I was expected to be a quiet, smiling accessory beside my parents, but then I caught a glimpse of Jana laughing with her crew. Her head had been thrown back, and I couldn’t look away. She looked free in a way I had only ever dreamed about.
While my parents were deep in conversation with the donor, I had slipped away with a whispered excuse to my mom about going to the restroom. As I melted into the crowd, my heart had pounded with the fear of being caught.
I found Jana near the fence line, wiping grease from her hands with a rag. My voice had been breathless when I got up the nerve to blurt, “I loved watching you drive earlier. It looked like you were flying when you took that last turn.”
“Thanks. Most people in the fancy seats only notice the paint jobs and the champagne.” She’d looked me up and down, but her grin was kind. “You don’t look like you belong here with the grease monkeys.”
I’d laughed, surprised at how easily the sound came. “I don’t, but I wanted to be. Just for a minute.”
We’d talked for almost twenty minutes that day. She hadn’t asked who my father was. Didn’t care about my last name or the circles I moved in. For the first time in my life, someone saw Hadley instead of my parents’ daughter.
That conversation had been the beginning of something I hadn’t known I was starving for—a friendship that wasn’t curated or shaped by expectations. A few nervous texts turned into late-night messages about races, then the invitation for tonight.
The memory faded as another sharp rev from the lineup yanked me back to the present. Jana’s car sat poised at the starting line now, and my fingers tightened on the concrete barrier.
Standing in the pit of an underground race felt like the biggest rebellion I had ever allowed myself. My parents would be horrified if they knew. They expected me to spend my evenings at charity galas. I was being groomed to marry well and look good on someone’s arm. But I was tired of thinking only in the ways they allowed.
The engines gave another collective growl, louder this time, and I leaned forward without realizing it, the vibration traveling up my arms. My pulse matched the rhythm. This was what I had been missing—the unpredictable part of me that had always whispered beneath the perfect manners and careful smiles.
There were shouts and whistles as the other drivers took their marks. Nitro shouted, urging Jana on. “Bring home the win!”
The race started, and the cars lurched forward. I joined in the cheering, hoping I'd get to see Jana cross the finish line first again. But there was a shriek of metal as they turned the far corner, and something slammed into the side of my head, right above my temple.
Pain flared, just enough to knock the breath out of me. I stumbled sideways, the world tilting as the roar of the engines suddenly muffled like I’d been shoved underwater.
My hand flew up on instinct, my fingers pressing against the spot that throbbed. When I pulled them away, they were slick. It took me a moment to realize it was blood. My vision swam, the floodlights blurring at the edges. I blinked hard, trying to steady myself, but the ground felt unsteady beneath my sneakers, and the noise of the crowd seemed to come from farther away than it should.
“Shit,” Nitro muttered.
I touched the spot again and winced at the fresh sting. The blood on my fingertips looked too dark under the harsh lights. My heart hammered against my ribs, loud in the sudden hush inside my own head.
I highly doubted they had skilled doctors at underground races, but I could really use one right now. Even if the injury wasn’t that bad, it needed to be looked at right away if I had any hope of it not leaving a scar I wouldn’t be able to hide from my parents.
2
CAGE
Break Point Run had that energy I’d always associated with race nights, with an electrified hum beneath my boots. It was a constant noise that felt more natural to me than silence.
Located just outside of Crossbend, Florida, the track was a smaller operation than some of Kane Beckett’s more prominent speedways, but it had a grit and intimacy that suited the underground racing circuit well. Our motorcycle club president’s empire included both pro and underground tracks, and Brake Point Run was often where the more unpolished talent came to prove themselves.
Tonight was one of those nights. The track was alive with the roar of powerful engines, crews shouting orders, and spectators cheering from the grandstands lining the oval track. The pit lane was chaotic, a swirl of mechanics hustling between cars and bikes, adjusting tire pressures and refueling under the glare of floodlights. The paddock area buzzed with anxious energy as teams prepared for the next heat, and the timing and scoring system flashed updates overhead.
I stood with a couple of my club brothers, my arms folded across my chest, and my boots planted firmly on theasphalt near our pit. As the Redline Kings MC’s doctor, I sometimes ran medical support at Kane’s events, ensuring drivers made it through their crashes with the same number of limbs they started with. Patching up wounds, resetting bones, and stabilizing concussions wasn’t glamorous work, but it was necessary.
Racing might be our world, but it was also dangerous as fuck, especially at these underground events. Guys pushed their machines beyond limits to prove themselves, and my job was picking up the pieces.
Crossbend, a small beach town just outside Tallahassee, was practically owned by Kane Beckett and the Redline Kings. Its streets were threaded with our influence and our people. This was our turf, and Brake Point Run was no exception.
I lifted my gaze, watching the cars coming around the far turn, their engines screaming as they fought for position. My brothers at my side shifted, calling out encouragement and insults alike, the easy camaraderie settling me further into the moment. Until my focus snagged on sudden motion at the edge of the track.
Debris launched into the air, an eruption of splintered metal and chunks of asphalt spiraling toward the sidelines in a deadly blur. My body reacted before my brain fully registered what was happening, my feet already pounding across the pavement, covering the distance with long strides. Shouts rippled behind me, panic flaring at the edges, but my vision narrowed, cutting through the crowd. White-hot adrenaline hit my veins, and the hum of engines faded out until the world narrowed down to the person who’d been hit. Instinct cleared my path, my presence enough to make people move out of my fucking way.
Reaching the barrier, I spotted her immediately. Her body was hunched over and shaking, one hand pressed to her head where blood slipped between her fingers. Then her legs buckled,and she went down. I surged forward, shoving aside someone reaching toward her, claiming her space with a growl that came from somewhere primal deep inside me. My knees hit the gravel hard as I dropped beside her, feeling the rough grind of dirt through denim, my breath already steadying as my focus sharpened.
I didn’t have to announce myself or demand attention, since authority was something I wore as naturally as my club’s cut. Anyone who’d thought to interfere backed off immediately, sensing the danger radiating off me as clearly as a storm rolling in from the sea. I was in my element, my instincts clicking into place with practiced ease.
My hand found the curve of her jaw, my fingers rough against her soft skin as I tilted her face up toward the harsh glare of the overhead floodlights. My heart fucking froze in place for one critical beat as her features registered. Then my gaze snagged on her eyes—dark green and deep enough to drown in, but a little cloudy from shock and confusion. For a second, I forgot to breathe, my pulse slamming against my ribs like a piston firing hard and fast.
