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I found the end of my marriage in my husband's coat pocket. Two folded pages. Hotel letterhead. Five-star. Downtown. A place Rio had mentioned once — client dinners, he'd said. I'd had no reason to question it. Then the charge total stopped me cold. Stay History Summary — Loyalty Member Account. Not one visit. Not two. Forty-seven. Each stay itemized. Room service for two, consistently. Couples' spa bookings. A standing reservation for the same suite on the fourteenth floor. Champagne appearing on the billing, regular as breathing. A florist delivery, recurring. Anniversary arrangement confirmed. I found the date. April fourteenth. The week my daughter's fever hit a hundred and three. The week I'd called Rio three times and reached his voicemail twice while he was in that suite. Then the note: Dear Rio and Vanessa — Thank you so much for choosing us to celebrate another year together. The roses are arranged per your preference. We look forward to welcoming you, as always. With warm regards, James, Guest Relations Rio and Vanessa. My body went quiet. Vanessa Cole. The girl Rio's father had brought home at twelve years old. The woman I had welcomed as family. I folded the pages back. Slid them into his pocket. Then I opened my browser and typed: Best divorce attorney, city. ———————— I found the end of my marriage in a coat pocket on a Tuesday. Not a dramatic Tuesday. Not the kind that announces itself with grey skies and a feeling in your chest that something is shifting. Just an ordinary Tuesday — school lunches packed, coffee going cold on the counter while I moved through the house doing the kind of invisible work that held a family together and got credited to no one. Rio had left early. He usually did. His coat was draped over the bedroom chair — the grey cashmere one, the one I'd given him for our third anniversary because he'd mentioned a shop window once in passing, and I had filed that detail away. That was the kind of wife I was. The kind who remembered. I picked it up to drop it in the dry-cleaning bag. I always checked his pockets first. Not to snoop. Because seven years had taught me that if you didn't, you'd send a forgotten parking stub through a hot wash and spend three days hearing about it. A domestic habit. A wifely reflex. First pocket — nothing. A button that had come loose from something. A small curl of receipt tape, blank. Second pocket. Two folded pages, good stock, the kind upscale hotels print billing statements on. I didn't know what I was holding at first. The paper was thick between my fingers, folded in thirds like it had been pulled from an envelope in a hurry. No name on the outside. No reason to look twice. Except I did. I unfolded it at the foot of our bed — the one we'd chosen together when we moved into this house, back when Rio and Hazel Montgomery was still a we without qualifiers. Morning light came through the curtains the way it always did, pale gold across the floorboards. Downstairs, the coffee maker beeped. Lucas's backpack sat by the front door, half-zipped. Ava's cereal bowl was still on the kitchen table. I unfolded it, and I read. Hotel letterhead. Five-star. Downtown. A place Rio had mentioned once — client dinners, he'd said. I'd had no reason to question it. I scanned for the charge total the way you do when something lands in your hands and you're trying to place it. Then the header stopped me cold. Stay History Summary — Loyalty Member Account. Not one visit. Not two. Forty-seven. I read the number three times, slowly, like it might change. Forty-seven. Each stay itemized. Each with its own date, its own charges, its own notation. Room service for two, consistently. Couples' spa bookings. A standing reservation — not requested each time, simply standing — for the same suite on the fourteenth floor. Champagne appearing on the billing like punctuation, regular as breathing. The charges were the kind of specific that lets your stomach understand something long before your brain catches up. A florist delivery, recurring. A jewelry boutique off the hotel lobby — the name looked familiar in the vague way of places you've walked past and thought someday. And beside certain dates, a small notation. Anniversary arrangement confirmed. I found the date. I looked away. Then I looked back. April fourteenth. I didn't need to check a calendar. April fourteenth was the week Ava's fever climbed to a hundred and three and she wouldn't sleep unless I was holding her upright. The week I'd called Rio three times and reached his voicemail twice and, on the third attempt, got a brief and distracted version of him that I'd told myself was just work pressure. The week I'd been awake until two in the morning pressing a cool cloth to my daughter's forehead. The week he was in this hotel. In that suite. With roses arranged per his preference. Anniversary arrangement confirmed. The coffee maker beeped again downstairs. I sat down on the edge of our bed and turned the second page. A note was clipped there. Hotel stationery, a concierge's neat handwriting. Dear Rio and Vanessa — Thank you so much for choosing us to celebrate another year together. The presidential suite has been prepared as requested. The roses are arranged per your preference. We look forward to welcoming you, as always. With warm regards, James, Guest Relations Rio and Vanessa. Those three words sat on the page, very still, very clear. I read them again. Rio. And Vanessa. People expect a word for what happens in a moment like that. Something large and final — shattered, destroyed, undone. The vocabulary of catastrophe. But what actually happened was silence. My body went quiet. The room continued — the light on the floor, the car on the street outside, the coffee cooling in the kitchen — all of it completely undisturbed, while something in the center of my chest simply stopped making noise. Vanessa. Not a stranger. Not a shape I'd half-imagined in my lowest moments, a nameless woman in a nameless place. Vanessa Cole. The girl Rio's father had brought home at twelve years old, frightened and sharp-elbowed and furious at everything. The woman I had welcomed as family because she'd had no one, and Rio had asked, and because I had loved her genuinely — the uncomplicated way you love someone who calls you at midnight when the old wounds flare up and cries at your kitchen table and means it. She had held my hand in the hospital waiting room when I lost the pregnancy between Lucas and Ava. Sat on the bathroom floor with me while I made sounds I didn't know a human body could make. Said I'm here, I'm right here over and over until I believed it. She had known, the entire time, where her evenings would take her afterward. Ava called her Auntie Van in the particular voice small children use for the people they love without reason or condition. That voice would, from this Tuesday forward, feel like something small and sharp every single time I heard it. I sat on the edge of the bed. I did not cry. I want to be specific about that. I did not put my fist through a wall or do any of the things you imagine yourself doing when the thing you refused to think about finally stops refusing to stay hidden. I read the document again. Start to finish. Every line. Forty-seven stays. Five years of dates distributed across the pages — visible, once you understood what you were looking at, as a pattern. Not random encounters. A calendar. Managed with the same organizational precision Rio applied to everything he considered worth his attention. He had been precise about her. Intentional. He had built a schedule around her, maintained it, protected it. There were people at that hotel who knew his name, his preferences, the way he liked his roses arranged. People who called them by name — Rio and Vanessa — with the warmth reserved for regulars. He had come home after every single visit. He had touched my shoulder, asked about the children, and come to bed. And I had never once made him feel suspected, because I had never once suspected. I stood up slowly from the bed. I folded the document back along its original crease lines. Smoothed each fold until the paper looked untouched. Slid it back into the coat pocket — the right side, exactly where I'd found it. I hung the coat back over the chair. Then I went downstairs, poured the cold coffee down the sink, and made a fresh cup. Stood at the kitchen window and drank it while I looked at the backyard — the swing set, the flower bed I'd planted in spring, the stone path Rio and I had laid ourselves in the first year, when we were still the kind of people who did things like that. I looked at all of it. The evidence of a life that had believed in itself completely. When the cup was empty, I picked up my phone. I didn't call Jade. Not yet. I opened the browser and typed four words. Best divorce attorney, city. The first result: Victoria Nash. The page was clean, minimal — no photographs of scales or legal theatrics. Just a name, credentials, and one line beneath. We protect what is rightfully yours. I read it once. Saved her number under a contact name Rio would walk past without a second glance. Dry Cleaner. I expected the grief to arrive the way grief does in films — sudden, total, a wave that doesn't ask permission. I stood at the kitchen window waiting for it, braced for the moment my legs stopped holding me up. It didn't come that way. It came slowly, the way a house settles in winter. Small sounds. Small shifts. The structure quietly adjusting to something it hadn't been built to carry. But standing there with an empty cup and Victoria Nash's number in my phone, grief wasn't what I was feeling. I was thinking. Clearly. Steadily. About receipts and dates and the sound of my daughter's temperature-high breathing and forty-seven visits to a hotel fourteen minutes from this house. The woman standing at that window in her own quiet kitchen was someone I almost didn't recognize. She wasn't falling apart. She was paying attention. And she was finished — completely, permanently finished — being the last one to know.

