Page 35 of My Reckless Biker

The realization settles in my chest like something I've always known but am only now admitting. I love this man who's about to go do violence. I love this man who asked me what I think and broke something open in me. I love this man who sees me as something other than my father's daughter.

I love him.

And that's the most reckless thing I've ever done.

More reckless than documenting my father's crimes. More reckless than walking through Vigil's gate.

Because loving him means I can lose him.

Means tonight when he goes to that warehouse, I'll be here terrified.

Means I've given him the power to destroy me in ways my father never could.

But I don't regret it.

I'd make the same choice again.

Because being loved back, being seen and wanted and chosen, is worth the risk.

Even if it costs me everything.

Especially if it does.

Chapter 7 — Diesel

I leave her room at nineteen-thirty with the taste of her still on my mouth and the feeling of her body imprinted on mine in ways I can still feel hours later. Downstairs, brothers are gathered in the common room, all of them geared up and ready. Black tactical clothing, weapons checked and holstered, faces set in the expression that comes before violence.

The energy in the room is controlled but intense, like a wire pulled taut and waiting to snap.

Clint looks up when I come down the stairs. His eyes track my face and I know he's reading me, assessing whether I'm solid enough for this or if what just happened upstairs compromised my judgment.

"You good?" he asks.

"Yeah."

He studies me for two more seconds, then nods. "Gear up. We leave in fifteen."

I head to the armory and the ritual of preparation helps focus everything that's been churning since this morning. Black cargo pants. Black long-sleeve shirt. Tactical vest with plates that'll stop most rounds. I check my Glock, chamber a round, holster it on my right hip. Grab the backup piece for my left ankle. Check the knife on my belt. Everything deliberate and methodical, the routine I've done a hundred times before raids.

But this time is different.

This time it's not about territory or strategy or club business in the abstract. This time it's about Ray in a hospital bed with his face destroyed. This time it's about Dutch thinking he can beat a civilian as a message and walk away from it.

This time it's personal in ways that make my hands shake slightly as I check the magazine one more time.

I force myself to breathe. To focus. To channel the rage into something useful instead of letting it make me sloppy.

I finish gearing up and head back to the common room. Tate's by the door checking his weapon with the same methodical precision he brings to everything. Cain's got his laptop open doing final checks on the warehouse location, eyes scanning screens filled with data I can't read from here. Holt and Knox are already outside by the vehicles, loading equipment into the truck beds.

The air smells like gun oil and the tension that comes before violence, sharp and metallic and familiar.

Clint crosses to me and his voice drops low enough that only I can hear. "Intel says Dutch is still there. Two prospects with him, both young, probably inexperienced. They're moving product, not expecting us to hit back this fast. We're going to use that."

"Good."

"You stay controlled in there." His eyes are flat and serious. "We extract intel about what Crane's planning, then you get your shot at Dutch. But you don't go rogue. You don't take unnecessary risks. You don't compromise the team because you want revenge. You understand?"

"I understand."