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I hadn't been able to get pregnant in years. But there was a prescription for prenatal vitamins and a high-end pregnancy test in my husband Cage's pocket. The crumpled receipt led me into a neighborhood that felt like a different universe. Tucked into a small paved alcove near the side entrance was Cage's bike. My airway felt tight. My circulation was a rush of ice water. The door opened. Cage stepped out first. But he wasn't alone. A woman followed him out, and the sight of her made my breath hitch in a way that felt like a puncture wound. This was Sabine Holloway. I knew the name from the accident reports years ago, a name that had hovered like a ghost over our early marriage. The widow of the man Cage had accidentally killed during a high-speed pursuit that went wrong. Sabine leaned in, her lips brushing Cage's cheek in a gesture that was too lingering to be a platonic goodbye. The realization hit me with the force of blunt-object trauma. My husband hadn't been working late at the clubhouse. He hadn't been out on a run. I scream, throw the car into gear towards them. ———————— THE HUM OF THE BEDSIDE fan was a mechanical heart, the only thing keeping the silence of the bedroom from becoming predatory. Cage Wren opened his eyes exactly three minutes before the alarm was set to go off, a habit born of years behind bars and even more years on the road. He didn’t move immediately. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rhythmic, shallow breathing of his wife beside him. Della was awake; he knew the cadence of her sleep, and this wasn’t it. She was vibrating with a silent, concentrated energy that usually meant she had spent the night dissecting a problem she couldn't solve. He rolled out of bed with a fluid, heavy grace, his joints popping like small-caliber fire. He didn't look at her. If he looked at her, he might have to see the questions etched into the corners of her mouth, and he wasn't ready to answer them. He wasn't sure he ever would be. In the bathroom, the ritual began. It was a sequence of movements designed to keep his mind in a state of controlled vacuum. He splashed ice-cold water on his face, the shock of it grounding him. When he reached for the shaving cream, he kept his gaze fixed strictly on his jawline, his chin, the column of his throat. He had mastered the art of using a mirror without ever looking into his own eyes. To look into his eyes was to see the ghost of a man he’d killed on a rain-slicked highway years ago, and more recently, the reflection of the lie he was currently living. He tracked the steel of the razor as it cleared paths through the white foam, meticulous and steady. He was the Sergeant-at-Arms for the Black Veil Riders; his hands didn't shake, even when his soul felt like it was crumbling into fine, gray ash. He stepped out of the bathroom, steam clinging to his skin, and found Della sitting on the edge of the bed. She was already dressed in her scrubs, her hair pulled back into a tight, professional bun that made her features look sharp and weary. She was holding a mug of coffee, but she wasn't drinking it. The steam from the cup rose between them like a veil. You’re up early, she said. Her voice was level, the tone she used when she was triaging a patient who had a high probability of crashing. It was a dangerous voice, stripped of all the softness they used to share in the early years of their marriage. Meeting at the clubhouse, Cage replied. His voice was a low rumble, a sound that usually felt like a safety to her but now felt like a barricade. Preacher wants a full count before the Iron Saints show up for the merger talks. Della stood up, the floorboards groaning under her slight weight. She stepped into his personal space, the scent of her lavender soap clashing with the metallic, heavy aroma of the motor oil and old leather that seemed to permeate his very pores. You were out late again last night, Cage. I heard you come in at 2 a.m. You smelled like... something else. Not the club. Not the road. He didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He reached for his leather vest, the heavy denim and hide of his cut, and slid his arms through the holes. The weight of it felt right, a physical manifestation of the burdens he chose to carry. Just business, Della. Things are moving fast with the Saints. There’s a lot of ground to cover. Business doesn’t usually require a man to come home looking like he’s seen a ghost, she countered. She moved closer, her hand hovering near the lapel of his vest, but she didn't touch him. The distance between her fingers and the leather felt like a canyon. Talk to me. You’ve been a stranger in this house for months, but this week... it’s different. You’re vibrating, Cage. Tell me what’s happening. I told you. The merger, he said, his tone final. It was a shutter slamming shut, a deadbolt sliding into place. I don’t have time for this right now. The club comes first today. You know the rules. The rules, she whispered, her voice cracking just enough to show the wound underneath. I’ve lived by your rules for fifteen years. I’ve waited while you were in the hole, I’ve stitched your friends up in our kitchen so they wouldn't have to go to the ER, and I’ve kept my mouth shut when the cops came knocking. Don't talk to me about the rules like I’m some property girl. Cage finally looked at her, but his eyes were like polished stones—cold, opaque, and unyielding. I’m going to work, Della. Don’t wait up for dinner. It’s going to be a long night. He turned and walked out of the room, his heavy boots thudding against the hallway floor with a finality that felt like a sentence. A moment later, the front door heavy-thumped shut, and then came the roar. The Harley Twin-Cam engine ignited with a violent, guttural scream that echoed off the neighboring houses. It was a sound of escape, a mechanical roar that drowned out the quiet desperation of the house he left behind. Della stood in the center of their bedroom, the silence rushing back in to fill the void he’d left. It was a different kind of silence now—heavier, more suffocating. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. She looked at the bed, the rumpled sheets where he had lain just minutes ago, and she felt a wave of nausea. He was hiding something so big it was distorting the gravity of their lives. She walked over to his bedside table. Cage was a man of precision; he kept his space Spartan. There was a lamp, a heavy glass of water, and his watch-repair kit—a collection of tiny screwdrivers and magnifying loupes he used to obsessively tinker with old mechanical movements when he couldn't sleep. But he had forgotten something in his haste to flee the conversation. The receipt she had found the night before was still tucked into the pocket of her own robe, but she remembered where he had dropped his jeans from the night before. They were crumpled in the corner of the room, discarded like a snake’s shed skin. Della knelt on the floor, her hands trembling as she reached for the heavy denim. She felt the weight of his keys, the cold bite of his brass knuckles in the side pocket, and then, her fingers brushed against a small, crumpled slip of paper in the watch pocket. She pulled it out and smoothed it against her thigh. It wasn't just a receipt for a coffee shop or a gas station. It was a printed slip from a local pharmacy, dated three days ago. Her eyes scanned the text, her