I'm the Broken Halos MC President's daughter—completely off-limits. But one reckless night, I masked my identity and gave myself to the one man I shouldn't want. I wore a red wig, a Venetian mask, and a fake ID. I walked into Onyx, found the man I'd wanted for years—Bear, the mountain of muscle and ink—and I let him take me apart on a bondage bench. Three weeks later, two pink lines stared back at me. I couldn't tell him the truth—not yet. So I swallowed my fear, knocked on his door, and tried a softer confession. "I have feelings for you," I blurt out, the words tripping over each other. "And I was wondering... if you'd like to go on a date with me? Sometime?" I hold my breath. I wait for the shift in his eyes, for the realization that I'm a woman, for the spark of interest that would give me the courage to tell him about Onyx. I wait for him to see me. For a long, agonizing moment, Bear just stares at me. His mouth is slightly agape, his hazel eyes wide with pure, unadulterated shock. "You're joking, right?" he asks, his voice with amusement. "Ivy, honey... look at you. You're a kid. A date? With you? I don't know what kind of schoolgirl crush you've got going on, but you need to go find some boy your own age to play with. I'm old enough to be your father, and I've got work to do." Hot, stinging tears well in my eyes, blurring the image of the man I thought I knew. I'm standing there, pregnant with his child, and he's laughing at me. ____________ Ivy The smell of the clubhouse is a permanent resident in my lungs. It's a cocktail of stale beer, expensive leather, motor oil, and the underlying metallic tang of gun solvent. To my sister Rae, it's the scent of freedom. To me, it's the scent of a room I'm trying to find the exit for. I sit at the heavy oak table in the "Big Kids" makeshift-classroom, the late morning sun slicing through the high windows. "And... sent," Caroline says, her voice bright with a triumph I don't quite feel yet. She clicks the mouse with a flourish. "The University of Seaview Finance Department won't know what hit them, Ivy." Caroline, Riot's Old Lady, has been our teacher in this windowless world of chrome and testosterone. She's homeschooled almost every club brat for over a decade. She's the one who looked at my spreadsheets and my obsession with market trends and guided me towards a degree in finance. "Thank you, Caroline. Really," I say, leaning back in the mismatched plastic chair. "You're going to be the only person in this zip code who understands a diversified portfolio, honey," she teases, patting my hand before gathering her lesson plans. "Your dad is going to be so proud. Even if he doesn't understand half the words you'll be using." I offer a tight smile. My dad, Stone, is the best man I know. He's the President of the Broken Halos MC, a man who commands silence just by breathing, but who used to tuck me in with Romanian lullabies he learned just to please my mother, Alexandra. My parents are the gold standard-a rare, shimmering example of MC royalty done right. But I don't want the crown. I don't even want the throne room. I look around the playroom. It's littered with remnants of a life I'm outgrowing. A stray math textbook, a discarded leather vest in a toddler size, and the faint sound of "Old MacDonald" drifting from the hallway. I love my family. I love the salt-sprayed air of Seaview and the way the fog rolls over the redwoods like a heavy blanket. But I want a life that doesn't require a property cut. I want a glass-walled office and a quiet apartment where the doorbell doesn't mean a federal agent is serving a warrant. I think of the summers I spent in Romania with my mother's family. The Carpathian Mountains, the ancient stone streets of Timisoara, the sense of history that had nothing to do with patches and rivalries. Sometimes, I wish we'd stayed there. In Romania, I was just Ivy. Here, I'm the President's daughter. A prize to be guarded or a target to be hit. The door creaks open, and the human equivalent of a biological miracle waddles in. "Hey, Ives," Angel calls out, her voice bubbly despite the fact that she's carrying what looks like a small planet under her shirt. Angel is radiant. Truly. She's been basically pregnant since the moment she became Ghost's Old Lady. This is number six. Six. The daycare, which had gone dormant once Cyber's kids, Ariana and Nicolas, moved up to the homeschool room, is now fully repopulated solely by the Ghost and Angel production line. "Hey, Angel," I say, watching her rub her bump with a look of pure, unadulterated bliss. "How are you feeling?" "Like a literal house," she laughs, leaning against the doorframe. "But he's kicking. I think he's going to be a kicker like his daddy." "Wonderful," I say, trying to keep the "gross" out of my voice. I like Angel. I really do. She's kind and fierce and loyal. But her life is my literal nightmare. To be a vessel for the club, to spend decades in a cycle of morning sickness and clubhouse dinners? To each their own, but I'd rather calculate compound interest for the rest of eternity. She thrives here. She loves the chaos. Me? I'm counting the days until I can walk through the front gates and not feel the heavy weight of the "Halos" legacy on my shoulders. "Ghost is looking for you, by the way," Angel adds. "He's in the garage with Bear. Something about your car's alternator?" My heart does a weird, traitorous little skip at the mention of the second name. "Thanks. I'll head down." I pack my bag, slinging it over my shoulder. I pass the common room, where my sister Ava is sitting on the lap of her husband, Blade. They look like a poster for the life-young, tatted, and completely entwined. Ava is twenty and already settled. Rae, at seventeen, is probably in the gym right now trying to out-lift a prospect to prove she deserves a patch. I'm the glitch in the DNA. I head down to the garage, the air turning colder and heavier with the scent of grease. The garage is the heart of the clubhouse-a cathedral of iron and rubber. I see Ghost first. He's leaned over a bike, his lean frame tensed as he wrenches something into place. And then, I see him. Bear. He's standing by the tool bench, wiping his hands on a dark rag. The name is apt. He's massive-at least 6'7''-with shoulders that seem to take up two zip codes. He's bulky in the way a mountain is bulky, all solid, terrifying power. His hair is dark, his beard neatly groomed into a sharp line that emphasizes a jawline that could cut glass. He's thirty-eight. I'm nineteen. He's a man who lives, breathes, and would likely die for the Broken Halos. He is everything I am trying to run away from. He's also, quite unfortunately, the most gorgeous man I've ever seen. He looks up as I approach, those hazel eyes-the color of moss and autumn-settling on me. He doesn't smile. Bear doesn't really do smiles for anyone who isn't wearing a patch. "Ivy," he grunts. His voice is a low rumble, a frequency I feel in the floorboards under my boots. "Bear. Ghost," I nod to them both. "Alternator's fine," Ghost says, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Just a loose belt. Bear tightened it up for you." "Thanks, Bear," I say, stepping closer. The height difference is comical. At five-foot-nothing, I have to tilt my head back just to meet his gaze. Up close, he smells like sandalwood and expensive tobacco-not the cheap stuff the prospects smoke. He looks like a model who walked off a runway and decided to join a biker gang. He looks down at me, his expression unreadable. To him, I'm probably still the little girl who used to color with crayons in the corner of the bar. I'm the President's middle daughter. I'm off-limits by every law of the club and every law of common sense. "Don't take the curves on the coast road so hard," Bear says, his voice like gravel. "Belts don't like the heat you're putting on 'em." "I like to go fast," I counter, my voice steadier than I feel. One corner of his mouth twitches-not a smile, but a ghost of one. "I know you do. Just make sure you can stop when you need to." He turns back to the workbench, his massive back a wall of denim and muscle. The muscles in his forearms flex as he moves a heavy wrench, the ink on his skin dancing with the movement. I should walk away. I should go home, finish my finance prep, and dream about spreadsheets and city lights. I should find a nice, safe guy at college who doesn't know what a hang-around is. But as I watch him, a hot, sharp spark of defiance flares up in my gut. I've spent my whole life being the good daughter, the one who doesn't cause trouble because she's too busy planning her escape. I'm leaving this life. But before I go? Before I turn into a suit-and-tie professional in a high-rise? I want that. I want the mountain. I know the rules. I know my father would probably skin him alive, and he'd likely lose his patch before he even touched me. He's nineteen years older. He's a zealot for the life I hate. We'd be a disaster waiting to happen. I adjust my bag strap, staring at the broad expanse of his shoulders. Fu.ck it. I'm leaving this world behind, but I'm not leaving without a souvenir. I don't want a relationship. I don't want a happy ever after in the clubhouse. But I want to know what it feels like to be crushed by all that power. Just once. I'm getting under him. I don't know how, and I don't know when, but I'm going to make the big bear growl. Bear The air in Ghost and Angel's living room is thick with the smell of Thai takeout and the kind of easy, domestic peace that makes a man like me feel every single one of his almost forty years. I'm sprawled in a leather armchair that's seen better days, a beer bottle sweating in my hand. Around me, the next generation