Taliban. Though this was our sole
purpose, I couldn't ignore the children in need of aid. Suddenly, shots rang out, and
pandemonium ensued. One of our soldiers had observed a man trying to slit a young girl's
throat with a knife and shot him in the head, alerting the occupants of the house.
My commanding officer gestured for me to proceed down one hallway while he took
the other. We smashed open every door, each one revealing a more gruesome sight than
the last. Blood-stained sheets, a woman hanging from the ceiling, her legs left dangling. I
closed my eyes and tried to ignore it all, but it was impossible. Eventually, I discovered
our target, huddled in a corner, his hands held high. I was surrounded by the cacophony
of shouts in another language when a man appeared, brandishing a gun.
"Drop the weapon! Drop it now!" I screamed, but he didn't listen, and I was forced to
shoot him. Another man emerged, shouting in the same language, and I had no choice
but to end his life as well. Eventually, I cleared the room and extracted the target at
gunpoint. This was what I had signed up for, but it had destroyed me. The girls' faces and
screams continued to haunt me, and then there was banging of those doors…
I woke up screaming, along with the memory of those children, but the banging on my
door didn't cease. I had fallen asleep on top of bills for the bar Riddick and I co-owned.
My apartment was on the second floor, and the knocking was coming from my back door.
"What the hell?" I muttered, throwing open the door to find her standing there. My
obsession, Catalina SOlano, was soaked to the bone and ghostly pale.
"Help me, please help me," she begged, falling into my arms. She was shivering and
drenched, her eyes closing as she collapsed unconscious.
"Catalina, Catalina, wake up!" I said softly, gently slapping her cheek to rouse her, but
she remained unresponsive.
I wondered for how long she had been running. I knew Solano had many enemies and
made more when he decided to take on the Bloody Scorpions. Those bastards were like
pests; no matter how many we eliminated, they always reappeared.
I lifted her in my arms, shut the door, and carried her to the bedroom. It was only
when I laid her down that I realized she wasn't wearing any shoes. The rain had soaked
through her white, frilly blouse, and I forced myself to focus on what to do next, even as
the sight of her wet breasts pressed against the soft material clouded my mind.
I focused on keeping her warm, reminding myself that she was a stranger and meant
nothing to me. I tried to ignore the way my body reacted to the sight of her white lacy
panties or the way my arousal grew as I touched her soft, full breasts, their dark pink
areolas hardening under my fingertips. I turned away from her as I grabbed one of my t-
shirts, shielding her from my view.
Taking a deep breath, I headed toward the door. Just as I reached the entrance to my
apartment, the doorknob jiggled. I froze, staring intently at the shadow of a figure
beneath my door. I made my way to the kitchen, grabbing the thirty-eight caliber pistol I
kept in one of the drawers.
This time the door was banged on, the hinges rattling. I positioned myself behind the
door, sneaking a peek out the window. Despite the rain, I could see that he hadn't come
alone. A man stood under the light post in front of the bar on the first floor, and I could
make out two unmarked cars at the end of the street.
I had two options: take my chances with the girl and get her out of here, or confront
the men and shoot them all dead.
I chose the latter.
I made my way to the bedroom, carefully retrieving the silencer from under the bed. I
didn't want to alert the men below. Suddenly, the front door blasted open, and my
instincts kicked in. Moving quickly and quietly down the hallway, I hid in the darkness of
the bathroom. As the man passed by, I counted to three, stepped out, and shot him twice
in the head. I checked his pulse to ensure he was dead before moving towards the front
door.
But another man appeared, and I reacted quickly, punching him in the nose and
trapping him against the wall with my forearm pressed to his neck. I aimed my gun at his
temple, and one shot was all it took for him to stop struggling. As I checked the hall, I
realized there were more men than I had counted before. I quickly changed my plans,
tucking my gun into my waistband and grabbing my keys.
Running to the bedroom, I slung the woman onto my back and headed towards the
back way out that Riddick had invested in. It was hidden from view and led to the first
floor. As we entered the bar, I took out my gun, ready for a confrontation. They hadn't
made their way in yet, but the man was still standing under the streetlight.
Catalina stirred in my arms, and I gently set her down by the front door. "Catalina.
Catalina, wake up," I said, slapping her a few times until her eyes fluttered open. "Come
on, baby. I need you to wake up," I urged her, giving her a shake.
She moaned and tried to push me off, but I grabbed her face and forced her to look at
me. "Catalina, look at me. It's Snare," I said, hoping to jog her memory.
"Snare." She whispered my name although she still didn’t recognize me.
 “That’s right.”
She started to become more alert. “Where’s Riddick?”
“Riddick isn’t here.”
"Who are you?" she asked, still confused.
"I'm a friend," I replied, hoping to gain her trust.
Suddenly, her fingers dug into my arms, her nails piercing my skin as her eyes
widened with fear. "They're going to kill me. Please, you have to help me!"
“Shhh.” I placed my hand over her mouth. "I'm here to help you, gorgeous, but we
have to be smart about this. I’m going to need your help, okay?"
She shook as I gave a quick glance out the window. It was only a matter of time
before they realized their counterparts were taking too long.
"Listen. You see that bike right there."
She took a quick glance out the window, ducking quickly as the man outside shifted.
"Yeah, I see it."
"When I give the signal, you run like hell towards that bike."
I turned to the door, but she held onto me, stopping me. "Where are you going?"
"You saw that guy out there?"
She gave me a brief nod. Her eyes wide with fear.
"I'm about to put two bullets in his skull."
"What?" She let out a terrified breath. "No. No, you can't do that. They'll kill you."
"Listen, baby. No one's going to do any killing tonight, other than me. Now you wait
on my signal."
Her hands drifted away from me as I got up from the floor. She gripped my hand, and
I looked down at her.
"Be careful.” She whispered, the words tugging at my cold heart.
I was ready to take out the man outside. "Stay here and wait for my signal," I
instructed before heading towards the door.
I looked back at her. “Just trust me. Do as I say or you’ll get us both killed.”
She nodded. "Okay."
I stepped out of the building and approached the man, his brow furrowing in confusion
as I got closer. Despite his shouting being lost in the thunder and howling wind, I could
see the fear in his eyes as I signaled to Catalina. She quickly ran towards the bike while
he was distracted, and I fired two shots into his head when I was just two feet away from
him.
He stumbled back against a lamp post, and I raced towards Catalina as the rain
poured down on us. I jumped on the motorcycle behind her, revving up the engine as we
sped down the road, passing by two unmarked vehicles and heading towards the
clubhouse.
However, our escape was short-lived as both vehicles behind us suddenly lit up their
headlights and screeched their tires, signaling that we were being followed. I didn't dare
look back and tried my best to keep the bike steady amidst the powerful gusts of wind,
with Catalina cowering in front of me. The last thing I wanted was to be thrown off the
bike. I didn't know what was going on, but I knew that all hell was going to break loose
when Jameson found out that I had just rescued the enemy.
I could hear the roar of their engines as they gained on us. We were outnumbered
and outgunned, and I knew that we had to act fast. I yelled at Catalina to hold on tight
as I accelerated the bike to its limit, trying to outrun our pursuers.
The rain continued to pour down on us, making it even harder to see the road ahead.
I swerved left and right, trying to shake off the cars behind us. Bullets whizzed past us,
and I knew that we were in deep trouble.
I spotted a narrow alleyway up ahead, and without hesitation, I veered the bike into
it, hoping to lose our pursuers. The alley was dark and narrow, barely wide enough for
the bike to pass through. I could hear the cars skidding to a halt behind us, their engines
still revving.
We emerged from the alleyway onto a deserted street, and I could see the road to the
clubhouse up ahead. I knew that we were almost there, but I also knew that our enemies
weren't far behind us. I had to make a choice, and I veered the opposite way.
I swerved down a narrow alley, feeling the bike scrape against the walls as we picked
up speed. Catalina's fingers dug into my jacket as she held on tight, and I could hear her
panting with fear. I didn't blame her - I was scared too.
But I had to keep my wits about me. As we turned a sharp corner, I caught a glimpse
of our pursuers in my peripheral vision. They were gaining on us, and I knew we had to
lose them somehow.
I spotted a flight of stairs leading down to an underpass and made a split-second
decision. Without hesitating, I hit the throttle and launched the bike over the stairs. We
soared down the steps and landed on the ground with a jolt.
I could hear the sound of screeching tires above us as our enemies tried to follow. But
it was too late - we were out of their reach. For now, at least.
I took a deep breath, feeling the adrenaline coursing through my veins. Stopping the
biker, I turned to Catalina, who was looking at me with a mix of fear and awe. "You
okay?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
She nodded, her eyes wide. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. How did you do that?"
I grinned, feeling a rush of pride. "Just a little trick I learned."
But I knew that we weren't out of danger yet. We had to keep moving, keep running.
Those men weren’t going to let up, but for the moment, at least, we were alive.
 4
SNARE