medical training automatically translating the chemical names into their common uses. It was a prescription for prenatal vitamins and a high-end pregnancy test. The air in the room seemed to thin until she couldn't catch a breath. Cage didn't have a sister. His mother had been dead for a decade. And Della... Della hadn't been able to get pregnant in years. They had stopped trying when the grief of the third miscarriage became a permanent resident in their home. The name on the pharmacy slip wasn't hers. It was blank, a cash transaction, but the timestamp placed Cage at a pharmacy three blocks away from the funeral home where Sabine Holloway worked. Della stood up, the room tilting on its axis. She looked at the receipt, then at the door through which her husband had just disappeared. The nurse in her wanted to find a logical explanation, a clinical reason why a Biker Sergeant-at-Arms would be buying pregnancy supplies in secret. But the woman in her—the wife who had been starved of affection and honesty for years—knew exactly what this was. She didn't go to the kitchen to start the coffee. She didn't head for the shower to prepare for her shift at the hospital. Instead, she walked to the closet and pulled out a jacket. The receipt felt like it was burning a hole through her palm. Cage might have been heading to a club meeting to discuss the future of the Black Veil Riders, but Della was about to start an investigation into the wreckage of her own life. She picked up her car keys, her jaw set in the same stubborn line that had carried her through a decade of biker wars. She wasn't going to wait for the truth to be handed to her in crumbs. She was going to find the source. If Cage was building a second life in the shadows of someone else’s grief, she was going to shine a light so bright it would incinerate everything he was trying to hide. ​1.3 The Discovery at the Center THE ADDRESS ON THE crumpled receipt led Della away from the familiar, oil-stained streets of the Black Veil Riders’ territory and into a neighborhood that felt like a different universe. Here, the trees were manicured, the sidewalks were swept clean of glass and grit, and the air didn’t taste like exhaust and cheap beer. The Hearthstone Center was a converted Victorian house painted a soothing shade of sage green, tucked behind a screen of weeping willows. It looked peaceful, the kind of place people went to heal from things that didn’t involve bullet wounds or federal indictments. Della pulled her sedan into a space a half-block down, her pulse thrumming a frantic rhythm against the underside of her jaw. She told herself she was being a nurse—gathering data, assessing the symptoms before making a diagnosis. But her hands were shaking so violently she had to shove them under her thighs to keep from grabbing the door handle and sprinting toward the building. She kept the engine running for a moment, the air conditioning blowing a thin, cold stream against her face, but it did nothing to cool the heat rising in her chest. Then she saw it. Tucked into a small paved alcove near the side entrance was Cage’s bike. It looked violent in the dappled sunlight, a heavy, black-and-chrome beast that seemed to be snarling at the flowerbeds. It was a Road Glide, customized with the precision of a man who spent his nights taking apart mechanical watches just to see how the gears breathed. Seeing it there, parked in the sanctuary of a grief center, felt like seeing a wolf in a nursery. It was a confirmation that hit harder than any rumor could have. Cage hadn't lied about being out, but the omission of where he was felt like a physical weight pressing down on Della’s lungs. She watched the side door of the Victorian. Her mind was a chaotic loop of trauma nurse protocols—ABC: Airway, Breathing, Circulation. She was breathing, but it was shallow. Her airway felt tight. Her circulation was a rush of ice water. The door opened. Della ducked slightly, her eyes narrowing as she focused through the windshield. Cage stepped out first. Even from this distance, his presence was massive, a silhouette of denim, leather, and hard-earned muscle. He wasn't wearing his kutte—the leather vest that announced his rank as Sergeant-at-Arms—but the way he carried himself was unmistakable. He looked like a man who was always expecting a fight, his eyes constantly scanning the perimeter, his shoulders set in a permanent defensive line. But he wasn't alone. A woman followed him out, and the sight of her made Della’s breath hitch in a way that felt like a puncture wound. She was the absolute antithesis of everything Della was. Where Della was all sharp edges, scrubs, and practical buns, this woman was a portrait of soft, curated elegance. She wore a charcoal-colored dress that hit just below the knee, the fabric clinging to a frame that was delicate but poised. Her hair was a dark, glossy mahogany, pinned back in a style that suggested she spent a great deal of time in front of a mirror. This was Sabine Holloway. Della knew the name from the accident reports years ago, a name that had hovered like a ghost over their early marriage. The widow of the man Cage had accidentally killed during a high-speed pursuit that went wrong. The contrast between them was staggering. Cage, with his scarred knuckles and the beard he kept trimmed with a hunting knife, stood inches away from a woman who looked like she belonged in a high-end art gallery. He looked like the earth, raw and upturned, and she looked like the rain. Della waited for them to part ways. She expected a polite nod, the distant acknowledgment of two people tethered by a tragedy. Instead, she watched as Sabine reached out and touched Cage’s forearm. It wasn't a tentative touch. It was the touch of someone who knew the texture of his skin, someone who knew exactly where the tension lived in his muscles. Cage didn't flinch. He didn't pull away. In fact, he leaned in toward her. His posture shifted, the aggressive line of his shoulders softening in a way Della hadn't seen in months—maybe years. They were talking, their heads close together, the privacy of their conversation creating a visible bubble around them that excluded the rest of the world. Della felt a sickening lurch in her stomach. As a nurse, she knew how to read body language; it was how she survived the ER when a patient was too delirious to speak. She saw the tilt of Sabine’s head, the way her eyes remained fixed on Cage’s face with an intensity that went far beyond the shared sorrow of a counseling session. And she saw Cage—the man who barely spoke ten words to her over breakfast—nodding, his lips moving in a low, constant stream of speech. He was giving this woman the words he had been hoarding from his wife. The realization hit her with the force of a blunt-object trauma. This wasn't a one-time thing. The receipt in his pocket hadn't been a fluke or a moment of weakness. The ease with which they stood together, the practiced distance between their bodies, the way Cage scanned the street not for threats, but to ensure they were unobserved—it all pointed to a routine. A secret life. She watched as Sabine smoothed the front of her dress, a gesture that seemed almost protective of her midsection. Della’s eyes dropped, searching for the curve the rumors had whispered about. From this angle, it was hard to tell, but there was a fullness to the woman’s silhouette, a certain deliberate way she stepped that screamed of a body in transition.