of the Broken Halos is scattered like debris after a storm-only this storm is quiet, settled. Ghost is on the sofa, his arm draped possessively over Angel's shoulders. She's leaning into him, her eyes half-closed, radiating that pregnancy glow that always makes Ghost look like he's won the lottery and is terrified someone might steal the ticket. Across from them, Shade and Grace are tangled together on the floor. Stencil and Oliver-or London, if we're being formal, which we never are-are sharing a carton of pad thai, their knees touching. Then there's Blade and Ava. Stone's eldest daughter is leaning against her man's chest, looking every bit the MC princess who found her prince in a leather vest. "We're officially on the list," Shade says, his voice breaking the comfortable silence. He's looking at Grace with a look so raw it's almost hard to watch. "The adoption agency called this morning. Background checks are cleared." "That's huge, brother," Ghost says, tipping his bottle toward him. "We're looking into it too," Oliver adds, glancing at Stencil. "Since, you know, the traditional route is biologically impossible for us." A chorus of chuckles goes around the room. It's good to see. Stencil and Oliver are both patched in, solid men who have earned their place ten times over. The club has always been good, it's a place where two men can build a life together, or where an adopted kid like Shade can find a legacy. Blade nudges Ava with his elbow, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Hear that, babe? Adoption, pregnancy... we got options. Maybe we should start practicing for our own soon." Ava rolls her eyes, though she's smiling. "Practice all you want, Blade. But I'm finishing my degree before I even think about diapers. I've seen what Angel goes through." I take a pull of my beer, watching the banter. Slayer is the only other single man in the room, and he's currently scrolled deep into his phone, probably scouting for his next weekend distraction. I'm the outlier. I'm the man who handles the books and the bodies with the same cold efficiency. I've built the club's legal income streams into a fortress. I've got enough in my personal accounts to buy any house in Seaview in cold, hard cash. But I still sleep in a room at the clubhouse. Why buy a house for one person? A house isn't a home until there's a woman in it. Not just any woman. The woman. I look at Ghost and Angel. I remember when they started. I remember the way Ghost tortured himself over the age gap-how he thought he was too old, too scarred, too much of a monster for a girl like her. I thought he was an idiot then. When I find the one, I won't hesitate. I don't care about the years. I don't care about the "rules" of what's appropriate. If she's mine, she's mine. I'll give her the world. I'll build her a palace on the cliffs and spend the rest of my life making sure she never has to lift a finger. I'm good with business; I've got a knack for spotting an investment that'll pay off. I just haven't found the one worth investing my heart in yet. The night winds down slowly. One by one, they filter out. Blade and Ava head off to their place, Slayer vanishes into the night, and the others make their exits. I find myself staying behind. Ghost is more than a brother; he's the man who knows where all my secrets are buried. The house is eerily quiet. Usually, this place is a war zone of wooden toys and sticky fingerprints, but Doc and Kasia have the kids for the night. They're a godsend, those two. They give Ghost and Angel the breathing room they need to remember they're a man and a woman, not just a mom and a dad. I start stacking the empty containers while Ghost clears the bottles. "You don't have to do that, Bear," Angel says, trying to get up from the couch. Ghost is on her in a second, his hands on her waist, gently pushing her back down. "Stay put, Angel. You've been on your feet all day. Bear and I got it." "He's right," I grunt, grabbing a trash bag. "Sit. Grow the baby. We've got the trash." She sighs, a beautiful, content sound. "You guys are too much." Ghost and I move through the kitchen with a rhythm born of years of partnership. We don't need to talk. I wash, he wipes. We move around the island, restoring order to the chaos. I've always had a knack for this-the organization, the management of a space. It's why I handle the club's businesses. I like things where they belong. Once the kitchen is spotless, I lean against the counter and look at my best friend. He looks tired, but it's a good kind of tired. A fulfilled kind. He has everything I want. "I'm out," I say, tossing the towel onto the rack. "Thanks for the hand, brother," Ghost says. He glances back toward the living room where Angel is waiting, his eyes darkening with a look I know all too well. "I'm gonna go worship my wife for a few hours while the house is empty." I snort, heading for the door. "TMI, Ghost. I don't need the mental image of you being a sap." "You're just jealous," he calls out with a grin. "Maybe," I mutter under my breath as I step out onto the porch. The night air in Seaview is sharp and cold, smelling of pine and salt spray. I walk to my bike, the heavy crunch of my boots on the gravel the only sound in the quiet neighborhood. I think about the clubhouse. It'll be loud tonight. Friday nights usually are. There will be booze, music, and plenty of women looking for a patch to latch onto for the night. None of them are what I'm looking for. I want what Ghost has-that gravity, that soul-deep connection. I kick the engine over, the roar of the Harley shattering the suburban silence. I twist the throttle, the bike surging forward into the darkness. I'm heading back to the clubhouse, back to the life I live for, still waiting for the one woman who will make me want to leave the room for a home. Ivy The plan is: get in, get under him, get out. It's a simple strategy. I've known for a while that Bear spends his Saturday nights at Onyx. In the clubhouse, secrets have a way of leaking through the floorboards like old oil. I know he likes the dark side of things. I also know he's a man-bimbo. He doesn't do "Old Ladies" and he doesn't do "forever." He does Saturday nights and intense, nameless encounters. Normally, the age limit for Onyx is twenty-one. But we all have fake IDs that could fool a federal agent; it's practically a rite of passage. My ID says I'm twenty-three and from San Diego. Tonight, that's all I need to be. I'm standing in front of my full-length mirror, adjusting the hem of a black dress that is barely legal and definitely not Stone-approved. It's tight, silk-thin, and ends at mid-thigh. It hugs every curve I've spent years trying to hide under baggy hoodies. "Holy sh.it. You look like a high-end hooker." I jump, spinning around to see Rae sprawled across my bed. She's wearing grease-stained jeans and a faded Halo tank top, her feet dangling off the edge. She looks like a tomboy ready for a brawl; I look like a woman ready for a scandal. "Fu.ck off, Rae," I say, though there's no heat in it. I turn back to the mirror, checking my eyeliner. "Where are you going looking like that?" she asks, propping her chin on her hand. "That's not going to the library gear. That's I'm trying to get arrested gear." "I'm going out," I say vaguely. "Celebrating. I got into the finance program." "By wearing three inches of fabric?" Rae snorts, her eyes narrowing. "Mom and Dad would lose their minds if they saw you. Dad would probably put the clubhouse on lockdown." "Which is why they aren't going to see me. You going to cover for me?" Rae reaches out and grabs a loose thread on my duvet. She's the baby of the three of us, the one most desperate to prove she's as tough as any prospect. But beneath the bravado, she's my sister. "Always," she says, her voice softening for a second. "But be careful, Ives. Seriously." "I will be." Once she leaves, I pull the secret weapon out of my drawer: a deep, blood-red wig. I've always wondered what I'd look like with red hair-bold, fiery, someone who doesn't blend into the background. I tuck my dark hair under the cap and settle the wig in place. It changes my entire face. I look older. Dangerous. I grab the final piece-an elegant black Venetian ball mask-and put it in my purse. It's lace and silk, and it will cover the upper half of my face and obscuring the shape of my eyes. The drive to the outskirts of Seaview feels like a countdown. Onyx is tucked into a converted warehouse, discreet and intimidating. The bass from inside thumps against the pavement, a rhythmic heartbeat that matches my own. I show my ID, the bouncer barely glancing at it before waving me through. Once inside, the atmosphere shifts. It's dim, lit by deep purple and red neon. The air is heavy with expensive perfume and the faint, sharp scent of leather. Masks are everywhere-feathers, leather, lace. At the entrance station, I pick up a small tag. Submissive - open to chat. It's a lie. I'm not submissive. I'm a control freak who wants to manage a hedge fund. But tonight, I want to see what happens when I let a man like Bear take the lead. I spot him almost immediately. He's at the far end of the bar, and even in a room full of masked strangers, he's a god among men. He's wearing a dark mask that only makes his hazel eyes pop, but I'd know that silhouette in a blackout. Those shoulders, that height-he's a mountain. He's wearing a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the ink on his forearms. My stomach flips. I'm terrified. I'm ecstatic. I make a beeline for him, my heels clicking rhythmically on the concrete floor. I have to be careful. If I speak, he'll recognize me. He'll recognize the girl who's lived in his peripheral vision for a