“Miss Delaney,” my professor says, stopping by my desk. “Your work on motorcycle culture has been exceptional. Have you considered publishing?”
I smile, glancing at the pages of my manuscript—the real story of the Las Vegas Defiance MC, told with honesty and respect. “Working on it, actually. It’s a long story.”
After class, I pack my things and head outside. Sin is waiting in the parking lot, leaning against his bike with his arms crossed, all leather and danger and completelymine.
When he sees me, his face transforms, that rare, genuine smile he saves only for me.
“How was your day, wildcat?” he asks.
I slide behind him on the bike, my arms wrapping around his waist, and I fit there like I was always meant to. “My professor thinks I should publish my story on Las Vegas Defiance.”
Sin peers over his shoulder at me. “Oh, does he now?”
“Mm-hmm… says it’s exceptional no less.”
His grin widens. “Of course it is. It’s about me, baby.”
I let out a booming laugh as I slap his arm. “Go on, asshole. Start the damn bike!”
His chest jostles with his laughter as the engine roars to life, and he takes off like a bat out of hell. We ride toward the clubhouse, toward the desert, toward home. Where the brothers finally adore me and have accepted me as the First Lady of the club.
And for the first time in my life, I’m not running from my past or chasing ghosts.
I’m exactly where I belong.
At Las Vegas Defiance MC.
Epilogue
NITRO
In the dim light of the clubhouse parking lot, the Las Vegas Defiance cut is stripped from my shoulders and folded with care before going into the trunk. The leather holds the weight of everything we’ve been through, the attack, the sting, watching Sin find his mother and his old lady all in one chaotic fucking mess.
But tonight, I’m not VP.
I’m not a brother.
Tonight, I’m just a guy trying to clear his head.
I pull on a plain black T-shirt, my biceps barely fitting into the sleeves, and slide into my reliable Honda Accord—practical, comfortable, nothing that screams biker. The engine purrs to life, and I grab my cell, opening the Uber app with practiced ease. The familiar interface loads, and almost immediately, a request pops up.
Downtown Vegas. A Friday night pickup.
I accept it.
As I pull out of the lot, Vegas blazes to life around me. Neon lights bleed across my windshield, pinks, blues, greens, painting the night in artificial color. The Strip glitters like a promise, but I know better. I’ve seen what lives beneath all that shine.
My mind drifts to Queenie. I called her earlier, and she sounded good. Strong. The medical bills are finally under control, and seeing her thrive at the old folks’ home makes every Uber shift worth it. Every late night, every drunk passenger, every long drive—it’s all for her.
But it’s more than that too.
The open road, even caged in a car, soothes something wild in me. Something that playing my flute at the nursing home can’t quite reach. Out here, I can breathe. Process. Think about the club, about the music, about everything we’ve survived.
I turn down a quieter street, checking the pickup address. Some residential area just off the main drag. I pull up outside a modest house, the porch light casting long shadows across the driveway.
My phone buzzes with a message from my passenger.
Passenger:I’m coming out now.