I SAT across from her in the booth, deep in thought. We were on the border of Louisiana
and Arkansas. My mind raced with options. Should I head to Nashville and contact
Jameson? Or maybe head West through Central Texas and seek help there? If I didn't
report in soon, I'd be presumed dead or accused of aiding and abetted the enemy. Either
way I was screwed.
She huddled over the coffee mug, rubbing her hands together to warm them up. Both
of us were completely soaked from the relentless rain outside, and I had lent her my
leather jacket to keep her dry. It was a stroke of luck that we stumbled upon this open
diner.
I still couldn't believe how we managed to survive the worst of the storm. We rode
through it fueled by fear and adrenaline until the rain gradually started to let up as we
approached the border. As soon as I saw the first lit structure, I knew we had to stop
there and wait out the rest of the storm.
We sat in silence, not speaking a single word to one another since we sped out of
New Orleans. She still didn’t know who I was. I had made sure that she had never seen
me before, keeping my identity hidden from her, or so I thought.
"You're Scotty," she whispered.
My eyes were fixed on her mouth. My name sounded so soft as it rolled off her
tongue. The fact that she’d heard of me nearly made me smile. I assumed Abigail had
told her who I was, since she was the only one who ever called me Scotty.
"How did you know where I lived?"
"I didn't. I was hoping to find Abigail or Riddick before they left to Vegas."
"They've been gone for two days."
"Shit," she muttered while staring out the window.
The rain pelted on the concrete, silhouetted by the single yellow working streetlight
that lit the parking lot.
"Who were they?" I asked, trying to get more information.
"Colombians, I think," she replied.
"You think?" I raised an eyebrow. "Don't you speak Spanish?"
She snapped, "Do you think I'm the accent wizard or something? They spoke Spanish,
that's all I know. They sounded Colombian."
 I could sense her frustration, but I didn't appreciate the attitude. "Don't talk to me like
that," I warned. "I just helped your ass escape whoever is after you. I deserve some
respect."
She looked down at her coffee mug and muttered something under her breath. "What
did you say?" I asked.
"I said respect comes with trust, and I don't trust you," she spoke up more clearly.
I couldn't help but smirk. "Yet here you are. With a total stranger, begging him to help
you."
"I'm not begging," she retorted.
"Isn't that what you just did when you knocked on my door?" I pointed out.
Her eyes blazed with anger. "I don't need your help."
She stood up, tore off the leather jacket, and threw it in my face. Her wet shirt
revealed her taut nipples, and her hair framed her face. She glared at me with fury. "I've
lived my whole life alone. The last thing I need is grief from a fucking biker."
I knew that her words were fueled by fear and frustration, but I still didn't appreciate
the insult. "You know what? You're right. Maybe I should have just left you there to die.”
She looked about to cry right before she whirld away from me. I watched her storm
out of the diner, and noticed a few men eyeing her as she left. One of them started to get
off his stool to follow her, so I quickly slid out of my booth and approached him. Placing
my arm on his chest, I forced him back into his seat.
"Where do you think you're going?" I asked sternly.
The guy's eyes flicked to the old man sitting next to him, who shook his head and took
a bite of his toast. He understood the situation and glanced at the patch on my leather
vest.
"Let it go, Mike. She's hisproperty."
If only that were true, I thought as I made my way past them. The guy grunted and
turned back to his food. I looked at every man in the room, daring them to make a move,
but they all avoided eye contact and went back to their own business as they waited out
the storm.
I put on my jacket and headed out into the darkness to follow her. I spotted her a few
hundred feet away, the light of the streetlamp illuminating her small frame.
"Goddammit," I muttered to myself as I sprinted towards her.
As I approached her, she turned to face me. The rain continued to pour down on us,
the wind cold and swirling around us, blowing her hair in all directions. Her eyes were like
pools of fire, ready to incinerate me.
"I don't need you, so stop following me! Your job is done!" she shouted.
"I didn't know I was on a job!" I retorted, raising my arms and looking up at the dark
sky.
"Well, you are. How much do I owe you?" she asked, challenging me.
"You couldn't afford me, even if you wanted to," I replied, narrowing my eyes at her.
“Try me,” she seethed.
As much as I wanted to take advantage of the situation, to teach her a lesson, I
decided against it. Instead, I tried reasoning with her. My way.
 "Where the fuck are you gonna go? A little spoiled rich girl like you who can't even tie
her shoe without somebody offering to get on their knees and tie them for her."
“Are you offering to get on your knees. Cause I’d pay to see that.” She bit back,
igniting me.
I came toe to toe with her. "I have news for you, sweetheart. I'm not your employee
or some peasant you can command. I will never get on my knees for anyone. You want to
survive this, you do as I say, because right now all you are to me is a spoiled rich brat
who's quickly becoming one helluva burden."
"Fuck you!" She yelled into my face, and I smirked, loving those sparks of fire that
flew out at me.
"That's right. Fuck, me."
I grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her back to the diner. She was yelling out
obscenities and trying to get out of my hold, but I wasn't paying attention to her tantrum.
If I did, God only knows what mess she'd get herself into. Besides that, if I let anything
happen to her, Abigail would find a way to have Riddick beat the shit out of me.
The bells hanging in the doorway chimed as I opened the door, announcing our
return, all eyes back on us. I dragged her over to the phone booth and sat her down on a
stool.
Water dripped down both our faces and I took my jacket off, throwing it back at her.
"Put it on and stay quiet."
She was about to retort when she stared at all the men in the diner. Truckers, mostly.
They were all looking in our direction. That's when she realized we weren't safe yet, and
it was best she did what I told her to do. She put the jacket on and hid herself against
the wall behind the phone.
I quickly dialed out to Riddick, the only number I had memorized. The phone rang
once, twice.
"Come on," I uttered.
It rang five times before going to voicemail, and I didn't leave a message. What was
the point? I didn't have a callback number since I had left my cellphone back at the
apartment. Besides, I had no idea where we were headed. The only person I could think
of who could help me was Beau Strick, aka Kingpin, the President of the Nashville
chapter. I dialed his number, and he picked up on the second ring.
"This better be worth my time," he grumbled.
"Beau."
He paused for a second before replying, "Snare?"
"That's right, brother."
"How you been, brother?" he asked, sounding genuinely happy to hear from me.
"Good. I'm sorry I didn't call sooner, just getting set up, you know."
"Jameson let me know things were good. Gonna have to go have some drinks up at
that new bar of yours soon."
"Absolutely. On the house, of course."
There was a brief silence as I tried to figure out how to ask for help. I had never done
this before, so I had no idea how to approach it.
 "Everything okay, brother?" Beau asked.
"Yeah. Listen, I'm stuck in a storm on the border of Louisiana and Texas. I lost my
wallet and everything. Jameson isn’t answering and neither is Riddick."
"Where are you exactly?"
"The place is called The Eating Tank."
"Ah, shit, what the hell are you doing in that hellhole?"
"Waiting out the storm." I didn’t tell him what was going on, fearing he’d let Jameson
know and I wouldn’t get a chance to find out who the hell was after her.
"Listen, there's a hotel up the road. An old Inn, but it's clean. Tell 'em Kingpin sent
you. They'll have food and a place to stay. I'll send you some money that way too."
"Fuck, brother, thank you."
"No problem. Can I ask what the hell you’re doing outside of New Orleans?"
"Taking care of some business."
There was a long pause as he waited for more, but when I didn't say anything, he
continued. "Must be one helluva storm."
I looked over at Catalina, and our eyes met. "More like the start of a hurricane."
"Well, damn. Get your ass over to that Inn. It's owned by Spectre, one of the Royal
Bastards' founding members. He's got a few Inns like that across the country. I don't
know where he is - hell, no one ever knows where he is - but if you go there, they'll give
you shelter."
"I appreciate that, Beau."
"When you're part of us, we take care of our own. Remember that."
"Will do, brother. Thank you."
Hanging up the phone, I turned to Catalina. "We gotta get back on the road. There's
an Inn a few miles up. The storm's not letting up, and we need to get you warm."
I held my hand out, but she looked at it for a long pause. I sighed and crouched down
before her. "Listen, I'm not here to hurt you. But you can't fight whoever's after you
alone, least of all if they're cartels. I'm only trying to help you. Besides, if I don't at least
try, Abigail will have my balls."
This made her smile softly and she nodded, quickly taking my hand. I led us to the
door where a large man stood waiting for us, blocking our exit. He looked menacing
enough, and I sure as hell wasn't amused.
"Where do you think you're taking that little girl?" he asked.
"That's none of your goddamn business," I replied, feeling Catalina draw closer and
grip my arm tighter. Her touch reassured me that she knew I'd keep her safe.
"Well, we can't just let you drag that little girl out into that storm, now can we,
fellas?" he said, addressing the other men in the room.
There was a murmur that went across the room, and I sighed, too damn tired for this
shit. The old man sitting at the counter with the other man who had confronted me
before simply tapped his shoulder and shook his head. The man eyed me but turned his
back to the scene, realizing it was best for him to avoid what was about to go down.
"We don't want any trouble," I said, squeezing Catalina's hand and trying to move
past him.
 But the guy shoved his shoulder into my chest, stopping me. I froze, feeling an
undeniable coldness settle over me.
"I suggest you move," I said, my voice low and threatening.
The guy gave me an arrogant smirk and looked around the room. He spread his arms
wide and said, "I'm not stopping you," clearly blocking the door.
I placed Catalina's hand in the jacket pocket she was wearing and closed her fingers
around the keys. She nodded at me, and I knew she understood. I stepped back, ready
for anything these guys might throw at me. Catalina's eyes moved from me to the guy at
the door, and she took a couple of steps back, anticipating what I was about to do.
"I don't want any trouble," I said to the man at the door. "Just let us go, and nobody
gets hurt."
He smirked. "Look at you, and then look at me. I'll fucking crush you."
I met his gaze with my dark, dead eyes, the same eyes I'd given to many others
before who I'd been forced to kill. "I warned you," I said, grabbing a nearby chair and
flinging it at him.
He blocked it with his arm, and the guy next to him stood up and charged at me. I
took a fighting stance and quickly had him in a headlock, slamming him into the wooden
panel of the booth. His nose broke with a sickening crack, and the diner erupted in chaos.
Another guy jumped up, yelling, "What the fuck, man!"
He threw a punch at my jaw, but I shook it off and returned the blow with two hits to
his face, followed by a kick to his jaw that knocked him out cold.
Catalina tried to get past the big man at the door, but he stopped her. "Where do you
think you're going, sweetheart? I'm not done with your boyfriend yet, and we've got a
long night ahead of us."
I roared and lunged at him, forcing him to drop Catalina to deal with me.
“Go!” I screamed at her as she ran out of the diner into the rain. She was safe for
now, and with that I could focus on the fucker in front of me.
I landed three consecutive punches against the side of his ribs. He grunted with each
blow, and I didn’t give him a chance to react. I continued my beating, one punch to his
jaw, a kick to the back of his knee sending him down to the floor.
I grabbed his hair, yanking his head back to look at me. “I told you to let us go.”
I punched him in the nose, hearing the clean break followed by his wail.
I yanked his head back again. “You just couldn’t fucking listen.”
I gave him another hard punch and he fell back. Years of training and I knew exactly
what strikes would kill him. But I didn’t want to kill anyone tonight, just break a few
bones. I was deadly calm as I turned to the rest of the men in the room.
“Anyone else?”
The man lay groaning on the floor, blood streaming down his nose as he cursed at
me. His companion remained unconscious. No one else in the diner moved, and the old
man behind the counter looked up at me and nodded, acknowledging what I had done.
He had seen me fight before and knew that I had only acted in self-defense. I returned
the nod, silently thanking him for not interfering.
Walking out into the rain, I found Catalina waiting for me with the bike. She had
ridden it up to the front of the diner, surprising me with her quick thinking. Seeing me
approach, she slid back to allow me to take the driver's seat.
As we rode away from the diner, the rain beating down on us, I couldn't help but feel
a rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins. It had been a while since I had been in a
fight like that, but the training never left me. The sound of bones breaking, the taste of
blood in my mouth, the feeling of my fists connecting with flesh - it was all so familiar.
Catalina looked over at me, concern etched on her face. "Are you okay?" she asked,
reaching out to touch my arm.
I nodded, still feeling the rush of the fight. "Yeah, I'm good," I said, my voice rough
from the exertion.
We rode in silence for a while, the rain pounding against our helmets. I couldn't shake
the feeling that something was off, though. Why had those guys come after us? Was it
just a random attack, or was there something more going on?
Revving the engine, we sped away from that place as fast as we could, eager to put
the night's events behind us.
 5
SNARE

WE WALKED into the lobby of Raven's Royal Inn. The dimly lit space was adorned with dark,
gothic decor and the smell of incense wafted through the air. A young woman with
lavender blue eyes and dark black hair that was braided down her back greeted us at the
front desk. She wore a black skull and roses tank top, black torn jeans, and black platform
boots. Tattoos of black roses encircled her arm, and she watched me intently as we
walked in.
I couldn't help but notice how cute she was. In another time, I would have wanted to
get to know her better, but my priority was the woman next to me. My life was in the
hands of the one woman beside me, and I couldn't afford to be distracted.
"How can I help you?" she asked, her voice filled with suspicion.
"Kingpin recommended this place. Said it served as a safehouse," I replied, hoping to
ease her doubts.
The woman's eyes narrowed, and her body tensed. "And you are?"
I leaned against the counter and smiled at her. "I'm the second part of Royal up on
that sign."
"A Bastard? Ha. Listen, my dad hasn't authorized shit. So you'll have to do better than
that."
I closed my eyes, trying to find patience within me. I didn't have much of it to spare.
“You’re Spectre’s daughter?” I asked, recalling Kingpin's intel.
She arched an eyebrow. “That’s none of your business.”
"Fine. Call him. Or call Kingpin. He’ll straighten this out," I suggested, hoping to
resolve the issue quickly.
She took out her cellphone and eyed me suspiciously as she hit a quick dial. Beau's
voice came through.
"Hey pumpkin, you doing' okay?" Beau asked, clearly surprised to hear from her..
"Hi, Uncle Beau, I need your help with something."
"Shoot, baby girl."
"I gotta…" she paused, staring at me, her right brow arched as she waited for my
name.
"Snare," I said, trying not to growl at her.
She repeated my name, drawing it out through gritted teeth. "A Snare, claiming he
knows you. Just need to know if he's good, or do I need to pull this trigger?"
My heart raced as I heard the sound of a gun being clicked from beneath the counter.
Fists were one thing, but the presence of a firearm made me feel uneasy. Especially a
woman with a gun, that was a whole other thing entirely. Trigger happy doesn't even
begin to explain that.
"Whoa, take it easy pumpkin. I swear, your dad needs to teach you to trust a little."
"Hell no. Last time that happened, my mom got hurt."
A tense silence filled the air, and I took to understanding that Spectre's wife had gone
through some shit. After the pause, Kingpin cleared the situation as best he knew how.
"He's good, pumpkin. But if he acts up, you have my blessing to pull that trigger," the
young woman gave me a wicked smile and I shook my head at their exchange.