decade. And he will sooner call my dad than fu.ck me. So silence is my only shield. I reach him just as he's taking a sip of something amber. I don't hesitate. I reach out and place my hand on his bicep. The muscle is rock hard beneath my palm, and the heat of him radiates through the fabric. He freezes for a split second, then turns his head. A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face-the visible part of it, anyway. "Well, hello there," he rumbles. The sound of his voice this close makes my toes curl. He looks down at my tag, his eyes lingering on the word Submissive. "So you're open to talk," he says, his gaze returning to my masked face. I nod enthusiastically, keeping my lips sealed. "But you're a quiet one?" He chuckles, and there they are-the dimples. He has no right to have dimples when he looks like he could snap a man's neck with his bare hands. "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue, or are you just playing hard to get?" I shake my head, my eyes locked on his. I hope the mask hides the sheer panic and lust warring in my expression. "Have you been here before?" I shake my head again. He leans back against the bar, his eyes raking over my red hair and the curve of my neck. "A first-timer. You picked a he.ll of a night to start." He gestures to his glass. "Want a drink?" I look at his glass, then tap it with one finger. I'll have what you're having. "Confident," he muses, signaling the bartender for another neat bourbon. "You're very bold with your hands, little one. Why so shy with the voice?" I don't answer. Instead, I decide to stop the interrogation. I reach up, curl my hand into the hair at the nape of his neck, and pull him down. I k1ss him. It's not a soft k1ss. It's a collision. He groans into my mouth, a low, guttural sound that vibrates in my chest. Before I can even register the shock of it, he's taking control. He plunges his tongue into my mouth, tasting of expensive bourbon and heat. He tastes like a man who knows exactly what he wants and has never been told no. He pulls back just an inch, his breathing heavy. "Well, fu.ck," he rasps, his eyes burning. "I do like a challenge." I smile broadly, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "What am I supposed to call you?" he asks, his hand sliding down to grip my waist, his thumb tracing the bone. "I need something to call out now... and something to scream later when I've got you where I want you." I tap my chin, pretending to think. Then I tap the strands of my red wig. "Red?" he guesses, a dark glint in his eye. I nod. "Alright, Red." He leans in close, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear. "Do you want to find a private room with me? Somewhere I can find out if you're still quiet once I'm inside you." My knees nearly give out. I nod, my head bobbing with an enthusiasm that borders on desperate. He doesn't say another word. He just grabs my hand, his massive palm swallowing mine, and begins to lead me through the crowd. Every step toward the private hallway feels like a step closer to the life I'm running from. I'm nervous-my hands are shaking-but the adrenaline is a flood. I might be leaving the MC life soon, but tonight, I'm going to let it devour me.

I'm the Broken Halos MC President's daughter—completely off-limits. But one reckless night, I masked my identity and gave myself to the one man I shouldn't want. I wore a red wig, a Venetian mask, and a fake ID. I walked into Onyx, found the man I'd wanted for years—Bear, the mountain of muscle and ink—and I let him take me apart on a bondage bench. Three weeks later, two pink lines stared back at me. I couldn't tell him the truth—not yet. So I swallowed my fear, knocked on his door, and tried a softer confession. "I have feelings for you," I blurt out, the words tripping over each other. "And I was wondering... if you'd like to go on a date with me? Sometime?" I hold my breath. I wait for the shift in his eyes, for the realization that I'm a woman, for the spark of interest that would give me the courage to tell him about Onyx. I wait for him to see me. For a long, agonizing moment, Bear just stares at me. His mouth is slightly agape, his hazel eyes wide with pure, unadulterated shock. "You're joking, right?" he asks, his voice with amusement. "Ivy, honey... look at you. You're a kid. A date? With you? I don't know what kind of schoolgirl crush you've got going on, but you need to go find some boy your own age to play with. I'm old enough to be your father, and I've got work to do." Hot, stinging tears well in my eyes, blurring the image of the man I thought I knew. I'm standing there, pregnant with his child, and he's laughing at me. ____________ Ivy The smell of the clubhouse is a permanent resident in my lungs. It's a cocktail of stale beer, expensive leather, motor oil, and the underlying metallic tang of gun solvent. To my sister Rae, it's the scent of freedom. To me, it's the scent of a room I'm trying to find the exit for. I sit at the heavy oak table in the "Big Kids" makeshift-classroom, the late morning sun slicing through the high windows. "And... sent," Caroline says, her voice bright with a triumph I don't quite feel yet. She clicks the mouse with a flourish. "The University of Seaview Finance Department won't know what hit them, Ivy." Caroline, Riot's Old Lady, has been our teacher in this windowless world of chrome and testosterone. She's homeschooled almost every club brat for over a decade. She's the one who looked at my spreadsheets and my obsession with market trends and guided me towards a degree in finance. "Thank you, Caroline. Really," I say, leaning back in the mismatched plastic chair. "You're going to be the only person in this zip code who understands a diversified portfolio, honey," she teases, patting my hand before gathering her lesson plans. "Your dad is going to be so proud. Even if he doesn't understand half the words you'll be using." I offer a tight smile. My dad, Stone, is the best man I know. He's the President of the Broken Halos MC, a man who commands silence just by breathing, but who used to tuck me in with Romanian lullabies he learned just to please my mother, Alexandra. My parents are the gold standard-a rare, shimmering example of MC royalty done right. But I don't want the crown. I don't even want the throne room. I look around the playroom. It's littered with remnants of a life I'm outgrowing. A stray math textbook, a discarded leather vest in a toddler size, and the faint sound of "Old MacDonald" drifting from the hallway. I love my family. I love the salt-sprayed air of Seaview and the way the fog rolls over the redwoods like a heavy blanket. But I want a life that doesn't require a property cut. I want a glass-walled office and a quiet apartment where the doorbell doesn't mean a federal agent is serving a warrant. I think of the summers I spent in Romania with my mother's family. The Carpathian Mountains, the ancient stone streets of Timisoara, the sense of history that had nothing to do with patches and rivalries. Sometimes, I wish we'd stayed there. In Romania, I was just Ivy. Here, I'm the President's daughter. A prize to be guarded or a target to be hit. The door creaks open, and the human equivalent of a biological miracle waddles in. "Hey, Ives," Angel calls out, her voice bubbly despite the fact that she's carrying what looks like a small planet under her shirt. Angel is radiant. Truly. She's been basically pregnant since the moment she became Ghost's Old Lady. This is number six. Six. The daycare, which had gone dormant once Cyber's kids, Ariana and Nicolas, moved up to the homeschool room, is now fully repopulated solely by the Ghost and Angel production line. "Hey, Angel," I say, watching her rub her bump with a look of pure, unadulterated bliss. "How are you feeling?" "Like a literal house," she laughs, leaning against the doorframe. "But he's kicking. I think he's going to be a kicker like his daddy." "Wonderful," I say, trying to keep the "gross" out of my voice. I like Angel. I really do. She's kind and fierce and loyal. But her life is my literal nightmare. To be a vessel for the club, to spend decades in a cycle of morning sickness and clubhouse dinners? To each their own, but I'd rather calculate compound interest for the rest of eternity. She thrives here. She loves the chaos. Me? I'm counting the days until I can walk through the front gates and not feel the heavy weight of the "Halos" legacy on my shoulders. "Ghost is looking for you, by the way," Angel adds. "He's in the garage with Bear. Something about your car's alternator?" My heart does a weird, traitorous little skip at the mention of the second name. "Thanks. I'll head down." I pack my bag, slinging it over my shoulder. I pass the common room, where my sister Ava is sitting on the lap of her husband, Blade. They look like a poster for the life-young, tatted, and completely entwined. Ava is twenty and already settled. Rae, at seventeen, is probably in the gym right now trying to out-lift a prospect to prove she deserves a patch. I'm the glitch in the DNA. I head down to the garage, the air turning colder and heavier with the scent of grease. The garage is the heart of the clubhouse-a cathedral of iron and rubber. I see Ghost first. He's leaned over a bike, his lean frame tensed as he wrenches something into place. And then, I see him. Bear. He's standing by the tool bench, wiping his hands on a dark rag. The name is apt. He's massive-at least 6'7''-with shoulders that seem to take up two zip codes. He's bulky in the way a mountain is bulky, all solid, terrifying power. His hair is dark, his beard neatly groomed into a sharp line that emphasizes a jawline that could cut glass. He's