Massacre: Golden Skulls MC (Golden Skulls M.C. Book 16) by Rebecca Joyce

Author:Rebecca Joyce [Joyce, Rebecca]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rebecca Joyce
Published: 2025-08-29T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

Reaper

“Where the fuck is she?” King roared as he paced the clubhouse.

I, on the other hand, glared at one person in particular, while the fucking geek squad clicked away on their computers, knowing damn well the one person who had the fucking answers refused to look at me. It was bad enough that Massacre did his fucking famous Houdini trick before I could get him back to Purgatory, but knowing Amber was out there alone, doing God only knows what, was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.

The second we all learned that Amber was gone, Valhalla left. Not even Kytten knew where she went. Then again, even if she did, I was fucking positive the woman wouldn’t out her president.

And that right there was the problem.

Too many presidents in one motherfucking clubhouse.

As guests, this was technically King’s show. But factor in Massacre, a Golden Skull, and Amber, the daughter of a Night Nymph and a Soulless Sinner. Then the shit show before me was understandable.

“I want her found. NOW!” King shouted right before he punched a hole in the wall.

“Pippen,” Bane said, using his son’s club name. “What do you know?”

The kid looked up and paled. “Nothing. I swear.”

“Nav, don’t all these fucking cameras you installed work? Or are they for show?” Cash questioned, looking at his club brother. But I just stood there, watching, waiting for his tell. I knew the fucker had something to do with this. It didn’t take a fucking genius to figure it out. Massacre never did anything stupid without his trusty sidekick covering his ass.

“I know that look,” my best friend Ghost whispered, walking over to me. “You kill him before he talks and we’ll never get answers.”

“Oh, he will fucking talk,” I sneered, crossing my arms over my chest as the fucker fidgeted in his seat. The second his eyes darted toward mine, I grinned. “Gotcha, motherfucker.”

Standing my ground, I said nothing as Sandman silently moved around the club brothers. No one really paid him any attention and when he was within striking distance, I inquired, “Got something to say, Player?”

The instant the words escaped my lips, Sandman reacted—a blur of muscle and shadow. His grip, like a vise of raw flesh and bone, clamped onto Player’s shoulders, pinning him in place. The sudden silence in the room pressed down as I snatched a chair, the smooth, cold wood a stark contrast to the burning rage that coursed through me. With a harsh screech, I spun it around and straddled the seat, my eyes boring into my brother’s face. His skin, the color of old parchment, stretched taut over his high cheekbones. His breath hitched, a strangled groan escaping his lips.

“How... how the hell did you know?”

The question hung between us, thicker than the suffocating silence. His eyes, wide and desperate, mirrored the turmoil churning within me—a chilling testament to the secrets we both harbored.

Leaning forward, I grinned. “You have the same guilty look.”

“He just asked me to give her a note.

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