Deathtrap

Page

A Totally Bound Publication

Deathtrap

ISBN # 978-1-78430-628-1

©Copyright L.M. Somerton 2015

Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright June 2015

Edited by Sarah Smeaton

Totally Bound Publishing

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.

Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorized or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

Published in 2015 by Totally Bound Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN

Totally Bound Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.

Warning:

This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Totally Burning and a Sexometer of 2.

The Wyverns

DEATHTRAP

L.M. Somerton

Book two in The Wyverns series

A man without scars never had to fight for something he believed in.

A new relationship takes time and effort. A new relationship with Orlando de la Pena takes a whole lot more. As a Dom, Rogue knows what he wants, but Orlando refuses to fit neatly into the box labeled ‘submissive’. He’s feisty, demanding and far too pretty for his own good.

Orlando loves Rogue and he’s learning to love The Wyverns, but he hates being stuck out in the desert. Finding a niche in the world of bikes and fierce warriors is difficult, and Orlando’s impatience gets the better of him. He walks out into the desert and runs in to an antisocial diamondback.

Rogue has more than one problem to deal with. The Longhorns MC issues a challenge for territory. The Bellazi cartel is out for Wyvern blood. The Wyverns are under siege, and Rogue has to work out how to save not just Orlando, but all of them.

Dedication

To fighting for what you believe in.

Trademarks Acknowledgement

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Harley: Harley-Davidson Inc

iPod: Apple, Inc.

Converse: Converse, Inc.

Triumph: Triumph Motorcycles Ltd

Twinkies: Apollo Global Management, LLC and C. Dean Metropoulos

KTM Enduro 300: KTM-Sportmotorcycle AG

Band-Aids: Johnson & Johnson

The Princess Bride: William Goldman. Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation, Vestron Pictures and Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios, Inc.

Chapter One

Rogue! Get your ass into the kitchen. Now!

Hatchet’s dulcet tones ripped through Rogue’s relaxed state of mind and put him on edge in an instant. He took a few deep breaths and removed his booted feet from the low table they were propped on. He returned his attention to the computer balanced on his lap, immediately getting drawn back in to the article he’d been reading.

Rogue!

What the fuck… There truly is no peace for the wicked. Rogue chuckled. But there’s no denying that I am wicked, so maybe I deserve it.

He snapped the lid of his computer shut and levered himself up from the battered but soporifically comfortable sofa and glanced toward the kitchen door.

No smoke, flames or explosions…it can’t be that bad.

He rolled his shoulders then stretched, easing a few kinks from his lower back. Desert riding could be a bitch and the suspension on his Harley was not the most forgiving piece of motorcycle design. Not that he would trade the bike for another model. Not in this existence. Maybe in the afterlife bikes would have cushion-soft suspension as standard. He mused on that idea as he strolled toward the kitchen. Of course, as he was likely heading for the down escalator to somewhere steamy rather than up to a fluffy cloud, he’d probably end up spending eternity on a flaming saddle or something equally uncomfortable.

The kitchen door was similar to one that might be found in a diner. It swung both ways on its hinges to allow easy passage with plates and trays, an absolute necessity for hungry, impatient men carrying food and beer. Rogue gave it a careful push and there was no resistance.

That’s a good sign. No dead bodies blocking the doorway.

He drew a deep breath and stepped through into the room where The Wyverns ate most of their meals. A scrubbed wooden table surrounded by eight chairs occupied the center of the room and appeared intact. No debris littered the tiled floor.

Thank fuck. What took you so long? Hatchet emerged from the narrow gap to the side of the massive refrigerator and glared at him.

Rogue quirked an eyebrow and gave his bald, tattooed friend a quizzical look.

What’s the big emergency? You only came in here to make coffee. I was beginning to think you’d headed to South America to get fresh beans, you were taking so long.

Sarcastic fucker. Hatchet ran a hand over his smooth skull. The problem is that hell-spawn you call a sub…boyfriend…whatever the fuck he is. He won’t let me into the storeroom to get new filters or coffee.

He won’t let you… Rogue shook his head. Hatch, he’s half your size. You can intimidate gun runners, drug smugglers and ninety percent of local law enforcement, but you can’t get past Orlando? He sighed. Where is the brat?

Where do you think?

Hatchet gestured in the direction of the storeroom door on the opposite side of the kitchen. The door was open, but Rogue couldn’t see Orlando. He edged to the far side of the table and was met with the sight of a perfect ass, snugly wrapped in leather, sticking into the air. Orlando was on his knees, scrubbing the storeroom floor more vigorously than Rogue thought necessary, though the action did make the young man’s rear jiggle in quite an entertaining way. Orlando was also singing. Badly. Wires trailed from beneath tousled black hair.

Letting him use my iPod was a big mistake—even I don’t massacre Green Day that much.

Rogue glanced around the kitchen. He grinned then grabbed a spatula from the draining board. He got into a good position and planted a firm smack across Orlando’s butt. The spatula made a great snapping sound as plastic hit leather.

What the hell! I warned you, Hatchet. Orlando swiveled on his knees. In one hand he held a scrubbing brush, in