THE WOMAN TURNED to the wall and grabbed a key. "Room two eleven. Don't mess it up.” She
warned me.
“My uncle’s got you covered for a couple nights. Don’t out stay your welcome.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, grabbing the key she threw on the counter.
She turned to Catalina. "Let me know if he gets out of hand. I'm a sure shot," she
said.
I quickly placed a hand on Catalina's back and pushed her out the door before she
could respond.
"She was pretty. Strange eyes, don't you think?"
"Was she? Didn't notice," I lied as I opened the door to the motel room.
I flipped on the light switch, ignoring Catalina's knowing look. Surprisingly, the room
was clean and looked newly renovated. As expected, it had a chair in the corner, a small
table, a television on top of an armoire, a coffee maker, and a small fridge.
"This will have to do for now," I said.
Catalina crossed her arms, still standing by the door. "You don't see a problem here?"
I looked around the room and shook my head. "It's clean, warm, and has a bed. What
else do you want?"
"Exactly. A bed. As in one bed," she emphasized.
I looked at the King-sized bed with a perplexed expression. "It could fit five people."
"I'm not sharing a bed with you, Snare," she said.
If only she knew she had already shared a bed with me. Hers.
"That woman downstairs will shoot me if I ask for another room. I'm not in the mood
to get shot, so take it or leave it," I replied.
"Fine. But you're sleeping on the floor," she demanded.
"Fuck that."
"I'm not sleeping on the floor," she said, giving me an incredulous look.
I turned to her and lowered my voice to a menacing edge. "I don't give a shit what
you want, little girl. You do as I say, or I'll leave you out for the alligators to have a go at
you."
My tone usually made men cower, but with Catalina, it had the opposite effect. She
became angry, and the petite Latina turned to me, preparing for a fight.
"Believe me, I'll make sure to leave them your scent. If I die, you die," she
threatened.
She caught me by surprise, and I didn't know whether to scream or laugh, so I just
blinked.
"Floor," she stated.
I gave her a good hard stare, wanting her to squirm, and when she didn’t, I pushed
past her.
"Scott. Scott!"
I threw my t-shirt in her face. She was about to retort when she realized I was down
to my briefs. My cock hard and strained against the thin material of my underwear. The
more she looked, the harder I got.
"I'm taking a shower," I grunted before slamming the bathroom door shut behind me.
I was aggravated, angry, turned on, fucking frustrated as I leaned my arm against the
tile and wrapped my fist around my dick. It liked her sass. Her strength turned us the fuck
on. And all I could picture was the sight of her sweet pussy getting pink as I spanked that
disobedience right out of her.
I groaned, squeezing the tip of my cock as I imagined it sinking into her tight hole.
Fucking her slow. Punishing her for talking back at me. Those soft eyes filled with need,
that sweet mouth parted, accepting my tongue as she begged me to mold that seductive
pussy to my hard on.
I fucking exploded. A stream of white fluid flew out, quickly getting washed away by
the hot water.
I quickly washed and dragged a towel around my waist as I stepped out into the
room. I knew she’d heard me cum, the pink that painted her cheeks gave her away. She
looked almost pained, and I instantly felt a surge of worry.
"Are you alright?"
She nodded. "I just need my medicine."
"Medicine?" I looked at her, perplexed. In all the time I'd watched her, I'd never seen
her take a pill.
"What are you talking about?"
"Hypoglycemia. I need to inject myself if my sugar gets too low."
I thought back at all the times I'd watched her and then I realized there were time
lapses in the bathroom where she'd always take too long. The one place I didn't have
cameras. She was on medication, and I never knew.
"Is your blood sugar low now?"
"I think so. I'm feeling lightheaded," she murmured, laying her head down.
"Fuck. What do I do?"
"I need my insulin. But…food. Something sweet will help."
"Yes. Got it." I threw on my wet clothes and ran down to the machines. I had no
money, so I had to go to the front desk. The young woman looked up at me when I
entered and rolled her eyes.
"Listen, I know we got off on the wrong foot. But that girl up there deserves the
world. She's suffering from low sugar. Something called Hypoglycemia. We don't have her
mess, I just need some quarters to get her something to eat."
She gave me a long hard look and then sighed in annoyance. She turned and went
into the back room. I thought she'd left me, but she came back with two things, a
chocolate bar and an object that looked like a pen.
"What am I supposed to do with this?"
She sighed again, as if it took everything in her to explain something to me.
"This is a lancing pen. You stick the sharp pointy thing into her finger. If it reads
seventy or less you have to take her to the ER. If not, you give her one of these." She
pressed the chocolate bar against my chest.
"How do you know all this?"
"My mom has been diabetic for a few years. Just make sure to check her blood sugar
again after a couple hours. Here…" she reached for a bag of gummy candies, another
chocolate bar and two bottles of water.
"It's the best I can do past midnight. The gummies work."
I nodded. "I appreciate it."
I ran out of the lobby and up to the room. Catalina was still lying in bed with her back
toward the door.
"Did you find something?" She murmured.
"Shhh," I uttered as I focused on pricking her finger.
The number on the dial read eighty-two. Not an emergency but getting there. I helped
her sit back against the headboard and I quickly broke off a piece of chocolate, placing it
against her lips.
She ate slowly, so I sat down beside her and fed her small bites. Her eyes got more
alert the more she ate.
"That one felt rough. I should have eaten at the diner."
"From now on we stop, and we eat, whenever you need to. I should have known, I'm
sorry." I berated myself.
"That’s sweet, but how could you have known?"
I blinked, my brain registering her words, realizing she was right. I shouldn't know any
of this. Yet it bothered me that I didn't. Because I should have paid more attention. I
should know how to handle any situation that concerned her.
I pricked her finger again and her levels were up. "Here," I gave her some water and
then gave her the gummies. "Those should help."
She smiled as she popped one into her mouth. "How do you know it'll help?"
"Cause crazy downstairs, helped me."
"Ohhh," she ate quietly glancing at the TV. I removed my wet t-shirt and jeans,
placing them on the chair. I could see her eyes glance at me from the mirror that hung in
front of the bed. I’d just turned forty, but my body was built like a fighter’s. I’d seen
women stare before but it meant more when I saw Catalina do it. Ignoring the urge to go
to her, I wrapped the towel around my waist and sat down on the other side of the bed.
A large gap sat between us.
"You should take a hot shower. Take off those clothes." I uttered.
 "What clothes? This is a t-shirt."
More like a torture device, I thought. Her toned legs and thighs would drive any man
crazy. Knowing all she had beneath it were those lace panties could make me lose
control.
"Whatever. I'll get you something to wear in the morning."
"Are you sure we're safe here?" She whispered, still staring at the television as she
spoke.
"For now," I replied. It was an honest answer because I had no fucking clue what the
future entailed.
I sat back, watching as she slid off the bed. She swayed slightly and I tensed, ready to
catch her if she needed me. But she straightened herself up and slowly walked to the
bathroom.
"Leave the door open."
"What?"
"In case you fall or something. Just leave it open."
She nodded, closing it just enough to give her some privacy. But what she didn't know
was that I had a full view of that mirror. And I didn't take my eyes off her as she stripped
down to nothing. Her tits plump and nipples taut from the cold. All those curves and my
hands Itching to grab a hold, to feel her, to make her mine.
Control yourself, Snare. Not now. This is not the time for perversions.
But my control was waning, and it would only last for a short while. Just until she
trusted me. Just until that same control made her realize that I was the only one in this
world willing to die for her.
 6
KRISTINA