“I knew who you were the minute I saw you sitting by his bedside,” Melissa said, her blonde curls bouncing as she stepped closer. “I’m Bigfoot’s ol’ lady. We have a son together. You’re just some opportunistic bimbo who was in the right place at the right time.” My heart stopped. I turned to look at the man I’d held on the side of the road, the man I’d killed for, the man who’d called me my angel. He was awake now, but his eyes wouldn’t meet mine. “Our son doesn’t need to see some next-level club bimbo leech trying to take advantage of his daddy,” she sneered. I couldn't breathe. Club bimbo. That’s what he’d let them think I was. I backed toward the door. Bigfoot finally looked up. “Sammy—” But I was already gone. I drove past the state line, trembling, replaying every soft word, every hand squeeze. Call my club. They won’t harm you. He lied. Or maybe I was just the fool who believed him. My phone buzzed. Baffle. I let it ring. _______________ I knew the minute the eighteen-wheeler flew around me on US-60 that my night was about to take a turn for the worse. We just rolled over the state line coming from Arizona into New Mexico when the prick thought it would be fun to try to pass. Either he didn't realize there was a man on a Harley in front of me or he didn't care. "F-ck!" I yelled into the empty cab of my truck as he blew by. The wind gust he kicked up rocked out of my little Toyota Tacoma and made me wonder how that would feel to the Harley he was about to breeze by in the same way. I didn't have a moment to think about it. As he passed the motorcycle, one of his tires blew and the debris flew right into the biker. I stepped on my brake and swerved off to the side of the road, thanking every deity known to man that there wasn't anyone else on the road at the time. I also thanked my "adopt a biker" mentality. The cushion of distance I kept between us was the only reason I didn't roll right over him. The motorcycle took a direct hit from the debris, but I thought the rider may have taken a large chunk to his side, as well. He flew off the bike and flipped in the air, which might have been a good thing, considering the way the motorcycle bucked up and came off the ground before it finally landed and slid over into the into some scrub brush at the side of the road. The biker had been thrown backward as he was launched off the bike and slid to stop just in front of my truck when all was finally said and done. I couldn't even imagine what the impact had done to him, especially after taking a hit from the truck debris. I was so thankful that I had eased off the gas when the truck tried to pass me. Had I not, the biker would have ended up in my windshield or under my tires. Neither of those options were good for me. The trucker kept on trucking like his tire never blew out, like he hadn't just taken out a motorcyclist. My irrational anger almost got the best of me. Instead, I threw my hazard lights on, grabbed my phone, and jumped out of my truck to go check on the biker before calling 9-1-1, so I could let them know whether to send an ambulance or a clean-up crew with the police. When I reached the man, he groaned and tried to sit up, but I stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder. "Please, don't try to move. You don't know what could be injured and you might make everything worse," I explained. He moaned but laid back down as I asked questions. "I'm going to grab my first aid kit and call for an ambulance. Can you tell me what hurts?" He shook his head once before groaning again. "Call my club." "Your what?" It was then I noticed the leather vest he wore and the tell-tale one percent patch on the front of it. "You want me to call your club?" I asked as I pointed at the patch. "They won't harm you. Need them to get my bike." His voice was trailing off. "I don't know how to call them." He quickly rattled off a number that I put in my phone on instinct. My fingers pushed to dial before I realized what I was doing. "I really need to call for help." "Club first." I rolled my eyes just as someone picked up. "Baffle," the gravelly voice spat out. "A man just crashed in front of me on US-60 headed into New Mexico from Arizona. He's one of yours." As I rattled off the information something glinted from across the street. My eyes tracked the source. There was a man crouched down behind some scrub on the other side of the road. If he'd been there the whole time, it was a small miracle the accident hadn't been worse. He wasn't watching me. The man's eyes were trained on the fallen biker. It only took another second for me to process the fact that the glint I'd seen a moment ago was from the pistol in his hands. My headlights created enough light that his scope picked it up and reflected it back. Without another thought, I dropped my cell phone and snatched my sidearm out of my holster, aimed, released my breath, and pulled the trigger. I wasn't stupid. If he planned to shoot the biker on the side of the road, there was no way he would leave me behind as a witness to what happened. I heard a harsh voice yelling in the background and realized the noise came from the cell I dropped. "Who the heck is this and what is going on?" I could hear him giving orders to someone in the background as I glanced down and snatched the phone back up while keeping my Springfield 10 mil trained on the man who I'd just shot. "Your man, I think he's passed out now," I called into the phone as I took a quick glance down at the biker again. "His vest thing says 'President' on it. Wait..." I glanced around and realized the tape under it probably showed his name. After I dusted it off, I called out his road name. "Bigfoot." "Prez is down. We gotta go!" the man yelled into the phone before he started to speak to me again. "How bad is it?" "He was more worried about his motorcycle getting picked up, it's a few feet away from where he landed. We have a bigger problem, though." "Does that bigger problem have to do with the gunshot I just heard?" "There was a man on the other side of the road. He was just about to take a shot at your president when I took him out. Your brother needs an ambulance in a bad way, but there's a body here that I'm responsible for now as well." "You shot the man? Are you sure he's dead?" "Well, I'm no expert, but I am a good shot, and he hasn't moved since." "Listen, darlin', we're bringing a doc with us. Do not call anyone." "I can't make any guarantees that someone else won't call or that the truck driver whose blown tire took out your president won't make his way back." A thought occurred to me then. "What if the guy I shot was working with the truck driver? He seemed pretty bent on passing me and the motorcycle." I hoped that wasn't the case and continued to ramble my fears away. "If it was a civilian, they might have called the cops about getting their tire shot out, if they realized that was what happened. Then again, why wouldn't a trucker pull over to fix his tire, even if he didn't realize he took a man out with the one that blew?" I was rambling, but my brain wouldn't stop turning over as the possibilities came crashing down around me. "lady. Shut up! We have a guy that is two minutes out from you. Name's Jester and he's in a white work van with ladders on top." "You're sending a murder van, and you want me to be okay with it?" "A what?" the man on the other end of the line asked. "Never mind. Look, stay put and do what you can for Bigfoot." I hung up the cell and stuffed it back in my pocket. Bigfoot was awake again when I glanced down to check on him. "I have to make sure the prick across the street is dead," I explained. He seemed to understand and attempted a nod. It was such a subtle movement that I couldn't be sure. I ran across the road and checked on the prick who had the pistol trained on the crashed biker. There was no need to check for a pulse when I got there. It was obvious he was dead since half his head was blown off. I had aimed for center mass, as I'd always been taught, but since he was crouched down, that was about as central as I could get. His head was in pieces on the ground around him. There was no point in lingering around a corpse. I snatched his pistol up and then ran back across the highway as I sent up a silent prayer and thanked my lucky stars that no one else seemed to be traveling this late – or early, I supposed. Once I got back to Bigfoot, I crouched down and checked on him again. He was still breathing and didn't appear to be bleeding profusely. That didn't mean much, since it was the internal bleeding that would probably kill him after taking that kind of impact and rolling the way he did. "I would take your helmet off, but I'm honestly afraid that it would do more harm than good." I kept any signs of panic out of my voice as I assessed the man. I was halfway down his body, palpating for possible damage when a dingy, white work van with ladders on top pulled off near where Bigfoot's motorcycle came to rest. "What's going on, Bigfoot? Are you taking a nap on the side of the road?" the man joked, but I could tell by the way his eyes tracked every inch of his friend that he was just trying to put the man at ease. The newcomer was worried, and that quickly turned to fear when he realized his buddy didn't answer back. "He's been fading in and out, but there isn't a lot of blood." Bigfoot groaned as though he were in a lot of pain. "On the outside, anyway," I tacked on. "There is a body over there, and I would appreciate it if you could hide that fact before the law rolls up here and wants to know why I shot him." The newcomer, Jester, nodded his head, hopped into his van, and positioned it across the street where he could easily load the body into the back. He took a jug of something out of his van and doused the area with it after he moved the body. When he was done with that, he pulled back over and started to load up the motorcycle. All the while, I noticed he was having a conversation via whatever hands-free device he had clamped to his ear. "VP wants to know how bad he is," Jester called out to me. "Well, an eighteen-wheeler was in the middle of passing us on the left when his tire blew, and a huge chunk flew into your buddy. He took the hit