Chapter One
Back Into the Devil’s Teeth
Raven
Vegas doesn’t forgive.It doesn’t forget, either.
The desert stretches behind me like a threat I ignored on purpose, heat still clinging to my skin even as night settles in.The city ahead glows neon-bright, all false promises and hungry mouths, pretending it won’t chew you up and spit you into the sand.I know better.I learned the hard way.
I shouldn’t be here.
The thought has been riding shotgun for the last thirty miles, right alongside the ache in my shoulders and the ghosts clawing their way up my spine.Every mile closer feels like crossing a line I drew for myself years ago, one I swore I’d never step over again.
And yet ...here I fucking am.
I slow as the compound comes into view, headlights cutting across chain-link fencing and floodlights bright enough to turn the night brittle.The Sons of Sin MC.Las Vegas chapter.Savage’s territory.
My fingers tighten on the steering wheel.I tell myself it’s nerves, not memory.That I’m not thinking about Dominic Kane.About the way his name still settles heavy in my chest.About the last time I saw him, blood on his hands, fury in his eyes, and something fractured between us that neither of us knew how to name.
I’m a fucking liar.
I cut the engine just outside the gate and sit there for a beat longer than necessary.Long enough to breathe.Long enough to make sure my spine is straight and my mask is locked in place.
Fear is a weakness, and weakness will get you killed.
I step out of the car, boots hitting dirt that feels like it recognizes me.The air hums with tension, thick with oil, metal, and violence waiting its turn.Men stand posted near the gate, cuts on their backs, weapons easy at hand.No smiles.No welcome.
Same as it ever was.
A prospect spots me first.Young.Eager.Too clean to have earned a full patch on his back yet.He stiffens like I’ve drawn a weapon instead of stepping out of a dusty blue sedan with chipped paint and bad timing.
“Stop right there,” he barks, his hand dropping to his sidearm.
I raise both hands slowly, palms out.Not submissive.Just practical.
“Easy,” I say.“If I wanted to start a war, I wouldn’t show up alone with lip gloss and a bad attitude.”
His jaw tightens.I see the uncertainty flicker behind his eyes.Women don’t show up here alone unless they’re stupid, desperate, or dangerous.I smile, small and sharp.I probably classify as all three.
“Who are you?”he demands with a raised brow.
“Someone your president is going to want to see,” I reply.“Tell Savage that Raven Blackwood is at the gate.”
The name lands, but it always does.The kid pales just enough to tell me I hit something important.He hesitates, fingers tightening on the radio, eyes never leaving me like I might bolt or explode.
The gate doesn’t open right away.But that’s deliberate.
They’re measuring me.Testing my patience.Waiting to see if I’ll bristle or beg.This club survives on dominance games and silent threats, and I’ve always been very good at refusing to flinch.
So, I wait.I lean back against my car like I’ve got nowhere better to be, crossing my arms and letting my gaze roam the compound.Bikes are lined up in front of the clubhouse like predators at rest.Men move with purpose, every single one of them armed.Watched and watching.
I catch a prospect trying not to stare at the knife strapped to my hip.I give him a wink and he looks away so fast I’m afraid he’ll get whiplash.Poor kid.
The air changes.It’s subtle, but I feel it immediately—that tightening in my chest, the way my instincts snap to attention like a warning bell.I don’t need to see him to know he’s here.
Savage.
The gate creaks open.Not wide.Just enough.