thirty-eight. I'm nineteen. He's a man who lives, breathes, and would likely die for the Broken Halos. He is everything I am trying to run away from. He's also, quite unfortunately, the most gorgeous man I've ever seen. He looks up as I approach, those hazel eyes-the color of moss and autumn-settling on me. He doesn't smile. Bear doesn't really do smiles for anyone who isn't wearing a patch. "Ivy," he grunts. His voice is a low rumble, a frequency I feel in the floorboards under my boots. "Bear. Ghost," I nod to them both. "Alternator's fine," Ghost says, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Just a loose belt. Bear tightened it up for you." "Thanks, Bear," I say, stepping closer. The height difference is comical. At five-foot-nothing, I have to tilt my head back just to meet his gaze. Up close, he smells like sandalwood and expensive tobacco-not the cheap stuff the prospects smoke. He looks like a model who walked off a runway and decided to join a biker gang. He looks down at me, his expression unreadable. To him, I'm probably still the little girl who used to color with crayons in the corner of the bar. I'm the President's middle daughter. I'm off-limits by every law of the club and every law of common sense. "Don't take the curves on the coast road so hard," Bear says, his voice like gravel. "Belts don't like the heat you're putting on 'em." "I like to go fast," I counter, my voice steadier than I feel. One corner of his mouth twitches-not a smile, but a ghost of one. "I know you do. Just make sure you can stop when you need to." He turns back to the workbench, his massive back a wall of denim and muscle. The muscles in his forearms flex as he moves a heavy wrench, the ink on his skin dancing with the movement. I should walk away. I should go home, finish my finance prep, and dream about spreadsheets and city lights. I should find a nice, safe guy at college who doesn't know what a hang-around is. But as I watch him, a hot, sharp spark of defiance flares up in my gut. I've spent my whole life being the good daughter, the one who doesn't cause trouble because she's too busy planning her escape. I'm leaving this life. But before I go? Before I turn into a suit-and-tie professional in a high-rise? I want that. I want the mountain. I know the rules. I know my father would probably skin him alive, and he'd likely lose his patch before he even touched me. He's nineteen years older. He's a zealot for the life I hate. We'd be a disaster waiting to happen. I adjust my bag strap, staring at the broad expanse of his shoulders. Fu.ck it. I'm leaving this world behind, but I'm not leaving without a souvenir. I don't want a relationship. I don't want a happy ever after in the clubhouse. But I want to know what it feels like to be crushed by all that power. Just once. I'm getting under him. I don't know how, and I don't know when, but I'm going to make the big bear growl. Bear The air in Ghost and Angel's living room is thick with the smell of Thai takeout and the kind of easy, domestic peace that makes a man like me feel every single one of his almost forty years. I'm sprawled in a leather armchair that's seen better days, a beer bottle sweating in my hand. Around me, the next generation of the Broken Halos is scattered like debris after a storm-only this storm is quiet, settled. Ghost is on the sofa, his arm draped possessively over Angel's shoulders. She's leaning into him, her eyes half-closed, radiating that pregnancy glow that always makes Ghost look like he's won the lottery and is terrified someone might steal the ticket. Across from them, Shade and Grace are tangled together on the floor. Stencil and Oliver-or London, if we're being formal, which we never are-are sharing a carton of pad thai, their knees touching. Then there's Blade and Ava. Stone's eldest daughter is leaning against her man's chest, looking every bit the MC princess who found her prince in a leather vest. "We're officially on the list," Shade says, his voice breaking the comfortable silence. He's looking at Grace with a look so raw it's almost hard to watch. "The adoption agency called this morning. Background checks are cleared." "That's huge, brother," Ghost says, tipping his bottle toward him. "We're looking into it too," Oliver adds, glancing at Stencil. "Since, you know, the traditional route is biologically impossible for us." A chorus of chuckles goes around the room. It's good to see. Stencil and Oliver are both patched in, solid men who have earned their place ten times over. The club has always been good, it's a place where two men can build a life together, or where an adopted kid like Shade can find a legacy. Blade nudges Ava with his elbow, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Hear that, babe? Adoption, pregnancy... we got options. Maybe we should start practicing for our own soon." Ava rolls her eyes, though she's smiling. "Practice all you want, Blade. But I'm finishing my degree before I even think about diapers. I've seen what Angel goes through." I take a pull of my beer, watching the banter. Slayer is the only other single man in the room, and he's currently scrolled deep into his phone, probably scouting for his next weekend distraction. I'm the outlier. I'm the man who handles the books and the bodies with the same cold efficiency. I've built the club's legal income streams into a fortress. I've got enough in my personal accounts to buy any house in Seaview in cold, hard cash. But I still sleep in a room at the clubhouse. Why buy a house for one person? A house isn't a home until there's a woman in it. Not just any woman. The woman. I look at Ghost and Angel. I remember when they started. I remember the way Ghost tortured himself over the age gap-how he thought he was too old, too scarred, too much of a monster for a girl like her. I thought he was an idiot then. When I find the one, I won't hesitate. I don't care about the years. I don't care about the "rules" of what's appropriate. If she's mine, she's mine. I'll give her the world. I'll build her a palace on the cliffs and spend the rest of my life making sure she never has to lift a finger. I'm good with business; I've got a knack for spotting an investment that'll pay off. I just haven't found the one worth investing my heart in yet. The night winds down slowly. One by one, they filter out. Blade and Ava head off to their place, Slayer vanishes into the night, and the others make their exits. I find myself staying behind. Ghost is more than a brother; he's the man who knows where all my secrets are buried. The house is eerily quiet. Usually, this place is a war zone of wooden toys and sticky fingerprints, but Doc and Kasia have the kids for the night. They're a godsend, those two. They give Ghost and Angel the breathing room they need to remember they're a man and a woman, not just a mom and a dad. I start stacking the empty containers while Ghost clears the bottles. "You don't have to do that, Bear," Angel says, trying to get up from the couch. Ghost is on her in a second, his hands on her waist, gently pushing her back down. "Stay put, Angel. You've been on your feet all day. Bear and I got it." "He's right," I grunt, grabbing a trash bag. "Sit. Grow the baby. We've got the trash." She sighs, a beautiful, content sound. "You guys are too much." Ghost and I move through the kitchen with a rhythm born of years of partnership. We don't need to talk. I wash, he wipes. We move around the island, restoring order to the chaos. I've always had a knack for this-the organization, the management of a space. It's why I handle the club's businesses. I like things where they belong. Once the kitchen is spotless, I lean against the counter and look at my best friend. He looks tired, but it's a good kind of tired. A fulfilled kind. He has everything I want. "I'm out," I say, tossing the towel onto the rack. "Thanks for the hand, brother," Ghost says. He glances back toward the living room where Angel is waiting, his eyes darkening with a look I know all too well. "I'm gonna go worship my wife for a few hours while the house is empty." I snort, heading for the door. "TMI, Ghost. I don't need the mental image of you being a sap." "You're just jealous," he calls out with a grin. "Maybe," I mutter under my breath as I step out onto the porch. The night air in Seaview is sharp and cold, smelling of pine and salt spray. I walk to my bike, the heavy crunch of my boots on the gravel the only sound in the quiet neighborhood. I think about the clubhouse. It'll be loud tonight. Friday nights usually are. There will be booze, music, and plenty of women looking for a patch to latch onto for the night. None of them are what I'm looking for. I want what Ghost has-that gravity, that soul-deep connection. I kick the engine over, the roar of the Harley shattering the suburban silence. I twist the throttle, the bike surging forward into the darkness. I'm heading back to the clubhouse, back to the life I live for, still waiting for the one woman who will make me want to leave the room for a home. Ivy The plan is: get in, get under him, get out. It's a simple strategy. I've known for a while that Bear spends his Saturday nights at Onyx. In the clubhouse, secrets have a way of leaking through the floorboards like old oil. I know he likes the dark side of things. I also know he's a man-bimbo. He doesn't do "Old Ladies" and he doesn't do "forever." He does Saturday nights and intense, nameless encounters. Normally, the age limit for Onyx is twenty-one. But we all have fake IDs that could fool a federal agent; it's practically a rite of passage. My ID says I'm twenty-three and from San Diego. Tonight, that's all I need to be. I'm standing in front of my full-length