directly to his left side, maybe a bit of his chest too. That sent him flying over to the right side of the road while his bike took off without him and crashed where you just picked it up. He was talking to me at first and told me to call you guys before he passed out. Seemed to have a great deal of pain while trying to shake his head, so either the tire hit his neck too or the fall did enough damage that it hurt much. He's still breathing. I think his arm is broken. Honestly, I'm more concerned about possible internal bleeding or the damage he might have done to his head and neck. Thank god he wore a helmet, but I don't want to be the one to remove it." "It's okay. Can you stick with him while I finish up here?" "Of course." "Did the trucker stop at all?" "No, but I have a dash cam in my car, and it has been running the whole time." "Do not tell the cops. If anyone happens to show up before my club, keep quiet. My VP will want that footage." "I have reason to not want that video going to the cops, too." "You on the lamb or something?" the man joked. "No, I'm not on the lamb." I rolled my eyes, then rethought that. "I might be if they look at the video and see that I shot someone." "Wait, you're the one that shot that prick?" "That's what I said before. He was about to kill your friend, and it didn't take a genius to determine I'd be next." I had a healthier fear of a one percent motorcycle club than the cops, so his wish was my command at that point. It took another minute before I realized Jester was no longer focused on me. He was back across the street policing brass. He picked up one bullet casing and pocketed it. I guessed that meant he had most likely shot the truck's tire after all. I glanced down and groaned. Hopefully, they really did have a doctor on the way, because Bigfoot didn't look too good. I sat with the man, who was objectively very good looking, despite the bruises and swelling that started to bloom all over his face. His leathers were toast, and his helmet was scuffed and dented in spots. It appeared it might also be cracked on the side, but I didn't want to speculate what that might mean for his head. "Do I take your helmet off or leave it?" I wondered out loud. "What if your head swells and..." "Off," the man groaned. I jumped. "I thought you were still passed out." He huffed at me as if to say he was until I bothered him with my inane questions. I carefully reached up and unlatched his chin strap and then put one hand under the base of his neck and head to support it while I gently removed his helmet. "Okay, Bigfoot, I'm just going to put my sweater underneath your head, so it isn't resting on the ground." The sweater had been tied around my waist because it was too hot to wear earlier when I was in a crowd of people. Then I got chilly after getting into my truck. The heater took forever to kick in and push out anything but cold air. Since I had been sitting on my sweater at that point, I put on my emergency jacket I always kept in my truck – for when the stupid, temperamental heater refused to blow hot. "Mmm," The sound – something between an appreciative moan and a painful groan – was all he managed. It was then that my eyes drifted down his body, assessing for further damage again. "Yep, you definitely broke that arm," I said aloud, even though it appeared he had passed out again. I saw blood near the waistband of his jeans and gently pulled his shirt up to have a look. It didn't appear as though there were any deep gouges or anything. It was more like he had really bad road rash. His jeans on his left side were worn down in spots and there was a bit of blood seeping through there as well. Thankfully, nothing I could see looked life-threatening. If the man didn't have internal bleeding and his head didn't swell up and pop off, then he might be okay after all. His left arm drooped at a weird angle making me think it had either been dislocated or something worse. Considering there wasn't any blood coming from up there, I hoped it meant everything was still attached. "I guess this would be a good time for me to be a nurse or a doctor or know more than basic first aid," I murmured to myself and was surprised when the man attempted to chuckle. "Oh God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you laugh." "No apologies," he insisted in a garbled way that was barely understandable. "Your men are on the way." It was the only reassurance I could give him as we waited in the dark along the lonely stretch of highway in the middle of the night. I shivered and realized the temperatures had dropped again. I took my jacket off and draped it across his torso. There was a chance he couldn't even feel the difference, but it was the only thing I knew to do that might not harm him more. We sat on the roadside for another ten minutes as Jester did his thing cleaning up the mess on the other side of the road. It looked as though he was policing for more brass over there and combing through the brush. It made sense. Beyond the tire being blown out, it might tell us something more if he were to find other casings, or perhaps evidence that the man had been lying in wait for a long time. I didn't believe in coincidences, so the probability of a man lying in wait with a pistol at the exact place an eighteen-wheeler's tire blew to take out a motorcycle, felt a little too convenient to be anything else but an ambush. I heard the distant roar of motorcycles. "Doc is coming with the men; he'll be able to assess things. If we need to run him to the hospital, we'll take him ourselves." I glanced up to see Jester was back, and he stared down at me with a strange look in his eyes. "Not sure that's smart. What if moving him makes things worse or delaying treatment gets him dead?" I asked "M'k," Bigfoot huffed. I was fairly certain it was his way of saying he was okay enough to wait, but I didn't believe him for a minute, especially since he passed out again after mumbling almost incoherently. "Jester!" "Yeah?" "If he dies on me, I'm going to kill the person who made him wait for treatment." The man chuckled and came to stand beside me. "Bigfoot's a tough prick. He'll pull through." "Says you." "Yep, I've seen enough riders go down in my time that I can tell you with certainty that he'll have one of a recovery, but he'll live." "I hope so." "Also, it ain't wise to threaten to off our VP, since he's the one who gave the order." "Whatever, I'm not scared of him." "I guess you wouldn't be, considering I just cleaned up the last body you dropped." "That was also the first," I admitted. "Well, you did a good job of it, lady." He glanced across the road and then back at me. "You were standing over here?" "Yeah?" "You used that?" He pointed at the 10 mil that was secured into my holster. I nodded. "Big sidearm for a little lady." "Not really. They fire smoothly, barely any kickback." Jester nodded his head. "Fifty feet give or take to where the prick was lying in wait." When I didn't say anything, he tacked on, "In the dark and high on adrenaline." He was assessing my skill level, I realized. "You a cop?" I laughed at his question. "Not by a long shot." "Former military?" I gave a quick nod. "No combat duty, but served honorably, nonetheless. The military doesn't account for my shooting skills, though. That would be my Uncle Brady's doin'." "Why did good ol' Uncle Brady decide to teach his precious niece how to shoot so well?" "Because he wanted me to be able to defend myself if it was ever necessary." I glanced down to see that Bigfoot's eyes were open again. "Took a little nap again, huh?" I asked as the distant rumble of motorcycle engines grew heavier in the air. The ground seemed to vibrate as they moved closer, too. "Your friends are almost here." I felt a squeeze on my hand and glanced down to see that Bigfoot managed to get his good hand over to mine. "Thank you." "Don't mention it. Saved me from a boring night of going home to wash my hair." "What the heck?" Jester asked as he laughed and looked down at his phone – presumably to see the time. I shrugged my shoulders. "That was my excuse when I left the double date from he-ll. My coworker Jake convinced me to go to this concert over in Arizona with his girlfriend and another guy. Basically, he set me up to be the fourth wheel to a three-some he didn't know he was involved in." "Let me guess, the set-up date was more interested in you than your buddy's girl and it pissed her off?" I nodded my agreement. "Exactly that. When Matt seemed too interested, Sandra lost it and started screaming at him that the date wasn't meant to be real." I started to mimic her tone. "How dare you act like you're interested in someone else – in front of me!" I shook my head and remembered Jake had seemed upset by the revelation, but not entirely shocked. It made me wonder if he had asked me so that he could get exactly that response from his girlfriend. I don't like to feel used by people. Jake and I would have it out about that later. He should have found a better way to bust his cheating girlfriend, like hire a PI or something. That's what normal people did. Jester laughed and Bigfoot squeezed my hand again. I could have sworn he smiled, but then again, most of his face was a swollen mess already, so it could have been a twitch of pain. "Sorry," I apologized on a whisper. "I forgot I'm not supposed to make you laugh. You probably have a broken rib or three. Know for a fact that stuff hurts." I glanced back up at Jester to finish my story. "So, when the cr-ap hit the fan, I said I had to go home and wash my hair." "Left your boy there to deal with the fallout of a cheating girlfriend?" I groaned. "He put me in that situation knowing full well I've always thought she was a giant freaking diseased twat." "You don't have a filter, do you?" the man inquired. "Nah. I don't really see the point. If people don't like what I have to say, they can pretty much off." "If he don't claim you after he wakes up, I'm next in line," Jester said and then jogged back to his van as the first motorcycle rolled up. I tilted my head to the side and chuckled. "What do ya know? It really is a murder van." "God's sake," Bigfoot mumbled as his chest shook. "Sorry," I whispered again.

