Luck of the Devil Read online

  Luck of the Devil

  Meghan March

  Contents

  Luck of the Devil

  Don’t Miss Out!

  Also by Meghan March

  About Luck of the Devil

  1. Forge

  2. Forge

  3. India

  4. Forge

  5. India

  6. Forge

  7. India

  8. Forge

  9. India

  10. Forge

  11. India

  12. Forge

  13. India

  14. Forge

  15. India

  16. Forge

  17. India

  18. Forge

  19. India

  20. Forge

  21. India

  22. Forge

  23. India

  24. Forge

  25. India

  26. Forge

  27. India

  28. India

  29. Forge

  30. India

  31. Forge

  32. India

  33. Forge

  34. India

  35. Forge

  36. India

  37. Forge

  38. India

  39. Forge

  40. India

  41. Forge

  42. India

  43. Forge

  44. India

  45. Forge

  46. India

  47. Forge

  48. India

  49. Forge

  50. India

  51. Forge

  52. India

  53. Forge

  54. India

  55. Forge

  56. India

  57. Forge

  58. India

  59. Forge

  60. India

  61. Forge

  62. India

  63. Forge

  64. India

  65. Forge

  66. India

  67. India

  68. Forge

  69. India

  70. India

  Dirty Billionaire Sneak Peek

  Also by Meghan March

  About the Author

  Luck of the Devil

  Book Two of the Forge Trilogy

  Meghan March

  Copyright © 2018 by Meghan March LLC

  All rights reserved.

  Editor: Pam Berehulke, Bulletproof Editing,

  www.bulletproofediting.com

  Cover Designer: Letitia Hassar, R.B.A. Designs,

  www.rbadesigns.com

  Cover Photo: Paper Tiger Photography

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Visit my website at www.meghanmarch.com.

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  Also by Meghan March

  Forge Trilogy:

  Deal with the Devil

  Luck of the Devil

  Heart of the Devil

  Sin Trilogy:

  Richer Than Sin

  Guilty as Sin

  Reveling in Sin

  Mount Trilogy:

  Ruthless King

  Defiant Queen

  Sinful Empire

  Savage Trilogy:

  Savage Prince

  Iron Princess

  Rogue Royalty

  Beneath Series:

  Beneath This Mask

  Beneath This Ink

  Beneath These Chains

  Beneath These Scars

  Beneath These Lies

  Beneath These Shadows

  Beneath The Truth

  Dirty Billionaire Trilogy:

  Dirty Billionaire

  Dirty Pleasures

  Dirty Together

  Dirty Girl Duet:

  Dirty Girl

  Dirty Love

  Real Duet:

  Real Good Man

  Real Good Love

  Real Dirty Duet:

  Real Dirty

  Real Sexy

  Flash Bang Series:

  Flash Bang

  Hard Charger

  Standalones:

  Take Me Back

  Bad Judgment

  About Luck of the Devil

  My poker face has always been one of my greatest assets, along with my grit and determination.

  I was beholden to no one.

  Asked permission for nothing.

  Then Jericho Forge took my life by storm.

  I traded my freedom for something infinitely more precious, but I didn’t realize he was holding an unbeatable hand.

  Now, all I have to do is survive the high-stakes game that is my life—with my heart intact.

  But not falling in love with Forge? That will take the luck of the devil.

  Luck of the Devil is the second book of the Forge Trilogy and should be read following Deal with the Devil. The Forge Trilogy concludes in Heart of the Devil, coming March 12, 2019. Heart of the Devil is available now for preorder by tapping on the title.

  1

  Forge

  Twenty-five years ago

  My busted arm hung limp as I sneaked through the towers of shipping containers stacked like the Legos I was stupid enough to ask Santa for when I was six. That was when Uncle Ruben had found the letter I’d written, and had laughed so hard he cried as he read off my requests.

  Boots, soxs, warm coat, and Legos.

  Also, can you give Uncle Ruben something good so he stops hurting Aunt Dora?

  Uncle Ruben’s laughter had cut off and his eyes turned mean when he got to the last part. The moment played in my mind vividly as I scooted around the corner to hide from one of the dockyard workers.

  “You show anyone this?”

  I’d shaken my head once before his arm swung and the back of his hand connected with my face. I’d staggered to the side and he lashed out again, this time hitting me with a closed fist that knocked me to the floor.

