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Alice (Rogue Angels MC, Book 3) by Lena Bourne

USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR

Original price $4.99 - Original price $19.99
Original price $4.99
$4.99
$4.99 - $17.99
Current price $4.99
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Book Description:

Alice

He thinks he knows me. He sees the tough Sarge of the Rogue Angels MC—the one who keeps her crew in line, handles the heat, and never backs down. What he doesn’t see is the girl I used to be… the one who learned too early that monsters sometimes wear collars and call themselves holy.

I found him—the priest who stole my childhood. And this time, I’m not his victim. I’m the justice he never thought would come for him. 

I don’t need help. I don’t need protection. And I sure as hell don’t need Nico—the sharp-suited mafia consigliere who keeps looking at me like I’m something worth saving. Worth loving.

But I can’t trust men. Not anymore. Yet he keeps showing up. Keeps proving himself.

And when the past comes back swinging, I have to decide if letting him in will be the one choice that finally sets me free… or destroys me for good.

Nico

I’ve lived my whole life in the shadows of powerful men, doing their bidding, keeping the world moving while my own dreams collected dust.

Then I met her—Alice. Fire wrapped in steel. One look and I was done.

But she thinks she’s broken. She thinks her scars make her unlovable to anyone who gets close. She’s wrong. Her scars don’t scare me—they call me.

So I follow her into the darkness she’s sworn to destroy. I’d face down devils for her. Hell, I already am.

She thinks she’s alone in this fight. But I’m going to show her that if she falls, I’ll be right there. Not to catch her— but to stand beside her as she rises.

────୨ৎ────

Tropes:

Hero falls first
Broken but strong heroine
Found Family
Love as redemption and healing
Protective hero: “I’ll burn the world for you”

LOOK INSIDE

Prologue

Alice

I’m nine years old. He’s older. Maybe twenty. Maybe thirty. Hard to tell. He brings me sweets and sits next to me in the pew as I wait for my brother to finish helping Father Victor so he can take me home. My brother is an altar boy. I’m a girl so I can’t be. That’s how my mom explained it to me and even though I didn’t like it, even though I wanted to be an altar boy too, there was nothing to be done. There are rules in the Catholic church and the rules are strict. And they must be obeyed.

That’s another thing my mom told me, and my dad, and every teacher in school since I can remember. So I didn’t doubt it, I didn’t question it. I didn’t doubt that the older man bringing me sweets and sitting next to me while my brother practiced in the choir with the other altar boys was someone to be obeyed, to be respected. Someone who would always take care of me and who had my best interests in mind.

He dressed like a priest, after all. Smiles like a priest. Spoke softly like a priest.

His name was Gael.

What a beautiful and strange name, I thought, and would repeat to myself quietly when he wasn’t around. And what a beautiful voice he had, and what a beautiful smile.

And the sweets he brought me were always my favorite. Soft jellies, some sour, some sweet, covered with a light dusting of crystal-clear sugar. The kind my mom would never buy for me because she said they’d rot my teeth. She was wrong. They didn’t.

I didn’t think there was anything wrong with the way he touched me. First my hands, then my arms, my legs, my face. It felt wrong though, in a way I couldn’t explain. But I thought that was just the same as with all those strict rules I didn’t want to follow, but had to.

I should’ve told my mom after the first time he took me into the basement of the church. To show me a beautiful white marble statue of the Virgin Mary, he said. And give me a whole box of the jellies to take home, he said.

He touched me in different ways down there. In ways that made me sick to my stomach. But I didn’t know it was wrong. I just felt like it was.

And by the time I knew it was wrong, and why, it was years later and Gael was long gone.

Probably molesting some other little girl somewhere else.

My mother never believed me that it had happened.

“Not in our church. Not under the watchful eye of Father Victor. Never,” she said.

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