MY BARE FEET ached as I ran, the sharp twigs cracking beneath my soles. My chest burned as
I struggled for air, knowing the consequences of betraying El Colectivo. They had men
who specialized in torture, and their methods were brutal and cruel.
I could feel them getting closer, their hands reaching out for me. I let out a piercing
scream, "No! No!"
Suddenly, strong hands engulfed me, and a familiar voice shouted my name.
"Catalina!"
I gasped and realized that I was no longer in the woods. Instead, I was back at the
inn with Scott's worried expression coming into focus.
"Scott?"
"What the hell kind of dreams are you having?" he asked, looking concerned.
I glanced at the splintered door frame and winced. "She's gonna make you pay for
that."
He looked over at the broken door he’d just stormed through and cursed before
leaving my side to slam it shut. Then, he rummaged through the bags on the table,
producing a sesame bagel and a coffee.
"Here. Breakfast in bed," he said, setting the coffee cup on the nightstand and
handing me the bagel and a napkin.
"Don't get used to it," he added grumpily before continuing to rummage through the
other bags.
"Where did you go?" I asked curiously.
"I found a retail store about a mile down the road. It was one of those outlet places,"
he replied.
I smiled, intrigued. "How did it go?"
"Terrible, but I managed to pick up some clothes," he responded, tossing a pile of
items at me, including jeans, a sweatshirt, a t-shirt, sneakers, socks, underwear, and a
backpack.
"Wow, you thought of everything," I remarked, admiring his preparedness.
He then surprised me by tossing a toothbrush and a bag of essentials my way. "It's
not much, but we have to travel light," he explained.
"Where are we headed?" I asked, wondering what our next move was.
 "Central Texas. Blow, their chapter's VP, has a safehouse up there that we can use.
I've been there once with Powertrain. We were out on a run," he replied, as he packed
his bag.
"Who's Powertrain?" I asked, curious about this new name.
"He's our chapter's Treasurer. He goes out on runs sometimes, kind of like a tax
collector. If you haven't paid up your debt, you get a visit from Powertrain. Our last run
was over in Texas," he explained.
"That doesn't sound like a tax collector," I remarked skeptically.
"What does it sound like?" he quipped with a chuckle.
"He sounds more like a bounty hunter," I replied with a smile.
"I'm sure he'd be pleased to hear that," he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement.
As I examined the silky, lacy delicate panties he had bought for me in different colors,
I couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking when he picked them out. Did he put a
lot of thought into it, or was it just a random grab? The idea of him thinking about that
part of my body made me squirm in bed.
"Do you think Blow will be able to help us?" I asked him anxiously.
He paused and gave me a serious look. "Let me take care of that. For now, focus on
getting ready and eating. We have a long ride ahead of us, and we'll stop for supplies a
few miles out," he replied, trying to reassure me.
I couldn't shake off the feeling of dread that had consumed me since my nightmare.
"What if they catch us? Will they kill me?" I asked him, my voice trembling.
He stopped what he was doing and sat down at the foot of the bed. "I don't know
what they want with you, but I promise you this: as long as you're with me, I won't let
anything happen to you," he said firmly.
"Why? You barely know me," I asked, feeling a mixture of confusion and gratitude.
He hesitated for a moment, his gaze falling to the ground. "I guess I've got nothing
better to do. Now, get ready. We're leaving in an hour," he said, grabbing his bag and
heading out of the room.
Left alone, I couldn't help but reflect on my dire situation. I had no money, my only
friend was missing, and I had no family I could turn to. My father had done his job well in
isolating me.
My thoughts wandered back to the night my father disappeared. Our conversations
were always heated, but that night had been different.
"Stay away from the windows, Catalina," he warned me.
"Now I can't even look out a damn window," I muttered to myself, feeling trapped and
helpless.
"Just stay inside until I return. I will come back for you," he said, grabbing my arm
gently. I pulled away, looking at him in anger.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I have something to do, but I promise I’ll be back.”
“You never cared to leave me behind before, so why do you care now?”
“Because it’s important!” He yelled and then we both quieted.
“Where are you going?”
 “I can’t tell you that. But I need you to stay at home for a while. No partying, no going
out on dates, movies, nothing.”
“You can’t just keep me locked up in here!”
I could sense the urgency in his voice and the fear in his eyes, and it frightened me.
My father had always been a controlling man, but this was different. This was a different
kind of fear.
“Please, hija Please listen to me this once.”
"I'll stay," I whispered, feeling a lump in my throat. "Just promise me you'll come
back."
He pulled me into a tight hug, and I could feel his body shaking slightly. "I love you,
Cata. More than anything in this world. Please don't forget that."
I nodded, not trusting my voice, and watched him leave.
I couldn't respond to that because my father's cruelty had been too much for me to
handle, and I didn't have any love left for him. As he gave me a quick kiss on the
forehead and turned to drag his suitcase off the bed, I just stood there in shock.
"Stay in the house, Felipe will be here taking care of you. As soon as I can, I'll return,"
he said.
"Okay," I barely had time to respond before he disappeared through the door. Little
did I know that would be the last time I'd see him. It was right before everything
happened with Abigail and before El Colectivo had made their threat. I barely left the
house except to go to classes, and I found myself waiting by the phone, hoping he'd call.
Eventually, I came to the realization that he was most likely dead. It was the only
explanation I could think of as to why he hadn't returned. And now I was on my own. If I
even breathed wrong, I'd follow in his footsteps.
I walked over to the window and gazed out at the parking lot below. Snare was tying
our backpacks to the pack rack against the back seat of the car. For a moment, I
observed him, trying to decipher what it was about him that fascinated me. It was a
strange sensation, as if I had some unexplainable connection to him.
I couldn't deny the attraction I felt towards him. Snare was a handsome older man,
with a dark and dangerous exteriore, but it was his piercing blue eyes that made my core
tighten. They were both kind and intense, as if he was capable of keeping me safe from
anything that could harm me. Yet, there was something else behind those eyes, a
mystery that he kept hidden from me. Being near him made me feel like a weight had
been lifted from my shoulders, like I was glimpsing into a different world and a different
life. It was a feeling that I thought Abigail must have experienced with Riddick.
As I caught Snare's gaze, I felt a similar sense of liberation. It was as if he held the
key to unlocking a part of me that had been hidden away for so long. I craved more,
wanted to delve deeper into this strange connection we shared.
I couldn't help but dwell on Abigail's words as I got ready. She had always been so in
love with Riddick, even with all of his possessive tendencies. But she insisted that he
made her feel free in a way that no one else ever had. It was a strange concept, but I
couldn't deny the allure of it.
I couldn't help but feel anxious about what lay ahead but the thought of being by
Snare's side eased my mind. Stepping under the showerhead, the hot water cascading
over my skin, I let my mind drift to thoughts of him. It was foolish, really, to feel so
drawn to a stranger, but I couldn't help myself. There was something about him that just
felt...right.
Getting dressed and grabbing my purse. With this renewed confidence, I made my
way towards the door, eager to see what lay ahead on this strange journey. Perhaps
there was more to Snare than met the eye, and I couldn't help but feel intrigued by the
enigma that he presented.
 7
SNARE

AS WE CROSSED INTO TEXAS, the rain had finally let up. We found ourselves in Dallas, where the
Royal Bastards had a chapter. However, I knew I needed to keep a low profile until I
reached Riddick. I couldn't risk anyone else getting involved with Catalina. Although
Jameson would likely tell me to leave her somewhere since she wasn't the club's
responsibility, I couldn't do that. She was my responsibility, and I wasn't taking my eyes
off her.
Before we left, I spoke to Blow that morning. He promised not to say anything, but we
had to be out in a few nights. At least I had the money Kingpin had wired, which would
cover us for a week or so. That should give me enough time to figure out where Riddick
was and how to help this girl.
"Is everything okay?" Her voice interrupted my thoughts.
Ignoring her question, I urged her to eat. "Eat up. The last thing we need is for you to
faint on the road," I said sternly.
She smiled, assuring me that she wouldn't faint. She even lifted the backpack I had
gotten for her, which now contained the insulin Crazy had given us back at the
hotel.She’d actually come through for us supplying Catalina with the medicine she needed
before we left. All the while giving me a look that had said I owed her one, which wasn’t
far from the truth.
"We're almost to Travis Country. The club has a safehouse by the lake where we can
stay for a few nights. We'll figure out our next move when we get there," I explained.
As she looked down at her cheeseburger, I noticed that she was missing something. I
signaled the waitress over. “Can we get her some honey mustard?”
“Absolutely,” the waitress smiled at us both and then walked away.
Catalina just stared at me. “How did you know I wanted honey mustard?”
The question took me off guard. “What?”
“How did you know that I put honey mustard on my burgers?”
I froze, realizing I had given myself away. Her narrowed eyes told me that she had
caught on to me too.
“Now that I think of it, how did you know my bra size, my panty size?” She lowered
her voice as she asked me these questions.
I didn’t say a word as she started to piece everything together. “Now that I think of it,
you knew my name. You said it several times. I never gave you, my name.”
I slowly leaned forward knowing that I should tell her the truth. Keeping it from her
wasn’t going to help the situation.
“I don’t think this is the time or place…”
“Fuck that,” she hissed. “Tell me what you know.”
"I know everything about you, Catalina."
She sat back, dropping her fork onto the table. "How?" Her question held a lot of
weight behind it.
"I've been watching you for months," I admitted.
"You've been stalking me," she clarified, and I shrugged.
"Call it what you will. I had a job to do, and I did it."
Catalina's expression turned to one of horror as she recalled the night when I killed
the Scorpion assassin. "That man...you killed that man that night."
"He was going to kill you if I hadn't been there," I replied firmly.
"So that gave you the right to break into my home?" she asked.
"That gave me the right to save your life!" I raised my voice, catching the attention of
other patrons in the restaurant.
"Did…did you ever break into my home again?"
There was a long pause before she slammed her hand on the table, causing the coffee
mugs to rattle. "Answer me!" she demanded angrily.
"I've done a lot more than break in, Sweetheart," I replied.
"Like what?" She stared at me with wide eyes.
I leaned forward, cradling my beer in my hands as I played with the label. "Trust me,
you don't want to know."
"I want to know everything."
"You really don't want to know this."
"Tell me everything."
I looked up and met her sweet, innocent gaze. "Riddick didn't want you near Abigail."
"I already know that," she sighed.
I raised an eyebrow and she gave a small pout. "Don't look at me like that. Abigail
and I don't keep secrets."
I nodded. "Go figure. Well, then you must know that the Royal Bastards are not your
father's good friends. On the contrary, he got a good man killed, which means he's on our
radar as well. But then again, El Colectivo is our enemy, and the enemy of our enemy is
our friend."
She frowned. "My father was your target."
"That's right. I was supposed to let Jameson know if he ever showed up. The only way
to do that was to stay close to someone he cared for, and that was you, baby girl."
"My father didn't care about anyone but himself."
"Wrong. Two weeks before he disappeared, he took out a hefty life insurance policy
on himself. He also signed everything over to you: the property, the family business,
anything he was working on. When Hoax found out, we knew they'd come looking for you
next."
 "You knew? But if he had all that money..."
"Nothing compared to what he owed the Colombian mafia."
"And what is that?"
"The Royal Bastards' land."
"So, what the hell do I have to do with any of that?"
"Nothing. They just want payback and to collect any debt he had with them."
"My father's dead," she uttered, her eyes meeting mine. "I can feel it in my gut. He's
never disappeared for this long. I knew he was dead a long time ago."
"You can't be sure of that."
"I am," she stated firmly.
We sat quietly for a minute, and she continued her questioning.
"When did you enter my home?"
"Several times."
"Why?"
I finished the last swig of the beer and stood up. "I think we should go," I said, looking
down at her.
But she wasn't having it. "Sit," she ordered, her arms crossed over her plump breasts.
One eyebrow arched as she waited.
I hesitated for a moment, considering my options. I could easily drag her out of there
or just leave her behind. But instead, I begrudgingly sat back down and braced myself for
her reaction when I told her the truth.
Because I had to tell her. I had to. I wanted a reaction. I wanted her to feel afraid of
me, so she'd want to stay away from me. Because in the end, we both knew I wasn't
good enough for her.
"What do you want to know?" I asked, finally meeting her gaze.
"Everything," she replied simply.
I propped my elbows on the table and leaned in towards her. “I’m not a good man,
Catalina. I’ve done some very bad things in my life, and you’re part of those bad things.”
She slowly slid her hands beneath her thighs as she leaned forward. “What kind of bad
things?”
I stared at her lips, still contemplating what to say to her. “Very bad things, Catalina.”
“No secrets, Snare. I can’t trust you if you keep secrets.”
“You won’t trust me after what I’ve done.”
“What did you do?” She leaned in closer, our faces only a few inches from one
another. I hesitated and she urged me.
“I want to know, Snare.”
“A want and a need are two different things, Catalina. I should know.”
“Then I need to know.” She was letting me off the hook.
My brows furrowed as I grew angry with myself as I lowered my voice and confessed
my secrets to her.
“You want to know all the dirty deeds that I’ve done.”
Her eyes fell to my lips and then she slowly nodded. “Yes.”
“At first, it started out as simply another job. I followed you around, learned your
routine, your favorite places to eat, your connections. But the more and more I watched
you, the more I wanted to know.”
I paused and she nodded. “Know what?”
“Know who you really were. I wanted to make sure you were safe, and that’s when I
saw that man break into the house. Turns out it was way too easy for him to get in. No
one noticed as he slid that back door open, nor did they silencer in his right hand. I kept
away after what I did, but not for long. So I returned, and it again so easy to get to you.
To sneak into your bedroom and watch you sleep.”
She swallowed, her cheeks growing a darker pink. “You watched me?”
“I hated myself for it. For invading your privacy like I did, but I was desperate to make
sure another man wouldn’t come for you. You didn’t deserve that fate.”
She looked down at the drink in her hands. “Is that all you did? Watch?”
“You looked so peaceful. So beautiful just lying there.” I continued and liked the way
she blushed and avoided my gaze.
“You wore that same damn silky chemise, the pink one with the pink shorts, but that
night you wore no shorts, just these tiny little blue panties.”
She gasped, pressing a hand over her lips.
“I have memorized every crevice of your body, Catalina. The curve of your tits, the
dips of your waist, the softness of your lips.”
“Scott.” My name spoken in shock, but she didn’t run, she just listened intently.
“I didn’t touch you, not that first night…”
“But?” She asked me.
“Fuck, Catalina.” I drew my hands down my face, not knowing how to word this next
part.
“Tell me the truth, Scott.”
“What truth? The fact that I’ve seen those beautiful tits of yours bare. That I’ve tasted
your pussy as you lay dead asleep. That I hunger for that fucking taste on my tongue
every fucking day I’m with you. Is that what you want to know?”
Her cheeks grew pink, and my cock reacted beneath the table. “Liar,” she whispered.
“I wish I was lying.”
“I would have woken up.”
“But you didn’t. So, I became addicted. I dreamed of you waking up on my tongue,
but you never did. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
I looked down at my hands feeling truly ashamed of my actions. My obsession with
her had gone too far and now I was going to lose the one thing I wanted but could never
have.
After a long moment of silence, I realized she was still sitting across from me.
I looked up. “Why aren’t you running?”
She looked down at the table, folding and unfolding the paper napkin in front of her.
“And go where?”
“I’m dangerous. I’ve fucking coerced you into trusting me. I’ve touched you without
your permission.”
“Do you know how many men have touched me without permission?” She raised her
eyes to mine.
“All of them have felt me up with the sole intent to hurt me. To fuck me. To get their
hands on my father’s money. To make me their little trophy. It’s funny, you’re the first
man who’s actually gotten that far and I don’t know how to feel about that.
“You should feel angry.”
She shrugged. “Why? You spoke with honesty.”
“You’re fucking crazy,” I whispered.
“I’m sure you know that’s a trait I tend to excel at.”
“You have no fucking idea what I’ve wanted to do to you. How badly I’ve wanted to
fuck you, to make you mine.”
“But you didn’t. We’ve been alone, you could have raped me, killed me, but you
haven’t.”
“You don’t know what I’m capable of.” I murmured.
“I know you want to keep me safe,” she whispered.
“You should be running away from me. Fuck, I’m a bad man Catalina.”
I went to stand, to force myself to stay away from her, but she grabbed my hand,
stopping me.
“Would you have ever forced me?”
“What?” Her question took me off guard.
“Would you have fucked me without my permission?”
“I’m not a fucking rapist,” I seethed quietly.
She nodded. “I was in bed with you last night. Did you hurt me?”
“Of course not.”
“Have you ever wanted to hurt me?”
“No. I would never fucking hurt you.”
“Then I have nothing to run away from. Sure, you’re a perverted creep, but that
doesn’t mean I’m stupid. You’re the only person who has offered me any type of help in
my entire fucking life. At this point, I have nowhere else to go.”
“What the fuck am I gonna do with you, little girl?”
“Just don’t let those bad men hurt me. I’ll eventually figure out how to pay you back,
but for now I’ll take my chances.”
She poured honey mustard on her burger and took a big bite. When she looked up at
me, and with a mouthful of burger, she smiled at me. I could only smirk as I took a bite
out of my own. I could say I was filled with relief for telling her my truth, but I wasn’t.
Instead, I was filled with dread that her being with me could put her in even more
danger.
 8
C ATA LI N A