  “Don’t you ever fucking ask me for another thing. The world doesn’t give shit to kids like you. You’re a waste of space. Fucking worthless, just like your whore of a mother.” He’d looked down at the blood pooling beneath my cheek on the linoleum Aunt Dora scrubbed weekly on her hands and knees. “Clean that shit up before I kick your fucking teeth in.”

  That was the first time he’d hit me, but it wasn’t the last. I became his favorite punching bag after Dora was unconscious every night.

  But never again.

  Aunt Dora was dead. We’d put her in the ground this afternoon, and as soon as we got home, Ruben had found the bottle.

  He’d cried. He’d screamed. He’d cursed God. Then he came outside to find me in the shed where I tried to stay out of his way. Now that I was fourteen, I was getting stronger, and most of the time, I was quicker than him. But not when I was cornered, and he was in the nasty, superhuman stage of drunk.

  Wh
en Ruben’s knuckles had crunched against my jaw, I’d sworn it would be the last time. He will never fucking put his hands on me again. I’d chanted that promise silently to myself as he landed hit after kick after hit.

  I’d lain bleeding on the dirt floor, trying not to breathe or move, hoping he’d finally go away if I played dead. After he’d lost interest in jamming his boots into my ribs, Ruben had stumbled out of the shed and back to the house.

  Afraid to move, I’d stayed there, breathing in the scent of musty dirt and coppery blood for fifteen minutes. Then I’d stood up slowly, trying not to puke up the potluck food from the ladies at church, and grabbed the bag I’d stashed in there two weeks ago, knowing that my time was coming just like Aunt Dora’s, God rest her soul.

  Dora’s cancer had eaten her up from the inside out, and every single day, as she got weaker, she’d begged me to run. Save yourself, Jericho, she’d say, but I couldn’t let her die alone with Ruben. No one deserved that. Especially not my aunt. She smelled like cinnamon and gave good hugs until her arms got too weak for her to lift them.

  As she’d taken her last breath, I’d held her hand and told her she was going to a better place, and I meant it. Nothing could be worse than the hell she’d endured.

  Now it was time for me to do what she’d asked. Save myself.

  I slipped my jacked-up arm through the strap of the backpack and forced down the urge to cry as my shoulder burned like someone had shoved a hot fire poker into it.

  No more tears. Not ever. I wouldn’t give Ruben the satisfaction.

  As I tiptoed out of the shed, I took one last look at the house. All the lights were on, but no shadows moved. Ruben had to be passed out drunk by now.

  More than anything, I wished I had the balls to take the gas can from the shed and light that bitch up so Ruben could roast in hell, but I couldn’t. Dora wouldn’t want it.

  She was the only good thing that house had ever held. I didn’t remember my mom, but Ruben hadn’t let a day go by without telling me what a piece of shit she was for leaving me there and taking off.

  Maybe she and I had something in common, because I disappeared into the darkness, and I was never going back.

  With every piece of me screaming in pain, I made the four-mile trek to the docks where Ruben worked. I knew how to sneak and where to hide in the stacks of cargo, because sometimes he used to smuggle shit out and made me help.

  That’s where I was right now, waiting for the security guards to get on with their shift so I could keep moving.

  A beam of light cut across the row of containers, and I scooted back into the shadows.

  “You see something over here, Sam?”

  I didn’t know the guy who spoke, but then again, it wasn’t like Ruben had many friends who came over. He drank by himself.

  “Nah, man. But I just saw a rat the size of my schnauzer. I swear, those fuckers are eating each other to survive now.”

  “Fucking nasty.”

  Gravel crunched as they walked away, and I prayed they kept going so I didn’t have to run. I wasn’t sure if my body could take it.

  The guy who wasn’t Sam said something into his radio about what was next up to be loaded, and the groaning metal crane came closer. “Did you stow the shit already?”

  “Yeah, it’s in there.”

  Ha. See, Uncle Ruben? You weren’t the only one smuggling shit to make extra cash.

  I chanced tilting my head up to watch as the claws descended toward the container I was using for cover. Fuck. My hiding place was about to disappear.

  “Did you lock it back up? That shit needs to look perfect. No one can find it until it’s unloaded, or we don’t get paid.”