“I knew who you were the minute I saw you sitting by his bedside,” Melissa said, her blonde curls bouncing as she stepped closer. “I’m Bigfoot’s ol’ lady. We have a son together. You’re just some opportunistic bimbo who was in the right place at the right time.” My heart stopped. I turned to look at the man I’d held on the side of the road, the man I’d killed for, the man who’d called me my angel. He was awake now, but his eyes wouldn’t meet mine. “Our son doesn’t need to see some next-level club bimbo leech trying to take advantage of his daddy,” she sneered. I couldn't breathe. Club bimbo. That’s what he’d let them think I was. I backed toward the door. Bigfoot finally looked up. “Sammy—” But I was already gone. I drove past the state line, trembling, replaying every soft word, every hand squeeze. Call my club. They won’t harm you. He lied. Or maybe I was just the fool who believed him. My phone buzzed. Baffle. I let it ring. _______________ I knew the minute the eighteen-wheeler flew around me on US-60 that my night was about to take a turn for the worse. We just rolled over the state line coming from Arizona into New Mexico when the prick thought it would be fun to try to pass. Either he didn't realize there was a man on a Harley in front of me or he didn't care. "F-ck!" I yelled into the empty cab of my truck as he blew by. The wind gust he kicked up rocked out of my little Toyota Tacoma and made me wonder how that would feel to the Harley he was about to breeze by in the same way. I didn't have a moment to think about it. As he passed the motorcycle, one of his tires blew and the debris flew right into the biker. I stepped on my brake and swerved off to the side of the road, thanking every deity known to man that there wasn't anyone else on the road at the time. I also thanked my "adopt a biker" mentality. The cushion of distance I kept between us was the only reason I didn't roll right over him. The motorcycle took a direct hit from the debris, but I thought the rider may have taken a large chunk to his side, as well. He flew off the bike and flipped in the air, which might have been a good thing, considering the way the motorcycle bucked up and came off the ground before it finally landed and slid over into the into some scrub brush at the side of the road. The biker had been thrown backward as he was launched off the bike and slid to stop just in front of my truck when all was finally said and done. I couldn't even imagine what the impact had done to him, especially after taking a hit from the truck debris. I was so thankful that I had eased off the gas when the truck tried to pass me. Had I not, the biker would have ended up in my windshield or under my tires. Neither of those options were good for me. The trucker kept on trucking like his tire never blew out, like he hadn't just taken out a motorcyclist. My irrational anger almost got the best of me. Instead, I threw my hazard lights on, grabbed my phone, and jumped out of my truck to go check on the biker before calling 9-1-1, so I could let them know whether to send an ambulance or a clean-up crew with the police. When I reached the man, he groaned and tried to sit up, but I stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder. "Please, don't try to move. You don't know what could be injured and you might make everything worse," I explained. He moaned but laid back down as I asked questions. "I'm going to grab my first aid kit and call for an ambulance. Can you tell me what hurts?" He shook his head once before groaning again. "Call my club." "Your what?" It was then I noticed the leather vest he wore and the tell-tale one percent patch on the front of it. "You want me to call your club?" I asked as I pointed at the patch. "They won't harm you. Need them to get my bike." His voice was trailing off. "I don't know how to call them." He quickly rattled off a number that I put in my phone on instinct. My fingers pushed to dial before I realized what I was doing. "I really need to call for help." "Club first." I rolled my eyes just as someone picked up. "Baffle," the gravelly voice spat out. "A man just crashed in front of me on US-60 headed into New Mexico from Arizona. He's one of yours." As I rattled off the information something glinted from across the street. My eyes tracked the source. There was a man crouched down behind some scrub on the other side of the road. If he'd been there the whole time, it was a small miracle the accident hadn't been worse. He wasn't watching me. The man's eyes were trained on the fallen biker. It only took another second for me to process the fact that the glint I'd seen a moment ago was from the pistol in his hands. My headlights created enough light that his scope picked it up and reflected it back. Without another thought, I dropped my cell phone and snatched my sidearm out of my holster, aimed, released my breath, and pulled the trigger. I wasn't stupid. If he planned to shoot the biker on the side of the road, there was no way he would leave me behind as a witness to what happened. I heard a harsh voice yelling in the background and realized the noise came from the cell I dropped. "Who the heck is this and what is going on?" I could hear him giving orders to someone in the background as I glanced down and snatched the phone back up while keeping my Springfield 10 mil trained on the man who I'd just shot. "Your man, I think he's passed out now," I called into the phone as I took a quick glance down at the biker again. "His vest thing says 'President' on it. Wait..." I glanced around and realized the tape under it probably showed his name. After I dusted it off, I called out his road name. "Bigfoot." "Prez is down. We gotta go!" the man yelled into the phone before he started to speak to me again. "How bad is it?" "He was more worried about his motorcycle getting picked up, it's a few feet away from where he landed. We have a bigger problem, though." "Does that bigger problem have to do with the gunshot I just heard?" "There was a man on the other side of the road. He was just about to take a shot at your president when I took him out. Your brother needs an ambulance in a bad way, but there's a body here that I'm responsible for now as well." "You shot the man? Are you sure he's dead?" "Well, I'm no expert, but I am a good shot, and he hasn't moved since." "Listen, darlin', we're bringing a doc with us. Do not call anyone." "I can't make any guarantees that someone else won't call or that the truck driver whose blown tire took out your president won't make his way back." A thought occurred to me then. "What if the guy I shot was working with the truck driver? He seemed pretty bent on passing me and the motorcycle." I hoped that wasn't the case and continued to ramble my fears away. "If it was a civilian, they might have called the cops about getting their tire shot out, if they realized that was what happened. Then again, why wouldn't a trucker pull over to fix his tire, even if he didn't realize he took a man out with the one that blew?" I was rambling, but my brain wouldn't stop turning over as the possibilities came crashing down around me. "lady. Shut up! We have a guy that is two minutes out from you. Name's Jester and he's in a white work van with ladders on top." "You're sending a murder van, and you want me to be okay with it?" "A what?" the man on the other end of the line asked. "Never mind. Look, stay put and do what you can for Bigfoot." I hung up the cell and stuffed it back in my pocket. Bigfoot was awake again when I glanced down to check on him. "I have to make sure the prick across the street is dead," I explained. He seemed to understand and attempted a nod. It was such a subtle movement that I couldn't be sure. I ran across the road and checked on the prick who had the pistol trained on the crashed biker. There was no need to check for a pulse when I got there. It was obvious he was dead since half his head was blown off. I had aimed for center mass, as I'd always been taught, but since he was crouched down, that was about as central as I could get. His head was in pieces on the ground around