Page 13 of My Reckless Biker

There's a rusted mailbox marking it, meaningless to anyone who doesn't know, but I know and if she's working for her father she knows too.

We pass it and she doesn't react.

Doesn't turn her head to look. Doesn't shift her weight. Doesn't do anything except hold on to me and breathe steady against my back.

I take us another two miles, deep enough into Marrow territory that if they've got lookouts they've definitely seen us by now, and then I turn us around and head back the way we came.

She still doesn't ask. Doesn't question why we went this direction or what we were doing or why I just took her straight through the heart of her father's operation and then turned around like it meant nothing.

The ride back is faster. I open it up on the straightaways, pushing past ninety, and her arms tighten around me just slightly but not in fear. Just holding on harder because the speed requires it.

I can feel her heartbeat against my back. Steady. Controlled.

Either she's genuine or she's the calmest liar I've ever met.

When I pull into the clubhouse yard and kill the engine, the sudden silence is jarring after the roar of the ride.

She lets go and slides off the bike like we've been doing this for months, and when she pulls the tie from her hair and shakes it loose I watch the dark strands fall past her shoulders and try not to think about what it would feel like wrapped around my hands.

I get off the bike and look at her. "You didn't ask where we were going."

"You didn't offer to tell me." She runs her fingers through her hair, smoothing it back. "Did I pass whatever test that was?"

Smart. Too smart. She knows exactly what I was doing.

"Maybe," I say.

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting right now."

She nods, accepting that, and I'm aware that most people would push. Would want confirmation, would need to know if they did it right.

But she just stands there waiting for me to tell her what comes next, and that patience reads like confidence.

Or like someone who's used to not getting answers.

"Inside," I say. "Now."

I lead her through the common room where Holt's near the window with coffee and Cain's at his usual spot with the laptop. They both look up when we walk in, assessing, cataloguing the fact that I took her out alone and brought her back.

I don't stop. Just head for the back hall and she follows without question.

The church room is small, table and six chairs, window overlooking the yard. I close the door behind us and the space immediately feels smaller, the air thicker.

"Sit," I say.

She sits. I stay standing because I need the height advantage, need to be looking down at her while I figure out what the fuck I'm actually thinking.

The ride changed something. I don't know what yet, but something shifted between getting on that bike and getting off, and I need to understand what before I make any decisions about what she is.

"Where were we just now?" I ask.

"Route 9. East of Bloomfield, maybe fifteen miles out. You took us close to something, I'm guessing Marrow territory, then turned around and came back."

"What did you think we were close to?"

"A distribution point or lookout or something Vigil's been watching." She leans back in her chair and the motion pulls her shirt tighter across her chest. I force myself to look at her face instead. "You were testing me. Seeing if I'd try to signal someone or make contact or do anything that would prove I'm working for my father."