WE ARRIVED at the safe house just as the sun began to set. It was situated on the edge of a
tranquil lake, and I hurried to the back of the house to catch the last glimpse of the
glowing sunset fading into the water. The view was breathtaking.
Turning to Scott, who had followed me outside, I asked, "How long can we stay?"
"A couple of nights," he replied.
Though I had hoped for a longer stay, I couldn't help but appreciate the peacefulness
of the location. "It's so serene here," I said.
"I always thought that." he agreed.
"If I ever have a home of my own, I think I'd like it to face a lake."
"Me too." His response was quiet, but loud enough that I understood his yearning.
As we entered the house, I was surprised by how clean and well-maintained it was.
"This is a safe house?" I asked in disbelief.
"One of many," he replied. "Each person has their own designated location, and this
one happens to be one of the nicer ones."
I was intrigued. "Are there others like this?" I asked.
"I'm sure there are," he replied with a small smile.
I marveled at the thought of discovering more places like this, but Scott's next words
caught me off guard. "You'll have your own room tonight," he said.
The idea of being alone made me uneasy, and I longed for the safety and comfort of
having him close by. Instead of voicing my thoughts, I simply nodded and began to
unpack the few groceries we had bought.
I couldn't help but wonder about the circumstances that had brought us to this safe
house. "That place where I found you..." I trailed off.
"You mean the bar?" he finished for me.
"That's what it was?" I asked, surprised.
"Yup, Riddick and I just invested in the property. It's in a great location, and we'll be
living in the floors above," he explained.
"Wow, that's impressive. What are you going to name it?" I asked.
He suddenly turned to me and took the steak out of my hands before putting it away.
"Why the small talk?" he questioned.
Taken aback, I asked, "Do you not want to talk?"
 "It's not that," he replied.
"Is there something wrong with wanting get to know more about the man who seems
to know everything about me.”
"There's nothing to know."
"Bullshit!" I slammed the jar of peanut butter in my hand, against the kitchen counter.
Silence fell over us and then he arched a brow. "Hey, careful. That's my favorite kind
of sandwich. "
I realized then that he was opening up to me, and it meant the world. "What's your
favorite color?" I asked, eager to reciprocate.
"Blue," he replied without hesitation.
"Favorite drink?" I asked.
"A nice cold beer. Preferably a lager if they have it," he said.
"Favorite song?" I asked, curious to know more.
He smirked. "Nothing you'd listen to," he replied cryptically.
Feeling more comfortable around him, I walked over and sat down on the opposite
end of the couch.
"Try me," I challenged.
"Zeppelin, Metallica, metal bands you haven't even heard of," he replied with a grin.
I nodded, admitting defeat. "Yeah, you're right."
"What about food?" he asked.
"I love a good fucking burger," I said with enthusiasm.
"Me too!" he replied, and for a moment, we found common ground despite our age
difference. I quieted and he quickly noticed.
"What is it, Cat?" he asked, using the nickname that I found endearing. I didn't correct
him; I liked it.
"Nothing," I replied.
"We should get some rest. I have some people to contact tomorrow," he said,
grabbing our backpacks.
He led me down a long hallway and stopped at the farthest room on the left. "This
one's yours," he said, opening the door to reveal a simple yet inviting bedroom with a
queen-sized bed, a nightstand, an armoire, and a soft shaggy rug.
As he turned to leave, I grabbed the sleeve of his jacket. "Stay here with me," I
pleaded.
He looked at me with concern. "But there's another room."
"I don't care. Just stay here. I need you to stay close," I said, my voice barely above a
whisper.
He paused for a long moment, considering my request. "I'll shift the couch over here
so you can sleep there," he offered.
"No," I said firmly. "Just stay here with me."
He looked at me from the bed and asked, "Will you still be okay with me after what
I've told you?"
"I already told you I don't care about that," I replied sincerely, although I should have
cared and run away as he had suggested. Instead, his confession had only piqued my
interest, and I found myself drawn to him.
"You should care," he said.
"But I don't. Please stay," I begged him.
He sighed deeply and put down his backpack on the chair. I closed the door to the
bedroom quietly, feeling elated.
I left him alone in the room and headed to the bathroom. I turned on the water and
slowly undressed, needing a hot shower to distance myself from the man on the other
side of the door. My thoughts kept circling back to him, clouding my mind like the steam
fogging up the mirrors.
As I massaged my sore muscles with soap, my fingers found their way to my core, and
I suppressed a moan at how sensitive I felt. Knowing that he had touched me there, had
put his tongue there, made me wet with excitement rather than fear. I realized that
something was truly wrong with me.

I IGNORED my desires and quickly dried myself off, brushed my teeth, and put on one of his
long t-shirts I’d found in his backpack. Wearing it made me feel warm and safe.
When I walked out, his eyes fixed on me. I held my breath as his gaze roamed over
my body, stopping briefly at my breasts before moving downward and lingering on my
bare legs. I shifted slightly, feeling more aroused than uncomfortable as the look in his
eyes darkened slightly, causing me to become wet again.
As he continued to stare at me, the air in the room grew thick with tension. I could
feel his desire for me radiating off him in waves. His gaze was so intense that it felt like
he was physically touching me, igniting a fire deep within me.
I shifted again, trying to control the heat building between my legs. I could see the
bulge in his pants growing, and it only fueled my own desire. I wanted him to touch me,
to take me right then and there, but I knew he wouldn’t.
Finally, he broke eye contact and went to the bathroom to take a shower. I let out a
deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. I couldn't believe how much he affected me,
how drawn I was to him despite the risks.
As I lay in the bed, listening to the sound of the shower, my mind wandered back to
our earlier conversation. His confession had shocked me, but at the same time, it made
me feel like I knew him on a deeper level. I wanted to know everything about him, every
secret, every fear.
I cursed silently, closing my eyes, and letting sleep take over.
 9
C ATA LI N A

