I want to scream, to throw things, to burn this whole place down around us. Instead, I turn and walk out of his office with my head held high, slamming the door behind me.
The hallway feels like a tomb. I need air. I need speed. I need to get the fuck out of here before I do something that’ll get me locked in my room until the wedding.
My Harley sits in the lot among twenty other bikes. A 2019 Softail my brother bought for my eighteenth birthday, painted deep purple with silver flames.
I swing my leg over the seat, hit the ignition, and feel the engine rumble to life between my thighs. The sound drowns out everything else—the clubhouse, the brothers, Dad’s voice telling me I have no choice.
No choice. I’ve heard that my whole fucking life. No choice but to stay home while the boys went on rides. No choice but to sit quietly during meetings while grown men made decisions about my world. No choice but to watch from the sidelinesas Jackal got groomed for leadership while I got groomed for marriage.
Growing up as the only kid in a clubhouse full of adults sucked. The youngest member was at least ten years older than me, and they all treated me like some kind of mascot. Pat the little princess on the head, give her a candy bar, and send her to her room when the real business starts.
Even when I proved I was smarter than half of them, tougher than most, they still saw me as Iron McKenzie’s little girl who needed protection from the harsh realities of club life.
I gun it out of the lot, tires spitting gravel, not caring where I’m going as long as it’s away from here.
The wind hits my face. Highway stretches ahead, empty except for the occasional truck or car. I lean into the bike, pushing the speedometer past seventy, past eighty, the world blurring into streaks of green and brown and blue sky.
This is what flying must feel like. No walls, no rules, no father deciding my future without asking what I want.
A glance in my mirror shows another bike behind me, keeping pace but not trying to catch up. It’s a black Dyna with silver details, pipes loud enough to wake the dead. I know that bike. I know the rider too.
Ash.
Damian Torres, Dad’s second-in-command and Jackal’s best friend since they were prospects together. Twenty-nine years old, vice president patch earned through blood and loyalty. The man Dad chose to fill Jackal’s shoes when my brother got sent away.
He’s following me because that’s what Dad would expect. Protect the president’s daughter, even from herself. Make sure she doesn’t run, and doesn’t do anything stupid that might fuck up his precious alliance.
I should be angry and pull over, tell him to back off, that I don’t need a babysitter.
But I’m not angry. I’m grateful.
Because Ash is here, following at a distance like he always does when one of us rides alone. Dad probably told him to keep an eye on me after that meeting, make sure I don’t do anything stupid. But knowing Ash, he’d be out here anyway. He’s been watching out for me since Jackal left, not because he has to, but because that’s who he is.
Ash lost everything to Marcus Stone. His original club, his family, his whole world burned to ashes—literally—when Savage Legion torched their clubhouse during a peace meeting. He was seventeen and barely a prospect when it happened, the only survivor of a massacre that left thirty men dead.
Dad took him in because Ash’s father had been a friend, because the kid had nowhere else to go. Ash earned his place through sheer determination and worked his way up from prospect to patched member to vice president faster than anyone in club history.
He hates Marcus Stone with the kind of fury that burns cold and patient, waiting for the right moment to strike. And now Dad expects him to smile and shake hands while I get handed over to the monster who destroyed his life.
The thought makes me push the bike harder, engine screaming as I take a curve too fast. Ash matches my speed.
Miles pass in a blur of asphalt and wind. The sun starts to sink toward the horizon. It’s beautiful and peaceful and completely at odds with the chaos in my head.
Eventually, I’ll have to go back. Face my father, face the reality of what’s coming. But not yet.
Right now I’m still free. Still, Bonnie McKenzie, tattoo apprentice and fighter of injustice, not some bargaining chip in a war I never asked to be part of.
The road stretches ahead, promising nothing but more miles and more wind and more time before I have to become somebody else’s property.
Finally, Ash pulls up alongside me, gesturing toward an upcoming exit. Part of me wants to gun it and leave him in the dust, but he’d just chase me down anyway. I follow him off the highway to a scenic overlook, gravel crunching under our tires as we pull to a stop.
The view stretches for miles—rolling hills and empty road disappearing into the horizon. Beautiful and peaceful and completely at odds with the chaos in my head.
Ash kills his engine and swings off his bike. I stay seated, hands gripping the handlebars like they’re the only solid thing left in the world.
“You gonna sit there all day?” he asks, pulling off his helmet.
“Maybe.”
