Chapter One
The engine screamedbeneath him, a living thing straining against restraint, and Havoc welcomed it.Night tore past in streaks of light and shadow.The highway curved sharp and unforgiving, but he leaned into it without hesitation.He was probably going too fast as always, but he didn’t care.
The wind clawed at his vest and ripped breath from his lungs, but Jax “Havoc” Mercer only twisted the throttle harder.Havoc bared his teeth in something that might’ve been a grin if anyone had been close enough to see it.
The curve ahead was blind.He spotted wet asphalt and loose gravel hugged the shoulder.Any sane man would’ve slowed, but Havoc didn’t.
The bike shuddered under him, tires skidding just enough to flirt with disaster, and adrenaline slammed through his veins like a drug he’d never kicked.
He felt alive in these moments, balanced on the knife-edge between control and annihilation.The roar of the engine drowned out everything else.The club, the rules, and the weight that sat heavy in his chest every waking hour.
If this was the night it all went wrong, he figured that’d be fine too.
The curve straightened out at the last possible second.Havoc shot down the stretch of highway like a bullet.He kept his chest low and eyes sharp.His reflexes were honed by years of riding on the wrong side of survival.
He slowed only when the familiar glow of the Devil’s Crown MC clubhouse appeared ahead, squat and solid against the dark like it had always been there and always would be.
He rolled in hot, skidded sideways into the lot, and killed the engine in a burst of snarling metal.The sudden silence rang loud in his ears.
A few heads turned.A couple of brothers shook theirs.
“Jesus Christ, Havoc,” someone muttered.“You trying to die?”
Havoc swung off his bike and peeled his helmet free, dragging a hand through sweat-damp hair.“Not tonight,” he said.“Disappointed?”
That earned a few low chuckles, but no one pushed it.They rarely did.He was Road Captain for a reason.
Inside the clubhouse, the air was thick with oil, smoke, and the low hum of men who’d seen too much and lived anyway.Havoc moved through it like he belonged there, because he did.He instinctively fingered his cut, worn and earned.Devil’s Crown MC Road Captainstitched clean across the back.
The cut represented routes, runs, and security.Life and death measured in miles and minutes.
King glanced up from the bar when Havoc walked in.Their eyes met, and King’s narrowed just a fraction.
“You’re riding like you got a death wish,” King said.
Havoc shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair.“You got somewhere to be?”
King snorted.“You always ride like that?”
“Only when I’m awake,” he muttered.
King studied him for a long beat, then shook his head.“You’re gonna get yourself killed one of these days.”
Havoc didn’t answer.He didn’t bother explaining that he’d stopped caring about that a long time ago.He grabbed a beer from the fridge, popped it open, and leaned back against the counter.
The cold bite did nothing to ease the familiar ache lodged beneath his ribs.It was always there.A dull, persistent reminder of everything he’d lost and everything he refused to talk about.
Widower.The word tasted bitter, even now.It’d been three years, six months, and some change since the accident.
Long enough that people stopped lowering their voices when they said her name.Long enough that well-meaning strangers thought it was safe to tell him he should move on.
They didn’t understand.Moving on implied there was somewhere else to go.
Libby had been his old lady since before either of them knew what the hell they were doing with their lives.High school.Lockers and chipped linoleum floors, football games under flickering lights.
Libby sitting on the hood of his beat-up car with her arms crossed and that look on her face that said she saw right through him.
She’d laughed at his smart mouth, not the polished kind of laugh either, but the loud, unfiltered one that turned heads.He’d been done for from that moment.