mirror, adjusting the hem of a black dress that is barely legal and definitely not Stone-approved. It's tight, silk-thin, and ends at mid-thigh. It hugs every curve I've spent years trying to hide under baggy hoodies. "Holy sh.it. You look like a high-end hooker." I jump, spinning around to see Rae sprawled across my bed. She's wearing grease-stained jeans and a faded Halo tank top, her feet dangling off the edge. She looks like a tomboy ready for a brawl; I look like a woman ready for a scandal. "Fu.ck off, Rae," I say, though there's no heat in it. I turn back to the mirror, checking my eyeliner. "Where are you going looking like that?" she asks, propping her chin on her hand. "That's not going to the library gear. That's I'm trying to get arrested gear." "I'm going out," I say vaguely. "Celebrating. I got into the finance program." "By wearing three inches of fabric?" Rae snorts, her eyes narrowing. "Mom and Dad would lose their minds if they saw you. Dad would probably put the clubhouse on lockdown." "Which is why they aren't going to see me. You going to cover for me?" Rae reaches out and grabs a loose thread on my duvet. She's the baby of the three of us, the one most desperate to prove she's as tough as any prospect. But beneath the bravado, she's my sister. "Always," she says, her voice softening for a second. "But be careful, Ives. Seriously." "I will be." Once she leaves, I pull the secret weapon out of my drawer: a deep, blood-red wig. I've always wondered what I'd look like with red hair-bold, fiery, someone who doesn't blend into the background. I tuck my dark hair under the cap and settle the wig in place. It changes my entire face. I look older. Dangerous. I grab the final piece-an elegant black Venetian ball mask-and put it in my purse. It's lace and silk, and it will cover the upper half of my face and obscuring the shape of my eyes. The drive to the outskirts of Seaview feels like a countdown. Onyx is tucked into a converted warehouse, discreet and intimidating. The bass from inside thumps against the pavement, a rhythmic heartbeat that matches my own. I show my ID, the bouncer barely glancing at it before waving me through. Once inside, the atmosphere shifts. It's dim, lit by deep purple and red neon. The air is heavy with expensive perfume and the faint, sharp scent of leather. Masks are everywhere-feathers, leather, lace. At the entrance station, I pick up a small tag. Submissive - open to chat. It's a lie. I'm not submissive. I'm a control freak who wants to manage a hedge fund. But tonight, I want to see what happens when I let a man like Bear take the lead. I spot him almost immediately. He's at the far end of the bar, and even in a room full of masked strangers, he's a god among men. He's wearing a dark mask that only makes his hazel eyes pop, but I'd know that silhouette in a blackout. Those shoulders, that height-he's a mountain. He's wearing a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the ink on his forearms. My stomach flips. I'm terrified. I'm ecstatic. I make a beeline for him, my heels clicking rhythmically on the concrete floor. I have to be careful. If I speak, he'll recognize me. He'll recognize the girl who's lived in his peripheral vision for a decade. And he will sooner call my dad than fu.ck me. So silence is my only shield. I reach him just as he's taking a sip of something amber. I don't hesitate. I reach out and place my hand on his bicep. The muscle is rock hard beneath my palm, and the heat of him radiates through the fabric. He freezes for a split second, then turns his head. A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face-the visible part of it, anyway. "Well, hello there," he rumbles. The sound of his voice this close makes my toes curl. He looks down at my tag, his eyes lingering on the word Submissive. "So you're open to talk," he says, his gaze returning to my masked face. I nod enthusiastically, keeping my lips sealed. "But you're a quiet one?" He chuckles, and there they are-the dimples. He has no right to have dimples when he looks like he could snap a man's neck with his bare hands. "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue, or are you just playing hard to get?" I shake my head, my eyes locked on his. I hope the mask hides the sheer panic and lust warring in my expression. "Have you been here before?" I shake my head again. He leans back against the bar, his eyes raking over my red hair and the curve of my neck. "A first-timer. You picked a he.ll of a night to start." He gestures to his glass. "Want a drink?" I look at his glass, then tap it with one finger. I'll have what you're having. "Confident," he muses, signaling the bartender for another neat bourbon. "You're very bold with your hands, little one. Why so shy with the voice?" I don't answer. Instead, I decide to stop the interrogation. I reach up, curl my hand into the hair at the nape of his neck, and pull him down. I k1ss him. It's not a soft k1ss. It's a collision. He groans into my mouth, a low, guttural sound that vibrates in my chest. Before I can even register the shock of it, he's taking control. He plunges his tongue into my mouth, tasting of expensive bourbon and heat. He tastes like a man who knows exactly what he wants and has never been told no. He pulls back just an inch, his breathing heavy. "Well, fu.ck," he rasps, his eyes burning. "I do like a challenge." I smile broadly, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "What am I supposed to call you?" he asks, his hand sliding down to grip my waist, his thumb tracing the bone. "I need something to call out now... and something to scream later when I've got you where I want you." I tap my chin, pretending to think. Then I tap the strands of my red wig. "Red?" he guesses, a dark glint in his eye. I nod. "Alright, Red." He leans in close, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear. "Do you want to find a private room with me? Somewhere I can find out if you're still quiet once I'm inside you." My knees nearly give out. I nod, my head bobbing with an enthusiasm that borders on desperate. He doesn't say another word. He just grabs my hand, his massive palm swallowing mine, and begins to lead me through the crowd. Every step toward the private hallway feels like a step closer to the life I'm running from. I'm nervous-my hands are shaking-but the adrenaline is a flood. I might be leaving the MC life soon, but tonight, I'm going to let it devour me.

I'm the Broken Halos MC President's daughter—completely off-limits. But one reckless night, I masked my identity and gave myself to the one man I shouldn't want. I wore a red wig, a Venetian mask, and a fake ID. I walked into Onyx, found the man I'd wanted for years—Bear, the mountain of muscle and ink—and I let him take me apart on a bondage bench. Three weeks later, two pink lines stared back at me. I couldn't tell him the truth—not yet. So I swallowed my fear, knocked on his door, and tried a softer confession. "I have feelings for you," I blurt out, the words tripping over each other. "And I was wondering... if you'd like to go on a date with me? Sometime?" I hold my breath. I wait for the shift in his eyes, for the realization that I'm a woman, for the spark of interest that would give me the courage to tell him about Onyx. I wait for him to see me. For a long, agonizing moment, Bear just stares at me. His mouth is slightly agape, his hazel eyes wide with pure, unadulterated shock. "You're joking, right?" he asks, his voice with amusement. "Ivy, honey... look at you. You're a kid. A date? With you? I don't know what kind of schoolgirl crush you've got going on, but you need to go find some boy your own age to play with. I'm old enough to be your father, and I've got work to do." Hot, stinging tears well in my eyes, blurring the image of the man I thought I knew. I'm standing there, pregnant with his child, and he's laughing at me. ____________ Ivy The smell of the clubhouse is a permanent resident in my lungs. It's a cocktail of stale beer, expensive leather, motor oil, and the underlying metallic tang of gun solvent. To my sister Rae, it's the scent of freedom. To me, it's the scent of a room I'm trying to find the exit for. I sit at the heavy oak table in the "Big Kids" makeshift-classroom, the late morning sun slicing through the high windows. "And... sent," Caroline says, her voice bright with a triumph I don't quite feel yet. She clicks the mouse with a flourish. "The University of Seaview Finance Department won't know what hit them, Ivy." Caroline, Riot's Old Lady, has been our teacher in this windowless world of chrome and testosterone. She's homeschooled almost every club brat for over a decade. She's the one who looked at my spreadsheets and my obsession with market trends and guided me towards a degree in finance. "Thank you, Caroline. Really," I say, leaning back in the mismatched plastic chair. "You're going to be the only person in this zip code who understands a diversified portfolio, honey," she teases, patting my hand before gathering her lesson plans. "Your dad is going to be so proud. Even if he doesn't understand half the words you'll be using." I offer a tight smile. My dad, Stone, is the best man I know. He's the President of the Broken Halos MC, a man who commands silence just by breathing, but who used to tuck me in with Romanian lullabies he learned just to please my mother, Alexandra. My parents are the gold standard-a rare, shimmering example of MC royalty done right. But I don't want the crown. I don't even want the throne room. I look around the playroom. It's littered with remnants of a life I'm outgrowing. A stray math textbook, a discarded leather vest in a toddler size, and the faint sound of "Old