HALFWAY THROUGH THE NIGHT, I awoke to the sensation of his arm draped over me. His familiar
scent and the feel of his body against mine brought me a sense of comfort and security
that I hadn't felt in a long time. For a moment, I wondered if he had come to me in my
dreams, but as I turned to face him, I realized that he was truly there in my bed.
I felt vulnerable in his arms, yet desired, and it was an intoxicating feeling. To be
wanted, to feel like someone actually cared about me and wanted to be around me, was
a new sensation for me.
As I shifted, my backside brushing against him, he groaned my name. I felt my body
respond to his touch, and I knew that I wanted more. I took his hand and lowered it to
my thigh, turning to face him.
"What are you doing, Catalina?" he asked, his grip tightening on my thigh.
"Touch me," I whispered against his lips, feeling a rush of desire flood through me.
"I can't do that, baby," he replied, his voice thick with desire.
"Why not?" I asked, wanting him to give in to his own desires.
"Because if I do, I won't be able to stop what comes next," he said, his gaze intense
and focused on me.
I smiled against his lips, kissing him softly. "Will I be cumming next?" I joked, feeling
bold and daring.
He growled, his groin nudging against me. I pressed back against him, feeling the
heat between us building. "You don't know what you're doing to me, baby girl," he
whispered, his voice rough and deep with desire I didn't care about the consequences, or
the risks we were taking. All I knew was that I wanted him, and I wanted him now.
"Then show me," I murmured before slipping my tongue into his mouth, and he
reciprocated with a vibrating kiss that sent shivers down my spine. His words made my
heart race as he whispered, "Are you wet?" and I felt myself becoming even more
aroused by the low rumble of his voice.
His hands were warm and calloused as they splayed out on my stomach, and I felt his
fingertips run down my torso towards the waistband of my panties. As his fingers slid
beneath the material, he caressed my sensitive skin before sweeping down to my core. A
gasp escaped my lips as his middle finger grazed over that tiny little bump, sending
electric currents through my entire being.
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Glenquhargen. They were all nimble-footed, and the panic with
which they were now actually seized gave wings to their speed, and
rendered a matter of no regard the rocks and other impediments
over which they were flying. Their pursuer was not more speedy, but
much longer winded, and the rage which then impelled him was not
less potent than their terror. He possessed a fund of physical ability
which was almost inexhaustible, and he had sworn not to drop the
pursuit till he had “smashed the hale set,” so that from the length of
the race the poor wights had but a small chance of safety. At length
the top of Glenquhargen, then Cairnkinnow, and next Gowkthorn,
were reached, without any loss or advantage to either party. From
the latter of these places, the ground declines nearly the whole way to
Drumlanrig, and the soldiers, with the start in their favour, flew on
with a glimmering of hope that now they could scarcely be overtaken.
Their hope was realised, but not without such overstraining as had
nearly proved equally fatal with the vengeance from which they fled.
Leaning forward almost to the ground, and staggering like drunkards
from excess of fatigue, they at last reached the western staircase
which leads into the court of the castle. Behind them Glenmannow
rushed on also with abated speed, but with indignation as hot as
ever. He still bore upon his shoulder the ponderous car limb; his face
was literally bathed in perspiration; and the wild expression of his
eyes, and the foam which was beginning to appear at each corner of
his mouth, rendered him a true personification of Giant Madness
broken from his chains.
The two dukes, who had been informed of their approach by some
servants who observed them descending the opposite heights, were
waiting to receive them within the balustrade which runs along that
side of the castle; but on marking the fury of Glenmannow, Duke
James deemed it prudent to retire with the exhausted soldiers until
the storm should be passed; for while his tenant remained in that
mood of mind, he dared not, absolute as was his authority, to come
into his presence. His brother of Buccleuch was therefore left to bear
the first brunt of the salutation, who, on Glenmannow’s approach,
called out, “What is the matter? What is to do?” Glenmannow,
without regarding this interrogatory further than by darting upon
him a wild and fierce look, sprang up stairs, and rushed past him into
the court of the castle. But here his progress was stopped; for among
the several doors which lead from thence to every part of the castle,
he knew not by which his enemies had entered. One, however, was
known to him, and along that passage he rapidly hastened, until he
at length arrived in the kitchen. There he was equally at fault, and
there his pursuit was ended; for the smiles of the sonsy cook, and the
fondlements of the various servants who thronged around him,
succeeded in restoring his mind to a degree of calmness and repose.
The cook eased his shoulder of the car limb, with the intention of
repaying herself for the trouble by using it as fuel; others divested
him of his bonnet; and all, with many words, prevailed upon him at
last to assume a chair. After a moment’s silence, in which he seemed
to be lost in reflection, “Ay, ay,” said he, “I see through a’ this noo. It
has been a trick o’ the juke’s makin’ up.” Then, with a serious air, he
added, “But it was dangerous though; for if I had gotten a haud o’
thae chaps, wha kens what I might hae done!”
The duke, on being informed of this change wrought upon his
tenant, and having learnt from the soldiers the way in which he had
been deprived of his breakfast, ordered him a plentiful refreshment,
and afterwards sent for him into the presence of himself and of
Buccleuch. The breach between them was speedily healed; and
Glenmannow, nothing poorer for his race, returned shortly
afterwards with a servant on horseback, who was dispatched to
convey to headquarters the poor grenadier who had been so roughly
handled in the affray.
Mally, with a humanity and forgiveness which the soldier had little
right to expect, had succeeded in removing him from the spot where
he was cast down, into the house, and having there laid him upon a
bed, tended him with such kindness and care, that, by the time of
Glenmannow’s return, he was so far recovered as to be able to sit
upon the horse sent to remove him. Glenmannow, after Mally had
wrapped round him a pair of blankets, bore him out in his arms, and
placed him behind the servant, who in this manner conducted him in
safety to Drumlanrig.
This is the last exploit of a remarkable kind which I have been able
to glean respecting Glenmannow. He lived to a pretty long age, yet
his life was abridged within its natural period by imprudently taxing
his great strength beyond its actual capability. A high dyke was in the
course of being built, from the heights on the left of the Nith into the
channel of the river, about four miles above Drumlanrig, on the way
to Sanquhar, and in order to resist the force of the current, the
largest stones that could be moved were built into the dyke at its
termination. One in particular, which lay near the place, was deemed
excellently fitted for that purpose, but its weight rendered it
unmanageable. Glenmannow undertook to lift it into its place, and in
reality did so; but in the effort he injured his breast and spine, and
brought on a lingering disorder, of which he died in less than a
twelvemonth afterwards, in the year 1705. I am not aware of his
having left any descendants to perpetuate and spread his name; one
thing at least is certain, that in the present day none such are to be
found in that district which was the principal scene of his exploits,
and where still is cherished to such a degree his singular yet honest
renown.—Traits of Scottish Life, and Pictures of Scenes and
Character.
 MY GRANDMOTHER’S PORTRAIT.

By Daniel Gorrie.

In picture galleries, or in private apartments, portraits seldom

receive much attention from visitors, unless they happen to have
known the originals, or to be aware that the pictures are the
productions of distinguished artists. And yet, whether we have
known the originals or not, and apart altogether from the general
artistic merit of the works, there are many portraits which have a
wonderful effect in giving the mind a reflective and inquisitive turn.
Portraits of this description may occasionally be seen in retired
country houses of modest dimensions, where one need scarcely
expect to find specimens of the highest class of art. Faces we may
there observe, silently depending from the walls, on which strongly-
pronounced character is depicted in spite of every artistic defect, and
through the deep lines of which the record of a stirring or painful life
seems to struggle earnestly for utterance. People are too much in the
habit of regarding every person as commonplace and uninteresting
who has not managed somehow to make a noise in the world; but in
these “counterfeit presentments” of men and women who have died
in comparative obscurity, known only to their own circle of friends,
we may see much that strangely moves our hearts, and makes us long
to learn what their history has been.
Let the reader look in fancy on that old portrait hanging before me
there on the wall. To me it is no dead picture, but rather does it seem
the living embodiment of a maternal grandmother—a heroic old
dame, who never lost heart whatever might betide, and of whom that
image is now almost the sole remaining relic. Even a stranger could
scarcely fail to note with curious interest that small round face with
nose and chin attenuated by years—those peering eyes, where a
twinkle of youth yet breaks through the dim of eld—that wrinkled
brow, shaded with a brown frontage-braid of borrowed hair—and
that compact little head, encased in a snow-white cap with its broad
band of black ribbon. The least skilful artist could hardly have failed
in depicting the features; but the old familiar expression is also there,
preserved as in amber, and the aged face is pleasantly blended in my
mind with memories of early days. Detached incidents in her life,
which she was fond of frequently relating to her grandchildren, who
eagerly clustered around her, listening to the oft-told tale, recur to
me with considerable freshness after the lapse of many years.
At the time when that portrait was taken, Mrs Moffat—as I shall
name her—was well-nigh eighty years of age. For about the half of
that period she had led a widowed life. Her husband, who witnessed
many stirring scenes on sea and shore, had been a surgeon in the
Royal Navy, and she was left “passing rich with forty pounds a year”
of government pension.
There was one remarkable incident in his history to which she
frequently recurred. Samuel Moffat obtained an appointment as
surgeon on board the ill-fated Royal George; but before the time set
apart for her leaving port, he found that the smell of the fresh paint
of the new vessel created a feeling of nausea, which would have
rendered him unfit for duty; and by his good fortune in getting
transferred, on this account, to another man-of-war, he escaped the
sad fate that befell so many hapless victims—
When Kempenfelt went down
With twice four hundred men.

A striking incident of this kind naturally made a deep impression on

his own mind, and it also formed a prominent reminiscence in the
memory of his faithful partner during the long remainder of her life.
The earlier period of Mrs Moffat’s widowhood was passed in
Edinburgh; but when death and marriage had scattered her family,
she followed one of her married daughters to the country, and took
up her abode in a neat poplar-shaded cottage on the outskirts of a
quiet village, situated in a fertile and beautiful valley of the county
that lies cradled in the twining arms of the Forth and the Tay. That
cottage, with its garden behind, and pretty flower-borders in front,
and with its row of poplar and rowan-trees, through which the
summer breeze murmured so pleasantly, comes up vividly before my
mind’s eye at this moment. Beautiful as of yore the valley smiles
around, with its girdling ridges belted with woods, and dotted with
pleasant dwellings; and away to westward, shutting in the peaceful
scene from the tumult of the great world, rise the twin Lomond hills,
glorious at morn and eve, when bathed in the beams of the rising and
setting sun. The good old lady, who had spent a large portion of her
life in “Auld Reekie,” when narrow Bristo Street and Potterrow and
the adjoining courts were inhabited by the better class of citizens,
took kindly to the country cottage, and she was fond of the garden
and flowers. With a basket on her arm, she trotted about the garden,
apparently very busy, but doing little after all. In autumn, after a
gusty night, one of her first morning occupations was to gather up
the fallen ruddy apples, which she preserved for the special
gratification of her grandchildren. Many a time and oft were they
debarred from touching the red berries of the rowan-trees, which
look as tempting in children’s eyes as did the forbidden fruit in those
of Mother Eve. The girls were even enjoined not to make necklaces of
these clustering red deceivers.
In that retired village there were, in those days, a good many well-
to-do people, who had not found it very difficult to make money out
of a generous soil. The different families lived on very sociable terms,
and during the winter season there were rounds of tea-parties,
winding up with cold suppers and hot toddy. Teetotalism was a thing
unknown in that district and in those days, though I shall do the
good folks the justice of saying that they knew the virtues of
moderation. To all those winter gatherings of the local gentry, Mrs
Moffat invariably received an invitation. They could not do without
her, relishing as they did her ready wit and hearty good-humour. She
was, in sooth, the life of every party. On such occasions she displayed
all the artless buoyancy of youth, as if she had never endured the
agonies of bereavement, or borne the burdens of life. She was then
the very image of “Old Delight,” and her aged face renewed its youth
in the sunshine of joy. Some of the knowing lairds tried by bantering
and otherwise to draw her out, and her quick cutting repartees were
followed by explosions of mirth. It seemed marvellous that such a
well of sunny mirth should be encased in that tiny frame. Indeed, it
was nothing unusual for the hearty old lady to treat the company to a
“canty” song at these village parties, and touches of melody still
lingered about the cracks of her voice. When bothered overmuch to
sing another song after she had already done enough, she generally
met the request with a solitary stanza to this effect:—
There was a wee mannie an’ a wee wifie,
And they lived in a vinegar bottle;
“And O,” says the wee mannie to the wee wifie,
“Wow, but oor warld is little, is little!
Wow, but oor warld is little!”

