Wicked Kind of Love: Prairie Devils MC Romance

By: Nicole Snow



Emma Galena thinks moonlighting as a medic for the Prairie Devils MC is tough, and then she meets Tank. No job is supposed to be this hard, this dangerous, this insane. Neither is her attraction to the tattooed giant who upends everything.

John “Tank” Richmond has taken more beatings than anybody for his club. Bullets, knives, and brawls were never half as painful as the dagger Emma twists in his heart. Tank wants this chick bad, but he won't have her in his brutal world, knowing it's a one way ticket to suffering.

If only he could forget about claiming the angel who won't leave his head. If only he could stop the crazy lust boiling his blood every time he imagines her wearing his brand and nothing else.

PROPERTY OF TANK? Not so fast.

Tank's right about how vicious the underworld can be. Soon, a broken heart is the least of Emma's worries when a Fed with a grudge ropes her into a scheme to bring down the Devils for good, testing her loyalty to the outlaws she's sworn to serve and the man she can't stop loving.

Will chasing an impossible, wicked love cost Tank and Emma everything?

Note: this is a dark and gritty MC romance with language, violence, and love scenes as wild as they come. Outlaw love is merciless!

The Prairie Devils MC books are stand alone novels featuring unique lovers and happy endings. No cliffhangers allowed! This is Tank and Emma's story.

I: Fractured (Emma)

Did I have regrets?

Not until I saw him behind the glass and heard the chains rustling on his huge arms. For a man his size, handcuffs weren't enough.

The bastards put two hulking sets of medieval looking irons on his wrists, and it still looked like he'd break right through them if he flexed his arms. His legs were just as anchored, bound as his wrists, but not in any way that would really be able to contain this giant. If he'd wanted, one kick would've snapped the rusty links scraping the floor between his ankles.

But what would've been the point?

Tank was done running. He'd proven that in spades last week when he killed to protect me.

The guilt stung, and I lowered my eyes, focusing on my hands before his eyes could focus on me.

He'd reached the end of the line. Just like me.

Lust made us lovers, and murder made us more, bound together in a pact of blood I thought was only meant for Tank and his brothers.

Wrong? Hell yes. Regrets? No, no, fuck no.

Nothing but one. I signed myself to him in blood and sin, and I'd do it all over again just for one more crushing taste of his lips.

The sole thing I regretted was seeing those chains bulging around his rock hard muscle and the ratty orange jumpsuit one size too small for his skin.

We'd reached the end of the line, but at least we were here together. Now, there was nothing left to do but face justice. For him, it was the dingy prison and the solemn faced judges. My justice was all him, a heavily tattooed god who'd broken my world and pieced it back together again as he damn well pleased, harder than anything I'd imagined but oh-so-worth-it.

The thick glass between us felt like nothing. It was no match for the raging fire in his eyes. I looked up, trying not to see my own guilt inscribed on his gorgeous ink, the same massive arms he'd used to split a monster's skull open.

I was the reason he killed, the reason he was in here now. And if things were really as fucked up as they seemed, I was the reason he'd be stuck here until he was old and gray, too withered to ride a Harley.

How could I even begin to speak? It would've been better to rip out my heart out and sling it against the glass, savage beating proof that I owed him my life, my love, my soul?

If only it were so easy to pull it out! My heart throbbed so tight in my chest I thought the surging blood flow up my head would cause me to black out in front of him.

My words were obliterated, and they didn't start to return until he was fully seated. I swallowed hard. The bruises and scrapes on his face were still there, only halfway faded, brutal reminders of the damage he'd suffered, a sacrifice that said more than a thousand I love yous ever would.

Of course, he'd never flinch at physical pain. Dents and scratches never fazed him, and I wasn't sure mortal wounds did either. Hell, he was so fearless and hard headed he probably didn't care about the real punishment that was only beginning, the imprisonment away from everything he loved.

I wasn't so strong. The crappy orange jumpsuit wrapped around his muscles burned my heart a thousand times worse than my eyes, turned it to ashes when I wondered how much life he'd forfeit in a shoebox cell.

Jesus. Why, Tank? Why?

I shook my head. The answer came a second later, sparking in his eyes.

Because murder doesn't come cheap, and neither does love.

The cop near the door behind him stepped through it and continued to watch us through the little glass pane.

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