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I'm reserving judgment.

After all, being rescued by a handsome biker doesn't mean he's innocent of everything else.

And Torch has considerably more to answer for than my unfortunate afternoon in his cabin.

Thirty-nine years old. Former firefighter. Former fire investigator. Vice president of the Damned Sinners MC.

The man whose name kept appearing in the reports surrounding the fire that killed my supposed father.

The man I came here to investigate.

And now he's watching me as though I'm the suspicious one.

Which, admittedly, is fair. I did break into his house.

“Something on your mind, sweetheart?”

“Several things.”

“Want to share?”

“Would you answer honestly?”

His gaze holds mine.

“Depends on the question.”

At least he's straightforward about being difficult.

Razor parks beside the clubhouse.

“Let's get you inside,” he says.

At least I know who I'm dealing with now.

Grim and Striker introduced themselves while I was waiting in the SUV. Grim is the club president, and Striker apparently considers sarcasm an essential part of his personality. Razor, who's been looking after me since I collapsed, is their medic.

Once a few more bikers arrived to check the cabin, Grim took Torch's motorcycle, Striker rode his own, and Razor drove us here.

Apparently, when something happens to one of them, the entire club gets involved.

I'm still deciding whether that's reassuring.

Torch, however, seems determined to supervise me personally.

I glance at him.

Broad shoulders, dark stubble, and a pair of brown eyes capable of making me forget perfectly reasonable arguments.

For approximately three seconds.

Then he opens his mouth.

I manage to get out of the SUV without assistance.

It's a personal victory.

Unfortunately, the ground shifts beneath my feet.