Resurrection (Wesson Rebel MC Series Book 3) by Shyla Colt Read Free Book Online Page A

finishing off our food. After throwing away our refuse, I realize where we are. The red brick multi-tiered house with wide spaced windows and cream-colored shutters belongs to the Edgar Allan Poe historic site. “You like Poe?” I ask.
    “I guess.” He shrugs.
    “Let’s check out his historical site and burn off some of our time.”
    He narrows his eyes and opens his mouth.
    The censure turns my stomach.
    He shakes his head. “Fine,” he signs.
    I can sense the agitation, but I ignore it. I need to keep my mind busy. I lead us into the courtyard, and we pause at the iron statue of a raven with outstretched wings perched on an iron pole ready to strike. It towers above our heads, an imposing welcome to visitors who dare enter Poe’s lair. I loved the macabre while growing up and Poe had been that tragic writing we all had a stage with.
    “You really love this stuff, don’t you?” he asks.
    I shrug. “When I was seventeen, I did a report on Poe for English, and it sort of launched into this hero-worship stage. Something about his epically tragic life woke the hidden romantic in me.”
    Prophet snickers.
    “We all have our phases,” I admit. The memory is a good one. I smile. The flicker of his lips immediately makes my pulse race as guilt crashes into me.
    My brother is out there suffering at the hands of a maniac, and I’m laughing over my teenage years. Don’t do this.
    I move toward the white picket fence and climb the small set of stairs that leads us into the building. As soon as we step inside, I lose myself in his memory. I can imagine Poe sitting at the desk, which is painted in great detail onto a poster they’ve attached to the wall. His dark head would be bent as he penned his latest with a pen he constantly dips into an inkwell.
    “They really took their time and made this accurate, didn’t they? My sister was an English teacher and I know more about Poe than I ever wanted to.” He laughs.
    I look over at him, stunned by his admission.
    His expression closes off and he moves away from the corner, toward the stairs.
    So, I’m not the only one with secrets.
    We continue to wind our way through the home chasing ghosts from our past. The building with its cracked walls, crumbling plaster, and exposed wood reminds me of us. Still standing, despite being worn and warped by age and circumstance. We’re in the basement when the phone rings. I pull it out and hand it to him, knowing I’m placing Ira’s life in his hands.
    “Hello,” Prophet says.
    I lean forward.
    “By now, I’m sure you’ve figured out she’s lost the ability to talk, I speak for her.” He meets my gaze. “He wants to make a trade, you for your brother.”
    “Does he think I’m stupid?” I ask, shifting my weight as he relays my response.
    “No, but he does think you love your brother.” Prophet’s eyes are full of apology.
    The sound of Ira’s grunts and moans spill from the earpiece, echoing in the cavernous space. I close my eyes tight. I’d offer myself up if I didn’t know it’d only lead to both our deaths.
    “Yeah, she heard it,” Prophet replies. “She also knows better than to offer herself up for a slaughter that will extend to her brother. You hold all the cards without any give. You want to negotiate? She’s open to it. But you need a better offer.” He hung up, just like I instructed him to do.
    It’s all I can do to remain standing. I can’t let them think they have me by the ovaries, I know this. Regardless, it feels wrong not to plead and promise to do whatever they want, so long as they give me back my brother in one piece. My legs shake. I reach out my hand and balance my body against the wall. The sobs get trapped in my swollen throat. Choking them down, I close my eyes, riding the wave of anxiety and grief. None of this is easy. It’s a game I need to win, a role I’m playing and hope people will believe. The pressure is intense and almost immobilizing after the self-imposed hermit life