MacDonald" drifting from the hallway. I love my family. I love the salt-sprayed air of Seaview and the way the fog rolls over the redwoods like a heavy blanket. But I want a life that doesn't require a property cut. I want a glass-walled office and a quiet apartment where the doorbell doesn't mean a federal agent is serving a warrant. I think of the summers I spent in Romania with my mother's family. The Carpathian Mountains, the ancient stone streets of Timisoara, the sense of history that had nothing to do with patches and rivalries. Sometimes, I wish we'd stayed there. In Romania, I was just Ivy. Here, I'm the President's daughter. A prize to be guarded or a target to be hit. The door creaks open, and the human equivalent of a biological miracle waddles in. "Hey, Ives," Angel calls out, her voice bubbly despite the fact that she's carrying what looks like a small planet under her shirt. Angel is radiant. Truly. She's been basically pregnant since the moment she became Ghost's Old Lady. This is number six. Six. The daycare, which had gone dormant once Cyber's kids, Ariana and Nicolas, moved up to the homeschool room, is now fully repopulated solely by the Ghost and Angel production line. "Hey, Angel," I say, watching her rub her bump with a look of pure, unadulterated bliss. "How are you feeling?" "Like a literal house," she laughs, leaning against the doorframe. "But he's kicking. I think he's going to be a kicker like his daddy." "Wonderful," I say, trying to keep the "gross" out of my voice. I like Angel. I really do. She's kind and fierce and loyal. But her life is my literal nightmare. To be a vessel for the club, to spend decades in a cycle of morning sickness and clubhouse dinners? To each their own, but I'd rather calculate compound interest for the rest of eternity. She thrives here. She loves the chaos. Me? I'm counting the days until I can walk through the front gates and not feel the heavy weight of the "Halos" legacy on my shoulders. "Ghost is looking for you, by the way," Angel adds. "He's in the garage with Bear. Something about your car's alternator?" My heart does a weird, traitorous little skip at the mention of the second name. "Thanks. I'll head down." I pack my bag, slinging it over my shoulder. I pass the common room, where my sister Ava is sitting on the lap of her husband, Blade. They look like a poster for the life-young, tatted, and completely entwined. Ava is twenty and already settled. Rae, at seventeen, is probably in the gym right now trying to out-lift a prospect to prove she deserves a patch. I'm the glitch in the DNA. I head down to the garage, the air turning colder and heavier with the scent of grease. The garage is the heart of the clubhouse-a cathedral of iron and rubber. I see Ghost first. He's leaned over a bike, his lean frame tensed as he wrenches something into place. And then, I see him. Bear. He's standing by the tool bench, wiping his hands on a dark rag. The name is apt. He's massive-at least 6'7''-with shoulders that seem to take up two zip codes. He's bulky in the way a mountain is bulky, all solid, terrifying power. His hair is dark, his beard neatly groomed into a sharp line that emphasizes a jawline that could cut glass. He's thirty-eight. I'm nineteen. He's a man who lives, breathes, and would likely die for the Broken Halos. He is everything I am trying to run away from. He's also, quite unfortunately, the most gorgeous man I've ever seen. He looks up as I approach, those hazel eyes-the color of moss and autumn-settling on me. He doesn't smile. Bear doesn't really do smiles for anyone who isn't wearing a patch. "Ivy," he grunts. His voice is a low rumble, a frequency I feel in the floorboards under my boots. "Bear. Ghost," I nod to them both. "Alternator's fine," Ghost says, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Just a loose belt. Bear tightened it up for you." "Thanks, Bear," I say, stepping closer. The height difference is comical. At five-foot-nothing, I have to tilt my head back just to meet his gaze. Up close, he smells like sandalwood and expensive tobacco-not the cheap stuff the prospects smoke. He looks like a model who walked off a runway and decided to join a biker gang. He looks down at me, his expression unreadable. To him, I'm probably still the little girl who used to color with crayons in the corner of the bar. I'm the President's middle daughter. I'm off-limits by every law of the club and every law of common sense. "Don't take the curves on the coast road so hard," Bear says, his voice like gravel. "Belts don't like the heat you're putting on 'em." "I like to go fast," I counter, my voice steadier than I feel. One corner of his mouth twitches-not a smile, but a ghost of one. "I know you do. Just make sure you can stop when you need to." He turns back to the workbench, his massive back a wall of denim and muscle. The muscles in his forearms flex as he moves a heavy wrench, the ink on his skin dancing with the movement. I should walk away. I should go home, finish my finance prep, and dream about spreadsheets and city lights. I should find a nice, safe guy at college who doesn't know what a hang-around is. But as I watch him, a hot, sharp spark of defiance flares up in my gut. I've spent my whole life being the good daughter, the one who doesn't cause trouble because she's too busy planning her escape. I'm leaving this life. But before I go? Before I turn into a suit-and-tie professional in a high-rise? I want that. I want the mountain. I know the rules. I know my father would probably skin him alive, and he'd likely lose his patch before he even touched me. He's nineteen years older. He's a zealot for the life I hate. We'd be a disaster waiting to happen. I adjust my bag strap, staring at the broad expanse of his shoulders. Fu.ck it. I'm leaving this world behind, but I'm not leaving without a souvenir. I don't want a relationship. I don't want a happy ever after in the clubhouse. But I want to know what it feels like to be crushed by all that power. Just once. I'm getting under him. I don't know how, and I don't know when, but I'm going to make the big bear growl. Bear The air in Ghost and Angel's living room is thick with the smell of Thai takeout and the kind of easy, domestic peace that makes a man like me feel every single one of his almost forty years. I'm sprawled in a leather armchair that's seen better days, a beer bottle sweating in my hand. Around me, the next generation of the Broken Halos is scattered like debris after a storm-only this storm is quiet, settled. Ghost is on the sofa, his arm draped possessively over Angel's shoulders. She's leaning into him, her eyes half-closed, radiating that pregnancy glow that always makes Ghost look like he's won the lottery and is terrified someone might steal the ticket. Across from them, Shade and Grace are tangled together on the floor. Stencil and Oliver-or London, if we're being formal, which we never are-are sharing a carton of pad thai, their knees touching. Then there's Blade and Ava. Stone's eldest daughter is leaning against her man's chest, looking every bit the MC princess who found her prince in a leather vest. "We're officially on the list," Shade says, his voice breaking the comfortable silence. He's looking at Grace with a look so raw it's almost hard to watch. "The adoption agency called this morning. Background checks are cleared." "That's huge, brother," Ghost says, tipping his bottle toward him. "We're looking into it too," Oliver adds, glancing at Stencil. "Since, you know, the traditional route is biologically impossible for us." A chorus of chuckles goes around the room. It's good to see. Stencil and Oliver are both patched in, solid men who have earned their place ten times over. The club has always been good, it's a place where two men can build a life together, or where an adopted kid like Shade can find a legacy. Blade nudges Ava with his elbow, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Hear that, babe? Adoption, pregnancy... we got options. Maybe we should start practicing for our own soon." Ava rolls her eyes, though she's smiling. "Practice all you want, Blade. But I'm finishing my degree before I even think about diapers. I've seen what Angel goes through." I take a pull of my beer, watching the banter. Slayer is the only other single man in the room, and he's currently scrolled deep into his phone, probably scouting for his next weekend distraction. I'm the outlier. I'm the man who handles the books and the bodies with the same cold efficiency. I've built the club's legal income streams into a fortress. I've got enough in my personal accounts to buy any house in Seaview in cold, hard cash. But I still sleep in a room at the clubhouse. Why buy a house for one person? A house isn't a home until there's a woman in it. Not just any woman. The woman. I look at Ghost and Angel. I remember when they started. I remember the way Ghost tortured himself over the age gap-how he thought he was too old, too scarred, too much of a monster for a girl like her. I thought he was an idiot then. When I find the one, I won't hesitate. I don't care about the years. I don't care about the "rules" of what's appropriate. If she's mine, she's mine. I'll give her the world. I'll build her a palace on the cliffs and spend the rest of my life making sure she never has to lift a finger. I'm good with business; I've got a knack for spotting an investment that'll pay off. I just haven't found the one worth investing my heart in yet. The night winds down slowly. One by one, they filter out. Blade and Ava head off to their place, Slayer vanishes into the night, and the others make their exits. I find myself staying behind. Ghost is more than a brother; he's