him. There was no point in lingering around a corpse. I snatched his pistol up and then ran back across the highway as I sent up a silent prayer and thanked my lucky stars that no one else seemed to be traveling this late – or early, I supposed. Once I got back to Bigfoot, I crouched down and checked on him again. He was still breathing and didn't appear to be bleeding profusely. That didn't mean much, since it was the internal bleeding that would probably kill him after taking that kind of impact and rolling the way he did. "I would take your helmet off, but I'm honestly afraid that it would do more harm than good." I kept any signs of panic out of my voice as I assessed the man. I was halfway down his body, palpating for possible damage when a dingy, white work van with ladders on top pulled off near where Bigfoot's motorcycle came to rest. "What's going on, Bigfoot? Are you taking a nap on the side of the road?" the man joked, but I could tell by the way his eyes tracked every inch of his friend that he was just trying to put the man at ease. The newcomer was worried, and that quickly turned to fear when he realized his buddy didn't answer back. "He's been fading in and out, but there isn't a lot of blood." Bigfoot groaned as though he were in a lot of pain. "On the outside, anyway," I tacked on. "There is a body over there, and I would appreciate it if you could hide that fact before the law rolls up here and wants to know why I shot him." The newcomer, Jester, nodded his head, hopped into his van, and positioned it across the street where he could easily load the body into the back. He took a jug of something out of his van and doused the area with it after he moved the body. When he was done with that, he pulled back over and started to load up the motorcycle. All the while, I noticed he was having a conversation via whatever hands-free device he had clamped to his ear. "VP wants to know how bad he is," Jester called out to me. "Well, an eighteen-wheeler was in the middle of passing us on the left when his tire blew, and a huge chunk flew into your buddy. He took the hit directly to his left side, maybe a bit of his chest too. That sent him flying over to the right side of the road while his bike took off without him and crashed where you just picked it up. He was talking to me at first and told me to call you guys before he passed out. Seemed to have a great deal of pain while trying to shake his head, so either the tire hit his neck too or the fall did enough damage that it hurt much. He's still breathing. I think his arm is broken. Honestly, I'm more concerned about possible internal bleeding or the damage he might have done to his head and neck. Thank god he wore a helmet, but I don't want to be the one to remove it." "It's okay. Can you stick with him while I finish up here?" "Of course." "Did the trucker stop at all?" "No, but I have a dash cam in my car, and it has been running the whole time." "Do not tell the cops. If anyone happens to show up before my club, keep quiet. My VP will want that footage." "I have reason to not want that video going to the cops, too." "You on the lamb or something?" the man joked. "No, I'm not on the lamb." I rolled my eyes, then rethought that. "I might be if they look at the video and see that I shot someone." "Wait, you're the one that shot that prick?" "That's what I said before. He was about to kill your friend, and it didn't take a genius to determine I'd be next." I had a healthier fear of a one percent motorcycle club than the cops, so his wish was my command at that point. It took another minute before I realized Jester was no longer focused on me. He was back across the street policing brass. He picked up one bullet casing and pocketed it. I guessed that meant he had most likely shot the truck's tire after all. I glanced down and groaned. Hopefully, they really did have a doctor on the way, because Bigfoot didn't look too good. I sat with the man, who was objectively very good looking, despite the bruises and swelling that started to bloom all over his face. His leathers were toast, and his helmet was scuffed and dented in spots. It appeared it might also be cracked on the side, but I didn't want to speculate what that might mean for his head. "Do I take your helmet off or leave it?" I wondered out loud. "What if your head swells and..." "Off," the man groaned. I jumped. "I thought you were still passed out." He huffed at me as if to say he was until I bothered him with my inane questions. I carefully reached up and unlatched his chin strap and then put one hand under the base of his neck and head to support it while I gently removed his helmet. "Okay, Bigfoot, I'm just going to put my sweater underneath your head, so it isn't resting on the ground." The sweater had been tied around my waist because it was too hot to wear earlier when I was in a crowd of people. Then I got chilly after getting into my truck. The heater took forever to kick in and push out anything but cold air. Since I had been sitting on my sweater at that point, I put on my emergency jacket I always kept in my truck – for when the stupid, temperamental heater refused to blow hot. "Mmm," The sound – something between an appreciative moan and a painful groan – was all he managed. It was then that my eyes drifted down his body, assessing for further damage again. "Yep, you definitely broke that arm," I said aloud, even though it appeared he had passed out again. I saw blood near the waistband of his jeans and gently pulled his shirt up to have a look. It didn't appear as though there were any deep gouges or anything. It was more like he had really bad road rash. His jeans on his left side were worn down in spots and there was a bit of blood seeping through there as well. Thankfully, nothing I could see looked life-threatening. If the man didn't have internal bleeding and his head didn't swell up and pop off, then he might be okay after all. His left arm drooped at a weird angle making me think it had either been dislocated or something worse. Considering there wasn't any blood coming from up there, I hoped it meant everything was still attached. "I guess this would be a good time for me to be a nurse or a doctor or know more than basic first aid," I murmured to myself and was surprised when the man attempted to chuckle. "Oh God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you laugh." "No apologies," he insisted in a garbled way that was barely understandable. "Your men are on the way." It was the only reassurance I could give him as we waited in the dark along the lonely stretch of highway in the middle of the night. I shivered and realized the temperatures had dropped again. I took my jacket off and draped it across his torso. There was a chance he couldn't even feel the difference, but it was the only thing I knew to do that might not harm him more. We sat on the roadside for another ten minutes as Jester did his thing cleaning up the mess on the other side of the road. It looked as though he was policing for more brass over there and combing through the brush. It made sense. Beyond the tire being blown out, it might tell us something more if he were to find other casings, or perhaps evidence that the man had been lying in wait for a long time. I didn't believe in coincidences, so the probability of a man lying in wait with a pistol at the exact place an eighteen-wheeler's tire blew to take out a motorcycle, felt a little too convenient to be anything else but an ambush. I heard the distant roar of motorcycles. "Doc is coming with the men; he'll be able to assess things. If we need to run him to the hospital, we'll take him ourselves." I glanced up to see Jester was back, and he stared down at me with a strange look in his eyes. "Not sure that's smart. What if moving him makes things worse or delaying treatment gets him dead?" I asked "M'k," Bigfoot huffed. I was fairly certain it was his way of saying he was okay enough to wait, but I didn't believe him for a minute, especially since he passed out again after mumbling almost incoherently. "Jester!" "Yeah?" "If he dies on me, I'm