Wrath (Heartlands Motorcycle Club #7) - Dani Wyatt Page 0,3

in his black robe, white hair cut clean and short, face shaved, and there is murder in his gray eyes.

“It’s okay...” Kristina starts, but he moves between us, looking down at her then at me. “Get inside.” He’s addressing her but his death glare stays firmly attached to my eyes.

With one sheepish look and an apologetic grin, she spins and disappears inside, the organ music rises, and the doors shut behind her.

“Get out of here.” Her father seethes. “Leave us alone or I’ll call the cops again. I’ve had enough of you and your kind.”

“My kind?” I tip my head back and forth. “You mean, dark haired, ridiculously handsome guys with beards?”

“You know what I’m talking about.” He jerks his head toward the bar across the street. “I’m not afraid of you.”

I shrug. “You shouldn’t be. I’m not here to hurt you. Or anyone.”

He gives that a moment’s thought, then clears his throat and finishes. “Get out of here. Or I’m calling the cops.”

“Do what you need to do.” I say as I turn toward my bike. As I throw my leg over the seat, before I start the engine, I give him one last look and finish as I do whenever he tells me to leave. I give him a quote from the bible. “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.”

I nod, then start my bike and roar out of the parking lot.

2 | Kristina

The smell of sausage and strawberries hangs in the air as I scrape the dishes and listen to my father on the phone in the living room.

I made his favorite breakfast, even though it’s nearly seven o’clock. Sundays, my mother always cooked our breakfast for dinner as services and activities at the church took up most of the day.

My heart still clutches in my chest because I still feel her everywhere. Even in the waffles I made and covered in her signature strawberries and sugar recipe, which is my father’s favorite. She passed away a year and half ago from breast cancer. From diagnosis to the end we only had four months, but in a way, I guess it was a gift because we knew her time was short and we did everything we could to make the most of it.

She was the perfect pastor’s wife, as was her mother before her, and I’m coming to understand it’s what my father expects of me—even though I graduated Summa Cum Laude from the University of Michigan with a degree in microbiology.

My gut tightens and there’s the familiar anxiety building in my chest at the thought of the assumed track my father thinks my life should take. I’m not ready to get married. I came back home after graduating only to help my him while I tried to figure out what’s next for me. I may want to get my master’s and go into medical research.

But when he looks at me, all he sees in the next pastor’s wife, and from what’s been going on I have a horrible suspicion he already has my pastor picked out.

That thought turns the tightness into nausea, and I close my eyes for a moment as I try to clear away the sick feeling.

As I rinse the dishes and put them in the dishwasher, my father’s voice is distant, heading toward his office here at the house. It’s a typical pastor’s church home. Big enough, but not too big, with a private office and entrance at the other end of the house away from the bedrooms.

He’s talking to Mrs. Willington, whose husband is in the hospital, and she’s looking to my father for support. It’s part of his job, I understand, and honestly I think it’s great that everyone finds such comfort from him, but it’s always been ironic that he has time for anyone that calls from his flock, but for me, I’ve pretty much been on autopilot when it comes to him since as far back as I can remember.

There’s a knock at the front door and I lean over to see my friend, Jillian, waving through the glass.

“Entre vous.” I yell, waving as I dry my hands on my mother’s embroidered white apron, then I close up the dishwasher, get it started, and take one last look around the kitchen to be sure everything is in order.

My father likes order.

“Wasss up, homey?” Jillian saunters through the living room and into the kitchen in some exaggerated long step like she’s in a rap video.

“Really?