  “Goddammit. The rat distracted me before I could shut it. The lock’s in my fucking pocket.”

  Shit. You’ve gotta be kidding me.

  Their footsteps changed direction, and the sound of crunching gravel grew louder as they moved my way. I slunk back and spotted an unlocked door they must have been heading toward.

  I had fifteen seconds, maybe ten, to make a decision.

  If I ran, they’d catch me for sure, and I’d be sent back to Ruben. So really, it wasn’t much of a choice to make at all.

  I’m never fucking going back.

  I slipped between the open doors of the container into the pitch black. Inside, it stank like rotten fruit and piss.

  Using my good hand, I felt in front of me. Smooth rounded edges told me it was filled with plastic drums. With my shoulder screaming in pain, I jammed myself between two rows a second before the door slammed shut, cutting off any trace of light.

  Metal scraped on metal as he locked it up, and a breath later, the container rocked as the crane latched on. As soon as it lifted off the ground, my stomach roiled again.

  I’m gonna die.

  The container swung in the air, and all I could picture was the crane letting go and it tumbling to the ground.

  I’m gonna fucking die.

  But I didn’t. A few minutes later, I was no longer swinging. Metal scraped, and the container groaned as it came to a halt.

  On a ship. Bound for who the fuck knows where.

  I wasn’t planning to stow away like this when I slipped through the fence. The candy bars and water I shoved in my bag wouldn’t last me more than a week, and God only knew where the hell this thing was going or how long it would take to get there.

  Which meant I might have been right. I was gonna die.

  I curled my good arm around my backpack, telling myself this was better than letting Ruben beat me to death.

  * * *

  Alone in the darkness, I lost track of time. The smell of my own shit added to the stench inside the container made me too nauseated to eat.

  My brain played tricks on me, showing me pictures that weren’t there. People who weren’t there either. I couldn’t sleep without nightmares. And the heat, fuck . . . the heat.

  The bottles of water I had were long gone. My kidneys hurt, and I could barely manage to piss.

  I was right that first night. I was gonna die here, trapped in a metal box like a fucking animal. I should have stayed. Should have fought back. Even prison would have been better than this. My snap decision was going to be my end.

  That’s when I broke.

  My limp arm hung to the side as I crawled toward the door I entered who knew how many days ago. With what little remaining strength I had, I curled my good hand into a fist and banged it against the metal.

  “Help! Let me out! Help!”

  Nothing.

  I pounded until my hand went numb, and my voice faded away.

  I passed out, hoping God wouldn’t torture me by letting me wake up again.

  * * *

  “Jesus fucking Christ. You’re telling me we’ve had this kid locked in a container for ten goddamned days?”

  “It appears that way, Captain.”

  The voices roused me from sleep, and I thought I was dreaming. Surely, I had to be, because there was no hot metal beneath me, only scratchy sheets, and it smelled like antiseptic and not shit. My shoulder pain had faded to a dull ache, but my ribs still hurt like a bitch, so maybe it wasn’t a dream.

  “Who have you told? Who knows?” The pissed-off, gruff voice made me wonder if whoever found me was as bad or worse than Uncle Ruben.

  “Just me, Tony, and the doc, Captain. We heard him and brought him right here, and then I got you.”

  Shit. The captain. That couldn’t be good. I forced open my eyes, and blindingly bright light seared my retinas. I winced and slammed them shut.

  “Hey, kid. Can you hear us? Open your eyes.” It was the captain’s gruff voice.

  “Too bright,” I mumbled, and my raw throat made me pay for both words.

  “Fuck. I didn’t think about that. Doc, kill the overhead lights. The kid’s been living in the dark for over a week.”

  From behind my closed lids, I could tell when the lights dimmed.

  “Try now. Shouldn’t kill y
ou.”

  I squinted, and when the brightness didn’t cause me pain, I opened my eyes a little further.

  Above me, two men hovered. One wore navy-blue coveralls, and the other had on a white button-down and a navy tie. It didn’t take a genius to figure out which was the captain. He looked older than Uncle Ruben, with his dark beard going gray, but he was tall and broad and didn’t have a hint of my uncle’s beer gut.

  “Good to see you’re awake, kid. You want to tell me how the fuck you ended up on my ship?”