Rare encounters of wit and amusing banter occasionally took place

between her and a strange eccentric humorist of a lawyer of the old
school, who frequently visited the village from a neighbouring
country town. Old Bonthron was the name by which he was
familiarly known.
It may readily be imagined that, when old Mr Bonthron and Mrs
Moffat met in the same company, the fun would grow “fast and
furious,” and such certainly was the case. I have seen the hearty old
humorist take the equally hearty old lady on his knee, and dandle her
there like a child, greatly to their own delight and to the infinite
amusement of the company. There will be less genial and boisterous
mirth now-a-days, I should imagine, in that sequestered village.
Such was Mrs Moffat in her lightsome hours, when friends met
friends; but her grandchildren were as much delighted with her
when, in graver mood, she recalled early recollections, told them
pleasant little stories, and narrated graphically what to her were
eventful incidents in her life.
I can still remember some of the pleasant pictures she gave us of
her early days. She was born in the town of Dalkeith, which is
beautiful for situation, being planted in the midst of the richest
woodland scenery, and she imprinted in our hearts vivid impressions
of the delighted feelings with which, in the days of her girlhood, she
looked through the gate of the Duke’s great park, and saw the long
winding avenue and the greensward traversed by nibbling sheep, and
the magnificent trees whose “shadowing shroud” might cover a
goodly company at their rural feast in the noontide of a summer’s
day. She described the rustic seats and summer-houses on the banks
of a brook, that wandered at its own sweet will through the wooded
grounds—regions and resorts of joyance, where the children of the
town, through the kindness of the then reigning Duke of Buccleuch,
were permitted to spend the livelong summer’s day, thus enabling
them to store their memories with pleasing recollections, which
might come back upon them in their declining days, like visions of
beauty from lands of old romance. There was a pathetic story about a
family of larks that had their nest in the Duke’s Park, which she
recited to us over and over again, by way of inculcating the virtue of
treating kindly all the creatures of God. Her story was, that some of
the young rascals of Dalkeith had caught the mother-bird in the nest,
and had carried off her and the whole family of young ones at one fell
swoop. The male bird, thus deprived at once of mate and family, took
up his melancholy station near the nest, and mourned his loss with
plaintive pipe for two days, at the end of which time the broken-
hearted warbler died. This affecting incident, told with much
seriousness and feeling, was not unproductive of good effect upon
the young listeners. Cities and towns being still to us mysteries of
which we had only a vague conception, it pleased us much to hear
her tell how the bells of Dalkeith tolled children to bed, and how little
boys walked through the streets at night, calling “Hot pies for
supper!” It struck us that at whatever hour the bell tolled, we should
have liked to remain out of bed till the pies went round.
On winter evenings, beside the good old lady’s cottage fire, she was
often constrained to recount her famous voyage to London, in which
she wellnigh suffered shipwreck. The war-vessel on board of which
her husband acted as surgeon had arrived in the Thames. He could
not then obtain leave of absence, and as they had not met for many
long months, she determined—protracted as the passage then was
from Leith to London—to make an effort to see her husband, and to
visit the great metropolis. Steamers had not, at that period, come
into existence, and the clipper-smacks that traded between Leith and
London, and took a few venturesome passengers on their trips,
dodged along the Scotch and English coasts for days and weeks, thus
making a lengthened voyage of what is now a brief and pleasant sail.
It was considered a bold and hazardous undertaking, in those days,
for any lady to proceed alone on such a voyage. This, however, she
did, as she was gifted with a wonderful amount of pluck, leaving her
family in the charge of some friends till she returned.
 The vessel had scarcely left the Firth of Forth, and got out into the
open sea, when the weather underwent a bad turn, and soon they
had to encounter all the fury of a severe storm, which caused many
shipwrecks along the whole eastern seaboard. With a kind of placid
contentment—nay, even with occasional glee—would she describe
the protracted miseries and hardships they endured, having run
short of supplies, and every hour expecting the vessel to founder. It
was three weeks after leaving Leith until the smack was, as she
described it, towed up the Thames like a dead dog, without either
mast or bowsprit—a hapless and helpless hulk. However, she
managed to see her husband, and the happiness of the meeting
would be considered a good equivalent for the mishaps of the voyage.
She saw, in the great metropolis, the then Prince of Wales—the “First
Gentleman in Europe,” and used to relate, with considerable gusto
(old ladies being more rough-and-ready then than now), how the
Prince, as he was riding in St James’s Park, overheard a hussar in the
crowd exclaiming, “He’s a d——d handsome fellow!” and
immediately lifting his hat, his Royal Highness replied, “Thank you,
my lad; but you put too much spice in your compliments!” That
London expedition was a red-letter leaf in Mrs Moffat’s biography,
and it was well thumbed by us juveniles. Her return voyage was
comparatively comfortable, and much more rapid; but she never saw
her husband again, as he died at sea, and was consigned to the deep.
Even more interesting than the London trip were all the stories
and incidents connected with her only son—our uncle who ought to
have been, but who was dead before any of us were born. Through
the kindness and influence of Admiral Greig of the Russian navy, he
obtained a commission in the Russian service at an unusually early
age—Russia and Britain being at that time in close alliance. Neither
the Russian navy nor army was in the best condition, and the
Emperor was very desirous to obtain the services of British officers,
Scotsmen being preferred. Mrs Moffat loved her son with all the
warmth of her kindly nature, and when he had been about a year or
two in the Russian service, the news spread through Edinburgh one
day, that a Russian man-of-war was coming up the Firth to Leith
roads. I have heard the good lady relate the eventful incidents of that
day with glistening eyes and tremulous voice.
 The tidings were conveyed to her by friends who knew that she had
some reason to be interested in the news. She had received no
communication from her son for some time, as the mails were then
very irregular, and letters often went amissing; and, filled with the
hope that he might be on board the Russian vessel that was
approaching the roads, she immediately hurried off for Leith,
whither crowds of people were already repairing, as a Russian war-
vessel in the Forth was as great a rarity then as it is now. Before she
arrived at the pier, the vessel had anchored in the roads, and the
pier, neither so long nor so commodious as it is now, was thronged
with people pressing onwards to get a sight of the stranger ship.
Nothing daunted by the crowd, Mrs Moffat squeezed herself forward,
at the imminent risk of being seriously crushed. A gentleman who
occupied a “coigne of vantage,” out of the stream of the crowd,
observed this slight-looking lady pressing forward with great
eagerness. He immediately hailed her, and asked, as she appeared
very much interested, if she expected any one, or had any friends on
board. She replied that she half expected her son to be with the
vessel. The gentleman, who was to her a total stranger, but who must
have been a gentleman every inch, immediately took her under his
protection, and having a telescope in his hand, he made
observations, and reported progress.
One of the ship’s boats had been let down, and he told her that he
observed officers in white uniform rapidly descending. Mrs Moffat’s
eagerness and anxiety were now on the increase. The boat put off
from the ship, propelled by sturdy and regular strokes, cutting the
water into foam, which sparkled in the sunshine. When the boat had
approached midway between the ship and the shore, Mrs Moffat
asked her protector if he could distinguish one officer apparently
younger than the others.
“Yes,” he replied; “there is one who seems scarcely to have passed
from boyhood to manhood.”
Her eager impatience, with hope and fear alternating in her heart,
seemed now to agitate her whole frame, and the bystanders, seeing
her anxiety, appeared also to share in her interest.
At last the boat, well filled with officers, shot alongside the pier,
the crowd rushing and cheering, as it sped onward to the upper
landing-place. It was with great difficulty that the gentleman could
restrain the anxious mother from dashing into the rushing stream of
people. When the crowd had thinned off a little, they made their way
up the pier, and found that the officers had all left the boat and gone
into the Old Ship Inn—probably because they had no desire of being
mobbed. Mrs Moffat immediately went to the inn, and requested an
attendant to ask if one of the officers belonged to Scotland, and if so,
to be good enough to mention his name.
“Yes—Moffat!” was the cheery response, and in a short time
mother and son were locked in each other’s arms in the doorway of
the Old Ship.
With a glee, not unmingled with tender regrets, she used to tell
how, when she and the spruce young officer were proceeding up
Leith Walk together to Edinburgh, an old woman stopped them, and,
clapping him kindly on the shoulder, said—“Ay, my mannie, ye’ll be a
captain yet!” This prophecy of the old woman certainly met its
fulfilment.
After staying a few days in the old home near the Meadows, young
Moffat again took his departure, never more to see his affectionate
mother, or the bald crown of Arthur Seat rising by the side of the
familiar Firth. He joined the army (changes of officers from the navy
to the army being then frequent in the Russian service), and
reenacted his part honourably in many memorable scenes. Still do I
remember the tender and tearful care with which his old mother
opened up the yellow letters, with their faded ink-tracings, which
contained descriptions of the part he played in harassing the French,
during their disastrous retreat after the burning of Moscow. One of
these letters, I recollect, commenced thus—“Here we are, driving the
French before us like a flock of sheep;” and in others he gave painful
descriptions of their coming up to small parties of French soldiers
who were literally glued by the extreme frost to the ground—quite
stiff and dead, but still in a standing attitude, and leaning on their
muskets. Poor wretches! that was their sole reward for helping to
whet the appetite of an insatiable ambition. In those warlike times,
young Moffat grew into favour, and gained promotion. He received a
gold-hilted sword from the Emperor for distinguished service, but he
succumbed to fatigue, and died on foreign soil. The gold-headed
sword and his epaulets, which he had bequeathed to a favourite
sister, fell into the hands of harpies in London, and to this day have
never reached Scotland.
In the quiet village Mrs Moffat spent her declining days in peace
and sweet content, and she now sleeps in the village churchyard, till
the last spring that visits the world shall waken inanimate dust to
immortal life.
 THE BAPTISM.

By Professor Wilson.

