The theory clicks. "So they made it obvious. Established the pattern publicly, forced investigation into the open instead of letting us contain it quietly."
"Which means they want attention on the Brotherhood." Mira turns in her chair, and the movement brings us close enough that I could reach out and touch her. "They want you under scrutiny. Question is why."
Good question. One I've been working through since we started this partnership. The first fires targeted Brotherhood businesses but not the club directly. Someone's building a case against us in public opinion, creating a narrative that makes us look like criminals.
"Reputation damage," I say, staying exactly where I am instead of giving her space. "Someone wants to destroy what we've built. The businesses are collateral."
Mira holds my gaze for a moment longer than necessary before looking away. "We need to figure out who benefits from the Brotherhood's reputation being destroyed. Rival club, competitor businesses, personal grudge."
"Could be any of those." I move back to my side of the table—tactical retreat before proximity becomes more than either of us is ready to handle. "Or all of them. We've made enemies by existing and succeeding. Some people hate seeing veterans build legitimate empires."
The conversation about the Brotherhood's founding needs context, and words alone won't do it justice. Sometimes you have to see where something began to understand what it became.
We walk out of the Ironside Bar into the late afternoon sun. Mira doesn't question when I head for the Harley. She climbs on behind me without hesitation now, body settling against mine with familiarity that usually only comes from many hours and miles spent this way. Her arms circle my waist, hands settling just above my belt, thighs bracketing mine.
The ride to Ironside Customs is short, but I take the long route anyway. Let her see the neighborhoods where Brotherhood members live, the community we're part of rather than apart from.
When I pull into the shop's parking lot and kill the engine, Mira climbs off with steady hands. She's getting comfortable on the bike and losing that initial tension.
The shop is quiet—just Tate working on a custom build in the far bay. He looks up when we enter, raises a hand in greeting, goes back to work. Knows when to leave people alone.
"This is where it started," I tell Mira. "Before the bar, before official club status, this was just a garage where guys worked on bikes together. Will had business sense. Cole had mechanical skills. I had demolitions background that translated to custom fabrication. We built something from nothing."
Mira walks through the shop, taking in organized chaos of parts and tools. She stops in front of a Softail frame in my bay, custom work barely started.
"Yours?" she asks.
"Eventually." I join her, running my hand along the frame's clean lines. "When I have time. Building bikes is meditation. The precision, the problem-solving, turning raw metal into something functional—it quiets the noise."
She looks at me with those assessing eyes, putting pieces together. "Fire investigation does the same thing. Gives you control over chaos."
Smart woman. Reads me too easily. "Fire is chaos. Investigation brings order to destruction. Building bikes creates order from raw materials." I pause. "The Forge does something different."
Mira goes very still. I can see her processing the mention of something she's clearly been curious about but hasn't asked directly.
"The Forge," she repeats carefully. "I've heard people mention it. Seen conversations stop when I'm around."
"Private club. Members only. Separate from the bar and customs shop." I keep my voice neutral, watching her reactions. "Most people in town know it exists. They don't know what happens inside."
"And what does happen inside?"
Direct question. I could deflect. Could redirect to the investigation. But we've been building toward this moment for days, and I'm done pretending I haven't noticed what she needs.
"That's a conversation that requires honesty," I tell her, moving closer. "Not investigator to fire detective. Not temporary alliance partners. Just you and me, Mira. You ready for that?"
Her pulse jumps visibly in her throat. "I asked the question."
"You asked what happens in the Forge. But what you're really asking is whether I've noticed the way you respond when I give orders. The way you relax when I take decisions off your plate. The way your breathing changes when I use certain tones." I step closer, watching her pupils dilate. "So let me be clear: I've noticed. All of it. Question is whether you're ready to acknowledge what that means."
She doesn't back away, but her voice comes out rougher than usual. "I'm here to investigate fires, Shaw. Not to?—"
"Not to explore what you need?" I don't touch her, but I drop my voice to that register that makes her breath catch. "Because I see you, Mira. See the way you fight against wanting structure. Against wanting someone to make decisions so you don't have to carry every burden alone. Against wanting to surrender control to someone you trust to use it well."
"You don't know what I want."
"Don't I?" I let the challenge hang between us. "Then tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you don't feel the pull when I give direct orders during investigations. Tell me you don't relax when I handle situations so you don't have to. Tell me your pulse doesn't kick up when I stand too close or use your name in that specific way."
She can't. We both know she can't, because everything I've said is true and she knows I've been watching her carefully enough to see it.