going to kill the person who made him wait for treatment." The man chuckled and came to stand beside me. "Bigfoot's a tough prick. He'll pull through." "Says you." "Yep, I've seen enough riders go down in my time that I can tell you with certainty that he'll have one of a recovery, but he'll live." "I hope so." "Also, it ain't wise to threaten to off our VP, since he's the one who gave the order." "Whatever, I'm not scared of him." "I guess you wouldn't be, considering I just cleaned up the last body you dropped." "That was also the first," I admitted. "Well, you did a good job of it, lady." He glanced across the road and then back at me. "You were standing over here?" "Yeah?" "You used that?" He pointed at the 10 mil that was secured into my holster. I nodded. "Big sidearm for a little lady." "Not really. They fire smoothly, barely any kickback." Jester nodded his head. "Fifty feet give or take to where the prick was lying in wait." When I didn't say anything, he tacked on, "In the dark and high on adrenaline." He was assessing my skill level, I realized. "You a cop?" I laughed at his question. "Not by a long shot." "Former military?" I gave a quick nod. "No combat duty, but served honorably, nonetheless. The military doesn't account for my shooting skills, though. That would be my Uncle Brady's doin'." "Why did good ol' Uncle Brady decide to teach his precious niece how to shoot so well?" "Because he wanted me to be able to defend myself if it was ever necessary." I glanced down to see that Bigfoot's eyes were open again. "Took a little nap again, huh?" I asked as the distant rumble of motorcycle engines grew heavier in the air. The ground seemed to vibrate as they moved closer, too. "Your friends are almost here." I felt a squeeze on my hand and glanced down to see that Bigfoot managed to get his good hand over to mine. "Thank you." "Don't mention it. Saved me from a boring night of going home to wash my hair." "What the heck?" Jester asked as he laughed and looked down at his phone – presumably to see the time. I shrugged my shoulders. "That was my excuse when I left the double date from he-ll. My coworker Jake convinced me to go to this concert over in Arizona with his girlfriend and another guy. Basically, he set me up to be the fourth wheel to a three-some he didn't know he was involved in." "Let me guess, the set-up date was more interested in you than your buddy's girl and it pissed her off?" I nodded my agreement. "Exactly that. When Matt seemed too interested, Sandra lost it and started screaming at him that the date wasn't meant to be real." I started to mimic her tone. "How dare you act like you're interested in someone else – in front of me!" I shook my head and remembered Jake had seemed upset by the revelation, but not entirely shocked. It made me wonder if he had asked me so that he could get exactly that response from his girlfriend. I don't like to feel used by people. Jake and I would have it out about that later. He should have found a better way to bust his cheating girlfriend, like hire a PI or something. That's what normal people did. Jester laughed and Bigfoot squeezed my hand again. I could have sworn he smiled, but then again, most of his face was a swollen mess already, so it could have been a twitch of pain. "Sorry," I apologized on a whisper. "I forgot I'm not supposed to make you laugh. You probably have a broken rib or three. Know for a fact that stuff hurts." I glanced back up at Jester to finish my story. "So, when the cr-ap hit the fan, I said I had to go home and wash my hair." "Left your boy there to deal with the fallout of a cheating girlfriend?" I groaned. "He put me in that situation knowing full well I've always thought she was a giant freaking diseased twat." "You don't have a filter, do you?" the man inquired. "Nah. I don't really see the point. If people don't like what I have to say, they can pretty much off." "If he don't claim you after he wakes up, I'm next in line," Jester said and then jogged back to his van as the first motorcycle rolled up. I tilted my head to the side and chuckled. "What do ya know? It really is a murder van." "God's sake," Bigfoot mumbled as his chest shook. "Sorry," I whispered again.

My biker Mac didn't just break his vows; he invited another woman into our bed. Tonight was the Vanguard Sovereigns' tenth anniversary. I stood in front of the vanity mirror, reaching for my wedding ring, when my fingers brushed against something cold. A delicate gold teardrop earring. I didn’t wear gold. And strangers didn’t belong in the President’s private quarters. Then Mac's "work" phone lit up. Unknown: The heat is getting closer. I miss the way you look in the dark. Don't be late tonight. I'm wearing the red dress you like. The words burned into my retinas. I shoved the earring into my pocket and took Mac’s hand downstairs. The game had begun. Soon I'll find out who she is. At the bottom of the stairs stood the "inner circle." And there, a woman leaning against the bar in a dress the color of fresh arterial blood, staring at my husband with the familiarity of a long-term lover. I felt the air leave the room. Everything makes sense. Item one: The Earring. Item two: The Red Dress. Item three: Mac's trembling hand. The audit of Mac Grier's soul had officially started. And I intended to make sure he ended the night in the red. —— The fog didn't just roll into the Iron Glade; it possessed it. It crawled over the jagged edges of the rusting shipyards and clung to the converted cannery that served as the Vanguard Sovereigns' clubhouse, smelling of salt, wet cedar, and the metallic tang of high-octane fuel. Inside the master suite, the air was thick with a different kind of heaviness—the suffocating weight of a decade of marriage. Sloane Mercer stood before the vanity mirror, her fingers trembling as she fastened a heavy silver necklace around her throat. Tonight was the Club's tenth anniversary—a decade since Cormac "Mac" Grier had taken the gavel and turned a ragtag group of riders into the most efficient logistics empire on the coast. It should have been a night of triumph. Instead, Sloane felt like she was preparing for an execution. She reached for her jewelry dish to find her wedding ring, but her fingers brushed against something that didn't belong. It was small. Gold. A delicate filigree earring shaped like a teardrop. Sloane froze. The reflection in the mirror seemed to shatter. She didn't wear gold; she found it soft, gaudy, and unreliable. She wore silver and platinum—metals that could withstand the heat of the forge, much like the life she had built alongside Mac. She picked up the trinket, the metal cold against her palm. Her heart, usually a steady, rhythmic machine that calculated ledgers and balanced the club's complex finances, skipped a beat, then began a frantic, jagged thrum against her ribs. It's just debris, her mind whispered, the analytical part of her brain trying to build a fortress against the encroaching tide of panic. A guest left it. A cleaner. But they didn't have guests in their private quarters. And their "cleaners" were the club prospects who wouldn't dare breathe on the President's bed, let alone leave jewelry in the crevices of the mattress. Her gaze shifted to the nightstand. Mac's "work" phone sat there, charging. He was in the shower, the roar of the water echoing through the heavy oak door, a sound that usually signaled the beginning of their intimate ritual before a big event. Sloane reached out. Her hand felt like it belonged to a stranger. Her skin was clammy, the fine hairs on her arms standing at attention. Every instinct honed by years of navigating the treacherous waters of outlaw politics screamed at her to stop. In this world, curiosity didn't just kill the cat; it got the cat's throat slit. She tapped the screen. It was locked. But a notification shimmered on the surface like oil on water. Unknown: The heat is getting closer. I miss the way you look in the dark. Don't be late tonight. I'm wearing the red dress you like. The words burned into her retinas. The red dress. Sloane looked down at her own attire—a