It is a pleasant and impressive time, when, at the close of divine

service, in some small country church, there takes place the gentle
stir and preparation for a baptism. A sudden air of cheerfulness
spreads over the whole congregation; the more solemn expression of
all countenances fades away; and it is at once felt that a rite is about
to be performed which, although of a sacred and awful kind, is yet
connected with a thousand delightful associations of purity, beauty,
and innocence. Then there is an eager bending of smiling faces over
the humble galleries—an unconscious rising up in affectionate
curiosity—and a slight murmuring sound, in which is no violation of
the Sabbath sanctity of God’s house, when, in the middle passage of
the church, the party of women is seen, matrons and maids, who
bear in their bosoms, or in their arms, the helpless beings about to be
made members of the Christian communion.
There sit, all dressed becomingly in white, the fond and happy
baptismal group. The babies have been intrusted, for a precious
hour, to the bosoms of young maidens, who tenderly fold them to
their yearning hearts, and with endearments taught by nature, are
stilling, not always successfully, their plaintive cries. Then the proud
and delighted girls rise up, one after the other, in sight of the whole
congregation, and hold up the infants, arrayed in neat caps and long
flowing linen, into their fathers’ hands. For the poorest of the poor, if
he has a heart at all, will have his infant well dressed on such a day,
even although it should scant his meal for weeks to come, and force
him to spare fuel to his winter fire.
 And now the fathers were all standing below the pulpit, with grave
and thoughtful faces. Each has tenderly taken his infant into his toil-
hardened hands, and supports it in gentle and steadfast affection.
They are all the children of poverty, and if they live, are destined to a
life of toil. But now poverty puts on its most pleasant aspect, for it is
beheld standing before the altar of religion with contentment and
faith. This is a time when the better and deeper nature of every man
must rise up within him, and when he must feel, more especially,
that he is a spiritual and immortal being making covenant with God.
He is about to take upon himself a holy charge; to promise to look
after his child’s immortal soul; and to keep its little feet from the
paths of evil, and in those of innocence and peace. Such a thought
elevates the lowest mind above itself, diffuses additional tenderness
over the domestic relations, and makes them who hold up their
infants to the baptismal font, better fathers, husbands, and sons, by
the deeper insight which they then possess into their nature and
their life.
The minister consecrates the water; and, as it falls on his infant’s
face, the father feels the great oath in his soul. As the poor helpless
creature is wailing in his arms, he thinks how needful indeed to
human infancy is the love of Providence! And when, after delivering
each his child into the arms of the smiling maiden from whom he
had received it, he again takes his place for admonition and advice
before the pulpit, his mind is well disposed to think on the perfect
beauty of that religion of which the Divine Founder said, “Suffer little
children to be brought unto me, for of such is the kingdom of
heaven!”
The rite of baptism had not thus been performed for several
months in the kirk of Lanark. It was now the hottest time of
persecution; and the inhabitants of that parish found other places in
which to worship God and celebrate the ordinances of religion. It was
now the Sabbath-day, and a small congregation of about a hundred
souls had met for divine service in a place of worship more
magnificent than any temple that human hands had ever built to
Deity. Here, too, were three children about to be baptised. The
congregation had not assembled to the toll of the bell, but each heart
knew the hour and observed it; for there are a hundred sun-dials
among the hills, woods, moors, and fields, and the shepherd and the
peasant see the hours passing by them in sunshine and shadow.
The church in which they were assembled was hewn by God’s hand
out of the eternal rocks. A river rolled its way through a mighty
chasm of cliffs, several hundred feet high, of which the one side
presented enormous masses, and the other corresponding recesses,
as if the great stone girdle had been rent by a convulsion. The
channel was overspread with prodigious fragments of rock or large
loose stones, some of them smooth and bare, others containing soil
and verdure in their rents and fissures, and here and there crowned
with shrubs and trees. The eye could at once command a long
stretching vista, seemingly closed and shut up at both extremities by
the coalescing cliffs. This majestic reach of river contained pools,
streams, rushing shelves, and waterfalls innumerable; and when the
water was low, which it now was in the common drought, it was easy
to walk up this scene, with the calm blue sky overhead, an utter and
sublime solitude. On looking up, the soul was bowed down by the
feeling of that prodigious height of unscaleable and often
overhanging cliff. Between the channel and the summit of the far-
extended precipices were perpetually flying rooks and wood-pigeons,
and now and then a hawk, filling the profound abyss with their wild
cawing, deep murmur, or shrilly shriek. Sometimes a heron would
stand erect and still on some little stone island, or rise up like a white
cloud along the black wall of the chasm and disappear. Winged
creatures alone could inhabit this region. The fox and wild-cat chose
more accessible haunts. Yet there came the persecuted Christians
and worshipped God, whose hand hung over their heads those
magnificent pillars and arches, scooped out those galleries from the
solid rock, and laid at their feet the calm water in its transparent
beauty, in which they could see themselves sitting in reflected
groups, with their Bibles in their hands.
Here, upon a semicircular ledge of rocks, over a narrow chasm, of
which the tiny stream played in a murmuring waterfall, and divided
the congregation into two equal parts, sat about a hundred persons,
all devoutly listening to their minister, who stood before them on
what might well be called a small natural pulpit of living stone. Up to
it there led a short flight of steps, and over it waved the canopy of a
tall graceful birch-tree. This pulpit stood in the middle of the
channel, directly facing that congregation, and separated from them
by the clear deep sparkling pool into which the scarce-heard water
poured over the blackened rock. The water, as it left the pool,
separated into two streams, and flowed on each side of that altar,
thus placing it on an island, whose large mossy stones were richly
embowered under the golden blossoms and green tresses of the
broom. Divine service was closed, and a row of maidens, all clothed
in purest white, came gliding off from the congregation, and crossing
the stream on some stepping-stones, arranged themselves at the foot
of the pulpit, with the infants about to be baptized. The fathers of the
infants, just as if they had been in their own kirk, had been sitting
there during worship, and now stood up before the minister. The
baptismal water, taken from the pellucid pool, was lying consecrated
in a small hollow of one of the upright stones that formed one side or
pillar of the pulpit, and the holy rite proceeded. Some of the younger
ones in that semicircle kept gazing down into the pool, in which the
whole scene was reflected, and now and then, in spite of the grave
looks or admonishing whispers of their elders, letting a pebble fall
into the water, that they might judge of its depth from the length of
time that elapsed before the clear air-bells lay sparkling on the
agitated surface. The rite was over, and the religious services of the
day closed by a psalm. The mighty rocks hemmed in the holy sound,
and sent it in a more compacted volume, clear, sweet, and strong, up
to heaven. When the psalm ceased, an echo, like a spirit’s voice, was
heard dying away up among the magnificent architecture of the cliffs,
and once more might be noticed in the silence the reviving voice of
the waterfall.
Just then a large stone fell from the top of the cliff into the pool, a
loud voice was heard, and a plaid hung over on the point of a
shepherd’s staff. Their watchful sentinel had descried danger, and
this was his warning. Forthwith the congregation rose. There were
paths dangerous to unpractised feet, along the ledges of the rocks,
leading up to several caves and places of concealment. The more
active and young assisted the elder—more especially the old pastor,
and the women with the infants; and many minutes had not elapsed,
till not a living creature was visible in the channel of the stream, but
all of them hidden, or nearly so, in the clefts and caverns.
 The shepherd who had given the alarm had lain down again in his
plaid instantly on the greensward upon the summit of these
precipices. A party of soldiers were immediately upon him, and
demanded what signals he had been making, and to whom; when
one of them, looking over the edge of the cliff, exclaimed, “See, see,
Humphrey! we have caught the whole tabernacle of the Lord in a net
at last. There they are, praising God among the stones of the river
Mouss. These are the Cartland Craigs. By my soul’s salvation, a noble
cathedral!” “Fling the lying sentinel over the cliffs. Here is a canting
Covenanter for you, deceiving honest soldiers on the very Sabbath-
day. Over with him, over with him—out of the gallery into the pit.”
But the shepherd had vanished like a shadow; and, mixing with the
tall green broom and brushes, was making his unseen way towards
the wood. “Satan has saved his servant. But come, my lads, follow
me; I know the way down into the bed of the stream, and the steps
up to Wallace’s Cave. They are called the ‘Kittle Nine Stanes.’ The
hunt’s up—we’ll be all in at the death. Halloo, my boys, halloo!”
The soldiers dashed down a less precipitous part of the wooded
banks, a little below the “Craigs,” and hurried up the channel. But
when they reached the altar where the old grayhaired minister had
been seen standing, and the rocks that had been covered with people,
all was silent and solitary—not a creature to be seen.
“Here is a Bible dropped by some of them,” cried a soldier; and
with his foot spun it away into the pool.
“A bonnet! a bonnet!” cried another. “Now for the pretty sanctified
face that rolled its demure eyes below it.”
But after a few jests and oaths the soldiers stood still, eyeing with a
kind of mysterious dread the black and silent walls of the rock that
hemmed them in, and hearing only the small voice of the stream that
sent a profounder stillness through the heart of that majestic
solitude. “Curse these cowardly Covenanters! What if they tumble
down upon our heads pieces of rock from their hiding-places?
Advance? Or retreat?”
There was no reply; for a slight fear was upon every man. Musket
or bayonet could be of little use to men obliged to clamber up rocks,
along slender paths, leading they knew not where; and they were
aware that armed men now-a-days worshipped God,—men of iron
hearts, who feared not the glitter of the soldier’s arms, neither barrel
nor bayonet; men of long stride, firm step, and broad breast, who, on
the open field, would have overthrown the marshalled line, and gone
first and foremost if a city had to be taken by storm.
As the soldiers were standing together irresolute, a noise came
upon their ears like distant thunder, but even more appalling; and a
slight current of air, as if propelled by it, passed whispering along the
sweetbriers and the broom, and the tresses of the birch-trees. It came
deepening and rolling, and roaring on, and the very Cartland Craigs
shook to their foundation as if in an earthquake. “The Lord have
mercy upon us!—what is this?” And down fell many of the miserable
wretches on their knees, and some on their faces, upon the sharp-
pointed rocks. Now it was like the sound of many myriad chariots
rolling on their iron axles down the stony channel of the torrent. The
old grayhaired minister issued from the mouth of Wallace’s Cave,
and said, with a loud voice, “The Lord God terrible reigneth!” A
waterspout had burst up among the moorlands, and the river, in its
power, was at hand. There it came—tumbling along into that long
reach of cliffs, and in a moment filled it with one mass of waves.
Huge agitated clouds of foam rode on the surface of a blood-red
torrent. An army must have been swept off by that flood. The soldiers
perished in a moment; but high up in the cliffs, above the sweep of
destruction, were the Covenanters—men, women, and children,
uttering prayers to God, unheard by themselves in that raging
thunder.
 THE LAIRD’S WOOING.

By John Galt.

The laird began the record of his eighteenth year in these words:—
There lived at this time, on the farmstead of Broomlands, a person
that was a woman, by calling a widow; and she and her husband,
when he was in this life, had atween them Annie Daisie, a dochter;—
very fair she was to look upon, comely withal, and of a feleecity o’
nature.
This pretty Annie Daisie, I know not hoo, found favour in my eyes,
and I made no scruple of going to the kirk every Sabbath day to see
her, though Mr Glebeantiends was, to a certainty, a vera maksleepie
preacher. When I forgathered with her by accident, I was all in a
confusion; and when I would hae spoken to her wi’ kindly words, I
could but look in her clear een and nicher like Willie Gouk, the
haverel laddie; the which made her jeer me as if I had a want, and
been daft likewise; so that seeing I cam no speed in courting for
myself, I thocht o’ telling my mother; but that was a kittle job,—
howsoever, I took heart, and said—
“Mother!”
“Well, son,” she made answer, “what would ye?”
“I’m going to be marriet,” quo’ I.
“Marriet!” cried she, spreading out her arms wi’ consternation.
“And wha’s the bride?”
I didna like just to gie her an even down answer, but said I thought
myself old enough for a helpmeet to my table, which caused her to
respond with a laugh; whereupon I told her I was thinking of Annie
Daisie.
 “Ye’ll surely ne’er marry the like o’ her;—she’s only a gair’ner’s
dochter.”
But I thocht of Adam and Eve, and said—“We’re a’ come of a
gair’ner;”—the which caused her presently to wax vera wroth with
me; and she stampit with her foot, and called me a blot on the
‘scutcheon o’ Auldbiggins; then she sat down, and began to reflec’
with herself; and, after a season, she spoke rawtional about the
connection, saying she had a wife in her mind for me, far more to the
purpose than such a causey-dancer as Annie Daisie.
But I couldna bide to hear Annie Daisie mislikened, and yet I was
feart to commit the sin of disobedience, for my mother had no mercy
when she thought I rebelled against her authority; so I sat down, and
was in a tribulation, and then I speir’t, with a flutter of affliction, who
it was that she had willed to be my wife.
“Miss Betty Græme,” said she; “if she can be persuaded to tak sic a
headowit.”
Now this Miss Betty Græme was the tocherless sixth daughter o’ a
broken Glasgow provost, and made her leevin’ by seamstress-work
and flowering lawn; but she was come of gentle blood, and was
herself a gentle creature, though no sae blithe as bonnie Annie
Daisie; and for that I told my mother I would never take her, though
it should be the death o’ me. Accordingly I ran out of the house, and
took to the hills, and wistna where I was, till I found myself at the
door of the Broomlands, with Annie Daisie before me, singing like a
laverock as she watered the yarn of her ain spinning on the green. On
seeing me, however, she stoppit, and cried—
“Gude keep us a’, laird!—what’s frightened you to flee hither?”
But I was desperate, and I ran till her, and fell on my knees in a
lover-like fashion; but wha would hae thocht it?—she dang me ower
on my back, and as I lay on the ground she watered me with her
watering-can, and was like to dee wi’ laughing: the which sign and
manifestation of hatred on her part quenched the low o’ love on
mine; an’ I raise an’ went hame, drookit and dripping as I was, and
told my mother I would be an obedient and dutiful son.
Soon after this, Annie Daisie was marriet to John Lounlans; and
there was a fulsome phrasing about them when they were kirkit, as
the comeliest couple in the parish. It was castor-oil to hear’t; and I