the man who knows where all my secrets are buried. The house is eerily quiet. Usually, this place is a war zone of wooden toys and sticky fingerprints, but Doc and Kasia have the kids for the night. They're a godsend, those two. They give Ghost and Angel the breathing room they need to remember they're a man and a woman, not just a mom and a dad. I start stacking the empty containers while Ghost clears the bottles. "You don't have to do that, Bear," Angel says, trying to get up from the couch. Ghost is on her in a second, his hands on her waist, gently pushing her back down. "Stay put, Angel. You've been on your feet all day. Bear and I got it." "He's right," I grunt, grabbing a trash bag. "Sit. Grow the baby. We've got the trash." She sighs, a beautiful, content sound. "You guys are too much." Ghost and I move through the kitchen with a rhythm born of years of partnership. We don't need to talk. I wash, he wipes. We move around the island, restoring order to the chaos. I've always had a knack for this-the organization, the management of a space. It's why I handle the club's businesses. I like things where they belong. Once the kitchen is spotless, I lean against the counter and look at my best friend. He looks tired, but it's a good kind of tired. A fulfilled kind. He has everything I want. "I'm out," I say, tossing the towel onto the rack. "Thanks for the hand, brother," Ghost says. He glances back toward the living room where Angel is waiting, his eyes darkening with a look I know all too well. "I'm gonna go worship my wife for a few hours while the house is empty." I snort, heading for the door. "TMI, Ghost. I don't need the mental image of you being a sap." "You're just jealous," he calls out with a grin. "Maybe," I mutter under my breath as I step out onto the porch. The night air in Seaview is sharp and cold, smelling of pine and salt spray. I walk to my bike, the heavy crunch of my boots on the gravel the only sound in the quiet neighborhood. I think about the clubhouse. It'll be loud tonight. Friday nights usually are. There will be booze, music, and plenty of women looking for a patch to latch onto for the night. None of them are what I'm looking for. I want what Ghost has-that gravity, that soul-deep connection. I kick the engine over, the roar of the Harley shattering the suburban silence. I twist the throttle, the bike surging forward into the darkness. I'm heading back to the clubhouse, back to the life I live for, still waiting for the one woman who will make me want to leave the room for a home. Ivy The plan is: get in, get under him, get out. It's a simple strategy. I've known for a while that Bear spends his Saturday nights at Onyx. In the clubhouse, secrets have a way of leaking through the floorboards like old oil. I know he likes the dark side of things. I also know he's a man-bimbo. He doesn't do "Old Ladies" and he doesn't do "forever." He does Saturday nights and intense, nameless encounters. Normally, the age limit for Onyx is twenty-one. But we all have fake IDs that could fool a federal agent; it's practically a rite of passage. My ID says I'm twenty-three and from San Diego. Tonight, that's all I need to be. I'm standing in front of my full-length mirror, adjusting the hem of a black dress that is barely legal and definitely not Stone-approved. It's tight, silk-thin, and ends at mid-thigh. It hugs every curve I've spent years trying to hide under baggy hoodies. "Holy sh.it. You look like a high-end hooker." I jump, spinning around to see Rae sprawled across my bed. She's wearing grease-stained jeans and a faded Halo tank top, her feet dangling off the edge. She looks like a tomboy ready for a brawl; I look like a woman ready for a scandal. "Fu.ck off, Rae," I say, though there's no heat in it. I turn back to the mirror, checking my eyeliner. "Where are you going looking like that?" she asks, propping her chin on her hand. "That's not going to the library gear. That's I'm trying to get arrested gear." "I'm going out," I say vaguely. "Celebrating. I got into the finance program." "By wearing three inches of fabric?" Rae snorts, her eyes narrowing. "Mom and Dad would lose their minds if they saw you. Dad would probably put the clubhouse on lockdown." "Which is why they aren't going to see me. You going to cover for me?" Rae reaches out and grabs a loose thread on my duvet. She's the baby of the three of us, the one most desperate to prove she's as tough as any prospect. But beneath the bravado, she's my sister. "Always," she says, her voice softening for a second. "But be careful, Ives. Seriously." "I will be." Once she leaves, I pull the secret weapon out of my drawer: a deep, blood-red wig. I've always wondered what I'd look like with red hair-bold, fiery, someone who doesn't blend into the background. I tuck my dark hair under the cap and settle the wig in place. It changes my entire face. I look older. Dangerous. I grab the final piece-an elegant black Venetian ball mask-and put it in my purse. It's lace and silk, and it will cover the upper half of my face and obscuring the shape of my eyes. The drive to the outskirts of Seaview feels like a countdown. Onyx is tucked into a converted warehouse, discreet and intimidating. The bass from inside thumps against the pavement, a rhythmic heartbeat that matches my own. I show my ID, the bouncer barely glancing at it before waving me through. Once inside, the atmosphere shifts. It's dim, lit by deep purple and red neon. The air is heavy with expensive perfume and the faint, sharp scent of leather. Masks are everywhere-feathers, leather, lace. At the entrance station, I pick up a small tag. Submissive - open to chat. It's a lie. I'm not submissive. I'm a control freak who wants to manage a hedge fund. But tonight, I want to see what happens when I let a man like Bear take the lead. I spot him almost immediately. He's at the far end of the bar, and even in a room full of masked strangers, he's a god among men. He's wearing a dark mask that only makes his hazel eyes pop, but I'd know that silhouette in a blackout. Those shoulders, that height-he's a mountain. He's wearing a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the ink on his forearms. My stomach flips. I'm terrified. I'm ecstatic. I make a beeline for him, my heels clicking rhythmically on the concrete floor. I have to be careful. If I speak, he'll recognize me. He'll recognize the girl who's lived in his peripheral vision for a decade. And he will sooner call my dad than fu.ck me. So silence is my only shield. I reach him just as he's taking a sip of something amber. I don't hesitate. I reach out and place my hand on his bicep. The muscle is rock hard beneath my palm, and the heat of him radiates through the fabric. He freezes for a split second, then turns his head. A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face-the visible part of it, anyway. "Well, hello there," he rumbles. The sound of his voice this close makes my toes curl. He looks down at my tag, his eyes lingering on the word Submissive. "So you're open to talk," he says, his gaze returning to my masked face. I nod enthusiastically, keeping my lips sealed. "But you're a quiet one?" He chuckles, and there they are-the dimples. He has no right to have dimples when he looks like he could snap a man's neck with his bare hands. "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue, or are you just playing hard to get?" I shake my head, my eyes locked on his. I hope the mask hides the sheer panic and lust warring in my expression. "Have you been here before?" I shake my head again. He leans back against the bar, his eyes raking over my red hair and the curve of my neck. "A first-timer. You picked a he.ll of a night to start." He gestures to his glass. "Want a drink?" I look at his glass, then tap it with one finger. I'll have what you're having. "Confident," he muses, signaling the bartender for another neat bourbon. "You're very bold with your hands, little one. Why so shy with the voice?" I don't answer. Instead, I decide to stop the interrogation. I reach up, curl my hand into the hair at the nape of his neck, and pull him down. I k1ss him. It's not a soft k1ss. It's a collision. He groans into my mouth, a low, guttural sound that vibrates in my chest. Before I can even register the shock of it, he's taking control. He plunges his tongue into my mouth, tasting of expensive bourbon and heat. He tastes like a man who knows exactly what he wants and has never been told no. He pulls back just an inch, his breathing heavy. "Well, fu.ck," he rasps, his eyes burning. "I do like a challenge." I smile broadly, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "What am I supposed to call you?" he asks, his hand sliding down to grip my waist, his thumb tracing the bone. "I need something to call out now... and something to scream later when I've got you where I want you." I tap my chin, pretending to think. Then I tap the strands of my red wig. "Red?" he guesses, a dark glint in his eye. I nod. "Alright, Red." He leans in close, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear. "Do you want to find a private room with me? Somewhere I can find out if you're still quiet once I'm inside you." My knees nearly give out. I nod, my head bobbing with an enthusiasm that borders on desperate. He doesn't say another word. He just grabs my hand, his massive palm swallowing mine, and begins to lead me through the crowd. Every step toward the private hallway feels like a step closer to the life I'm running from. I'm nervous-my hands are shaking-but the adrenaline is a flood. I might be leaving the MC life soon, but tonight, I'm going to let it devour me.

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