I slip back into my room and close the door behind me, heart pounding.
The tight corset fights me as I frantically work to fish the device out, boning resisting every movement. Sweat beads along my hairline as I finally manage to work it free, fingers shaking.
The screen lights up: Jackal.
My brother. My best friend. My protector since the day I was born. The only man alive who’s never once treated me like a second-class citizen because I happened to be born female instead of male.
He taught me to throw a proper punch before I learned to ride a bicycle.
Jackal’s been gone for three months, sent by Dad to establish a new Ruthless Devils chapter two states over. It’s convenient timing that keeps him far away while his baby sister gets sold off to the enemy. I know he would have fought this arrangement tooth and nail if he’d been here.
My hands shake slightly as I swipe to open his message.God, I hope he has good news.
Maybe he found a way home. Maybe he’s got a plan to stop this nightmare before it starts.
I read the words on my screen, and my entire world crashes down around me.
Dad’s in jail. Someone snitched. You need to get out of there. NOW.
1
BONNIE
ONE WEEK EARLIER
“Bonnie! Get your ass down here!”
Dad’s voice booms through the clubhouse, cutting through the noise of motorcycles revving in the lot and brothers shooting pool in the main room. I’m upstairs in my bedroom sketching designs for next week’s appointments when his bellow makes me jump, pencil skittering across the paper.
Shit. What did I do now?
I drop my sketchbook and head downstairs, boots loud on wooden steps that creak under my weight. The clubhouse smells like motor oil and cigarette smoke, forty years of outlaw life soaked into these walls. Photos of dead brothers watch me pass—faces I grew up knowing, men who died defending Ruthless Devils territory.
Dad’s office door stands open. I can see him behind his desk, leather vest stretched across his broad shoulders. His arms are thick with faded tattoos from his younger days. He’s built like the heavyweight boxer he used to be before the club consumedhis life—six-foot-four of pure muscle gone slightly soft around the edges but still dangerous as hell.
“This better be news about Jackal,” I say, dropping into the chair across from his desk. “When’s he coming home? Or when can I go visit him?”
Dad looks up from whatever paperwork he’s been signing. Green eyes exactly like mine, weathered face framed by a full beard that’s more gray than brown these days. His mustache hangs in two long strands that curl past his jawline. The old-school biker style makes him look like he stepped out of the seventies.
His desk is solid oak, scarred from years of heavy use. Harley parts and engine components line the shelves—pistons, carburetors, chrome pieces he’s collected over the decades. Photos cover one wall—club runs from the eighties, fallen brothers at their funerals, a few shots with local politicians who’ve learned to play nice with the Ruthless Devils.
On his desk sits a framed family photo Mom forced us all to take nine years ago. Dad’s arm around her shoulders, Jackal and me standing in front of them, all of us actually smiling for once. It’s the only picture in here that shows his softer side.
I’ve been in this office countless times growing up, usually getting lectured about my grades or my attitude. The attitude got worse after Mom died. I started cussing more, picking fights, and talking back to anyone who tried to tell me what to do.
Dad blamed it on grief, but really I just stopped giving a shit about playing nice when life proved it didn’t matter anyway.
“Also, who were those weird men that came by earlier?” I ask. “They gave me a bad feeling. Had Savage Legion colors, but they weren’t here to fight.”
“Sit down and shut up,” he says, setting his pen aside. “We need to talk.”
“I was just gonna sit down anyway,” I mutter, dropping into the chair across from his desk.
“Then listen good because I’m only saying this once.” He leans back in his chair, studying my face like he’s memorizing it. “You’re getting married.”
I blink. “What?”
“Marcus Stone proposed an alliance. Marriage between our families to end this war that’s been bleeding us dry for decades.”
