“Hello, Zara,” Menace growls. “It’s been a long time. You grew up to be quite the beauty.”
I can’t breathe.
I try to look past them—to the far wall where Arson and Piston were standing—but all I see is leather, muscle, and patches. They’ve formed a wall around me—a human cage.
I’m shaking.
I hate that they can see it.
Their President, Vandal, joins us. “Miss us, sweetheart?”
My vision tunnels. I can’t hear the reporters anymore. Can’t see Tony. It’s just them. Six men who once destroyed everything my father built. Six men who could destroy me just as easily.
Then—
A loud clap splits the air.
“Oh. My. God.”
Tony.
I blink.
He’s suddenly there, pushing into the circle like he’s crashing the world’s strangest cocktail party. His expression is pure theatrical awe.
“Excuse me,” he gushes, fanning himself dramatically. “Are you gentlemen imported? Because I refuse to believe Chicago just casually produces this level of brooding Norse magnificence.”
The reporters turn.
The bikers look confused.
Tony circles them like they’re runway models. “The shoulders. The jawlines. That accent. Please tell me one of you owns a motorcycle named something aggressive and poetic. You’re like bad boy Thor with a felony record and a gym membership.”
One of the female journalists laughs.
Another lifts her camera.
Tony presses a hand to his chest. “Ladies, I am unwell. Look at the biceps. Look at the tattoos. Is this a biker club or a casting call for ‘Sons of Asgard’?”
And just like that, the attention shifts.
Microphones pivot away from me. Questions start flying at the men instead.
“Are you guys local?”
“What’s with the patches?”
“Are you involved in Fashion Week?”
The Bushrangers try to maintain their intimidation, but it’s difficult when a crowd of excited reporters is asking about their workout routines.
The wall around me loosens.
Arson appears at my left side like a shadow breaking free. Piston steps in on my right. I hadn’t been able to see them before, but now they’re there—solid, steady, and real.
Tony grabs my hand.
“Autographs later, gentlemen,” he says brightly. “We have couture to conquer.”
