Chapter One
Shadow
I hate this part of town. Too many eyes. Too many rats. Too many people who think they’re owed something for breathing the same air as you.
I slide my phone back into my kutte as I step out the bookmaker’s, the envelope of cash tucked safe in the inside pocket. Collections today were easy. No yelling, no crying, no bullshit. Just the way I like it.
Then I hear her. Loud. Laughing. The kind of laugh that grates because it’s too bright, too sharp.
“I swear to God, Remi, if you get us kicked out of another bar—”
“Relax,” she cuts in. “The place was stuck-up anyway.”
I glance up, laying my eyes on her. She’s wearing a short skirt that rides high on her long legs. Her top’s tiny, barely covering her tits and stopping to show off her midriff. And, of course, she’s wearing knee-high boots that are way too big around her calves. Plus, she’s got a whole lot of attitude—it’s obvious in the way she struts like she owns the pavement.
And then, like the universe is personally trying to piss me off, she climbs onto my bike.
Mybike.
She throws one leg over, plants her hands on the bars, and grins at her friend like she’s the cover star of a calendar.
“Get a photo from the side. Make sure you can see the chrome,” she instructs, trailing her fingers over the metal work I personally polished just a few hours ago.
I clench my jaw in annoyance.
She shifts her hips, pouts her lips, and starts posing like she’s shooting for some influencer brand deal. I watch her tilt her head, bite her lip, arch her back enough to push her tits right out.
What the actual fuck?
I take two steps forward, slow and deliberate. “Get off the bike,” I grumble, my tone menacing. She doesn’t hear me, or she does and chooses to ignore it. “Now.”
Her head snaps around, and I catch a glimpse of her eyes, bright, sharp, lined in black. They’re striking, even if the rest of her is a damn mess. Her hair hangs wild around her face, her pale skin looks like it hasn’t seen the sun in months, and she’s thinner than she should be, like sleep and food are optional extras she keeps forgetting to order. Heavy liner wraps her eyes, clearly overdone to hide the dark circles beneath, but all it really does is draw more attention to them.
“Oh, is this yours?” she asks sweetly, like I didn’t just growl at her.
I give her a flat look. “You think it parked itself?”
She rolls her eyes, sliding off nice and slow so her arse touches every inch of the seat. There’s more attitude in her expression than grace. “Chill out, Grumpzilla. It’s not like I scratched it.”
“If you had, we’d be having a whole different conversation,” I mutter.
She flashes me a slow, infuriating smile. “Promises, promises.”
Her friend snorts behind her, but I remain unimpressed. “You should be on your way,” I say, arching a challenging brow.
She arches one back, folding her arms over her chest. “Is that so? Do you own this part of the street?”
I step closer, but she doesn’t budge, like she’s challenging me to get in her space. “I’m serious, little girl. Go play in the bars with all the other idiots.” Even as irritation burns through me, I can’t ignore the pull of something else, something inconvenient. There’s a fragility about her, a chaotic kind of beauty she has no idea she’s wearing. And that pisses me off even more.
She smirks. “You might be all big and mysterious, but you don’t scare me. I’ve handled way bigger.”
I grin now, grabbing my helmet. “I don’t do loud . . . or drunk, for that matter.”
That wipes the smile right off her face. Her whole posture changes––the flirt’s gone, replaced by something sharper.
“I’m not drunk,” she snaps.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
