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Saint (Dead Souls MC Prospects #3)

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Savannah Rylan

Book Information:

I don’t need guns.
I’ll use my fists. I’m over this mob.
Especially when I find out they’re trafficking women.
Including Amberly, the one that got away.
I haven’t seen her since high school, and even though she’s built up walls, she’s as beautiful as ever.
And she has a kid.
He’s six and we split up how many years ago?
Those assholes with the mob can’t have him.
I’ll get both of them to safety.
No matter what.

Saint is part of the new chapter of the Dead Souls MC. It is a hot motorcycle romance that follows the prospects of the Dead Souls Motorcycle Club and the women that love them.

Books in Series:

Dead Souls MC Prospects Series by Savannah Rylan

Books by Author:

Savannah Rylan Books



I sat on the side porch of the old clubhouse, whittling away at a piece of wood. While the kids ran amok inside, breaking dishes and cracking the only glasses we had, their mothers screamed at them during the day. Cried themselves to sleep at night. Wished, hoped, and waited for some sort of solace to come as we crammed ourselves into the original fucking place we’d been in.

After cleaning it up, of course.

This place was too damn small for all of us. But the warehouse had been burned and overrun with mafia assholes. They had our guns. Our beds. Our bathrooms. Our televisions. They’d set up shop in a place that took the old men of this crew over two years to fucking build. And we’d only been in it six fucking weeks before we were shoved out of it.

Burned, because of Bear’s actions.

“Idiot,” I murmured.

Everyone kept brushing this shit off because it was love. Bear and Margot were perfect for one another, so she was family. And we helped family. Blah, blah, blah. She wasn’t fucking family. She wasn’t married to Bear. They weren’t pregnant. And yet, no one wanted to acknowledge the fact that we were back in this dump of a warehouse—that had already been burned in the first fucking place—because Bear couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.

The only one willing to acknowledge it was Toxin.

I could only handle him in small doses, though.

I sighed as the wood shavings fell to my bare feet on the porch. The sound of waves lapping against the cliffside reminded me of all the blood and bodies it had swallowed over the past couple months. Things had gotten rough for us. Every time I thought we couldn’t drop lower, we did. We were all sitting fucking ducks, with our warehouse taken over and our only other place to flee was a place the fucking mafia already knew about!

Yet, we’d been here just shy of a week, and no one had come for us yet.

“Tells me a lot about their plan,” I murmured to myself.

“That was my fuckin’ sandwich,” Grave growled.

“Make yourself another one. You’ve already made three,” Toxin said.

“Yeah, for the kids. And my pregnant wife. Now, put that sandwich back down, and I’ll debate you keeping your hand,” Grave said.

“Cut it out, Toxin. Make your own damn sandwich,” Diesel called out.

“Then, tell this fat fuck to get out of the kitchen so I can! I’ve been waiting for him to get out of here for well over an hour!” Toxin exclaimed.

I heard a chair slide across the floor before footsteps fumbled over the hardwood. I inched my eyes over my shoulder, peeking through the window to see what was happening. Diesel fisted Toxin’s shirt, barreling him back into the refrigerator. The sandwich fell from his hand to the floor, and Grave let out another growl of disapproval as he bent down to clean up the mess.

I shook my head as I turned myself back out to the water, still whittling away at a stick I’d found in the woods.

Things were more than fucked up for us.

Everyone was on edge. Monroe wasn’t sleeping well because of worry plus pregnancy equaled heartburn that she wouldn’t stop complaining about. The kids were restless, wondering why they couldn’t go play outside or get in the ocean. Diesel was over Toxin’s shit, and Bear was over him and Margot not having any sort of privacy.

“Join the club, assholes,” I said, sighing.

But, above all else, there was Cage. He kept moping in his room. At night, sometimes, I could’ve sworn I heard that big lug of a man crying. And I couldn’t blame him, either. I didn’t think anyone did. He was worried that Lars was going to kill Sutton. Or that he’d already killed her. Because while Lars had owned up to his end of the bargain by calling us and taunting us for fifteen minutes before letting us hear Sutton’s voice, it was easy to fake that kind of shit. Make recordings before slicing someone’s throat.

Especially since he wouldn’t send us a live video of her.

Every time Cage sunk to a desperate level, we had to talk him off the edge. Which was anywhere between twice a day to a dozen times a day. He wanted to go out there, guns a-blazing. Without knowing anything about where Sutton was or what kind of condition she was in.

I tried to reassure him Lars wouldn’t do that. I tried to tell Cage that his own daughter was his best bargaining chip. It was no secret that this disgusting man had absolutely no love for his daughter whatsoever. But that didn’t change the fact that she was their only way into a club he wanted to take down. That didn’t change the fact that Sutton was his only bargaining chip to keep us at bay until he concocted another plan.

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