“The Bushrangers left the motel before the guys arrived. Chrome thinks they’re heading this way, so we need to prepare.”
“What do we do?’ I ask, angry at how squeaky I sound.
Chill smiles at me. “You keep doing what you came here to do, and we’ll take care of the other stuff. Don’t worry. I won’t let them get near you. Hunter and Rattler have the entrances covered. Viper and Izzy have their eyes on the men. Bianca is watching them and knows where to take you if there’s a problem. You only need to be aware of Bianca and do what she tells you to do.”
“What about you?” I ask.
“I’ll be watching everyone. You don’t have to worry, we have you covered. Bush and the others are on their way here. You’re safe. I promise.”
Music pulses softly through the loft as models stride down the taped runway, but my mind keeps drifting to the entrances. I force myself to focus on the garment in my hands, smoothing the fabric over the model’s hips and adjusting the neckline the way I envisioned when I sketched it.
Breathe, Zara. Designer mode.
Izzy stands near the makeup table, curling a model’s hair while casually glancing toward the door every few seconds. Viper waits near the runway with the other models, stretching her shoulders like she’s preparing for the walk, though her eyes track Hunter at the front entrance. Bianca chats easily with two women near the racks, laughing like this is just another fashion rehearsal.
Anyone else would believe it.
Chill leans against a column, looking completely relaxed—like she’s enjoying the show.
Tony slips up beside me. “What’s going on?” he murmurs.
“Chill says the Bushrangers might be on their way,” I whisper.
His eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t step away. If anything, he moves closer.
“I’m staying with you,” he says quietly.
I glance around the room again. Viper, Bianca, and Izzy look so natural, so confident, that my chest loosens a little.
If they’re calm, maybe I can be too.
“Okay,” I mutter, picking up my pins again. “Let’s finish this rehearsal.”
I’ve almost pushed aside all thoughts of the Bushrangers when the distant roar of motorcycles cuts through the music and chatter in the loft.
Every muscle in my body tightens.
I move without thinking, hurrying toward the tall windows that overlook the street. My pulse hammers as I peer down, bracing myself for the sight of unfamiliar bikes.
Chill steps up beside me.
Then she exhales. “Relax.”
Below us, a pack of motorcycles sweeps to the curb, chrome flashing beneath the afternoon light. The Demon Dawgs kuttes are unmistakable.
Relief washes through me so fast my knees almost wobble.
My gaze automatically searches the riders—and finds him.
Bush swings off his bike, tall and solid, his dark kutte stretching across his broad shoulders. Even from up here, I recognize the confident way he moves. My chest tightens in a completely different way now. My body and heart react.
This isn’t just an attraction anymore. Watching him down there, scanning the street as if he owns it, I feel something deeper stirring inside me.
Real feelings.
As if sensing my attention, Bush suddenly glances up. He’s staring right at me. My breath catches. There’s no way he can actually see me through the tinted windows… but for a second it feels like we’re locked on each other.
Beside me, Chill’s phone rings. She answers immediately. “Yeah?”