sleek, floor-length charcoal gown that fit like armor. She felt a sudden, violent urge to rip it off. The shower stopped. The sudden silence was a physical blow, more deafening than the roar of the water. She dropped the phone, the clatter sounding like a gunshot in the quiet room. She shoved the gold earring into the deep pocket of her dress, her knuckles white as she balled her hand into a fist. The bathroom door creaked open, venting a cloud of steam that smelled of cedarwood and Mac's expensive, rugged soap. He stepped out, a towel slung low around his hips, his skin bronzed and mapped with the history of his violence. Scars from knife fights in Portland, a jagged line from a bullet graze on his shoulder, and the massive, intricate ink of the Sovereign eagle spanning his entire back. He looked like a god of the underworld. He looked like the man who had pulled her from the wreckage of her father's bankrupt estate and given her a throne. "Sloane," he rasped. His voice was a low-frequency vibration that usually settled in her belly like a warm shot of whiskey. Tonight, it felt like a serrated blade. He walked toward her, his footsteps heavy and deliberate on the hardwood. When he reached her, he didn't speak. He just placed his large, calloused hands on her shoulders. The heat of him radiated through the thin fabric of her dress. It was a possessive touch—one she had always mistaken for protection. "You're tense," he murmured, his breath ghosting over the shell of her ear. He leaned down, pressing his face into the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply. "You smell like roses and steel. I love that about you. The most dangerous woman in the Northwest, and you're mine." Mine. The word felt like a brand. Sloane forced her muscles to relax, a feat of pure, psychological gymnastics. She couldn't let him see the cracks. Not yet. She needed to know how deep the rot went. She needed to see the "red dress" for herself. "It's a big night, Mac," she said, her voice sounding hauntingly steady to her own ears. "Ten years. A lot of people would have bet against us making it this far." Mac's grip tightened almost imperceptibly. He turned her around to face him. His eyes were dark, like the depths of the Sound during a storm—impenetrable and cold. There was a flicker of something in them—guilt? Calculation? Or perhaps just the exhaustion of a man who was tired of playing a double game. "I'd burn this whole town to the ground before I let anyone take what's ours, Sloane. You know that." He leaned in, pecking her with a sudden, desperate intensity. It was a hard, hungry peck that tasted of mint and something darker, something like desperation. He tasted like a man trying to drown out his own conscience. Sloane didn't pull away. She leaned into it, her fingers digging into the damp skin of his arms, searching for the truth in the friction of their bodies. She felt the lie in the way his heart hammered against hers—not with the steady beat of a lover, but with the frantic rhythm of a hunted animal. "Go get dressed," she whispered against his lips, her eyes open, watching him. "The brothers are waiting for their King." "And the Queen?" he asked, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. "The Queen is right where she needs to be," Sloane replied, her hand tightening around the gold earring in her pocket, the sharp post piercing the pad of her thumb. She welcomed the pain. It was the only thing that felt real. He retreated to the walk-in closet, and Sloane turned back to the mirror. She looked the same—perfectly coiffed, elegantly dangerous. But behind her eyes, the ledgers were shifting. She began to run the numbers, calculating the cost of a decade of loyalty against the price of a single gold teardrop. The "Bitter Betrayal" wasn't just a feeling; it was a debt. And in Sloane Mercer's world, every debt was collected in full. She grabbed her clutch, her movements fluid and predatory. As she walked toward the door, she caught a glimpse of her reflection one last time. She didn't see a grieving wife. She saw a woman who was about to dismantle an empire from the inside out. The fog outside pressed against the windows, a grey curtain rising on the first act of her husband's destruction. "Let's go, Mac," she called out, her voice echoing down the hallway, sharp and cold as a winter morning. "It's time to show them what the Vanguard Sovereigns are made of." As they descended the iron staircase toward the clubhouse floor, the roar of the party rose to meet them—the clinking of bottles, the heavy bass of rock music, and the boisterous laughter of men who lived outside the law. At the bottom of the stairs stood the "inner circle." And there, leaning against the bar in a dress the color of fresh arterial blood, was a woman Sloane didn't recognize. A woman with hair the color of midnight and eyes that landed on Mac with the familiarity of a long-term lover. Sloane felt the air leave the room. The sensory overload—the smell of smoking smoke, the heat of the bodies, the glare of the neon signs—sharpened into a single, agonizing point of focus. Ria. The name floated into her mind like a ghost. She remembered Mac mentioning a "specialist" hired to handle the logistics of the new Portland route. A mole. A strategic asset. Mac's hand settled on the small of Sloane's back, a gesture of public unity. But his fingers were trembling. The game had begun. And as Sloane looked at the woman in the red dress, she realized that the betrayal wasn't a mistake. It was a system. A systematic replacement of her life, her bed, and her club. She felt a strange, cold calm wash over her. The angst was still there, a roiling sea of fire in her gut, but above it sat the accountant. Item one: The Earring. Item two: The Red Dress. Item three: The King's trembling hand. The audit of Mac Grier's soul had officially started. And Sloane intended to make sure he ended the night in the red. The clubhouse floor was a cavern of sensory violence. The scent of stale beer and expensive bourbon fought with the ozone of a dying neon sign flickering above the bar. Shadows danced against the corrugated metal walls, cast by the shifting bodies of the Vanguard Sovereigns and their "Old Ladies." It was a sea of black leather and denim, a brotherhood forged in the grease of the shipyards and the blood of the Pacific Northwest. Mac's hand remained anchored to the small of Sloane's back. It was meant to be a tether, a claim of possession, but to Sloane, it felt like the weight of a heavy shackle. Every time his palm pressed into the silk of her dress, she felt the phantom sting of that gold earring in her pocket. She scanned the room with the clinical precision of a predator. Her mind was no longer the mind of a wife; it was the mind of a forensic auditor. She wasn't looking at faces; she was looking at discrepancies. "Stay close," Mac leaned in, his voice a low rumble beneath the pulsing bass of a heavy rock track. "The Skulls have been poking around the docks. I don't like the energy in here tonight." "Is that why you're shaking, Mac?" she asked, her voice a cool blade cutting through the humid air. He stiffened. His fingers flared, then tightened. "I'm not shaking. I'm wired. It's a big night." "Big enough to bleed for," she murmured, her eyes finally locking on the woman in the red dress. Ria wasn't just standing at the bar; she was occupying it. She held a glass of dark liquid—neat whiskey, most likely—with a practiced nonchalance that suggested she had sat on that stool a hundred times before. The red dress was a liquid shimmer of silk, daring and unapologetic, clinging to curves that Sloane suddenly found herself comparing to her own. It was a younger body, perhaps, or simply one less tired by the constant vigilance of keeping an empire afloat. But it was the way Ria looked at Mac that confirmed the audit's first finding. It wasn't the look of a contractor or a specialist. It was the look of a woman who knew the taste of the man standing at Sloane's side. "Who is she?" Sloane asked, her gaze never wavering.

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