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Corbin reappears at my side, like a damn ghost, even for his size. “You ride that thing like it owes you money.”

“Been watching me?” I tease lightly, pulse kicking up.

“Hard not to notice the neon eyesore in my lot. Most women who roll up here ride bitch or stay in the cage.” His tone is cocky.

“Last I checked, I’m not one of your usual bimbos,” I fire back with a grin.

“Clearly.” He circles the Ninja slowly, taking in the aftermarket exhaust, upgraded suspension, and my kitten-ear helmet strapped to the seat. “You maintain this yourself?” His tone is questioning.

“Every single mile, sweetheart.” I grin and let pride soak my voice. Not many can say they maintain their bikes single handedly with zero help.

He crouches by the rear sprocket, eyes narrowing in professional approval. “Chain’s fresh. Tension spot-on. Plugs look recent. You keep logs?”

I cross my arms and nod. “Oil every three thousand, valves every ten, tires when they start screaming. What, you think I just ride until it explodes and pray?”

A real smile cracks his face—quick but devastating. It softens everything about him and makes my dumb heart stutter, noticing just how soft his short blonde hair looks in the morning light.

Fuck, he’s lethal when he smiles like that.

“Most sport bike riders don’t last in this life,” he says, cutting through my thoughts. “Too flashy. Too loud.”

“Says the guy whose pipes wake up half the county every morning. Pot, meet kettle,” I fire back.

He chuckles, low and warm. “Fair point. We’re doing a group ride today. Prospects need road time. You take point on that rocket. Show us what you’ve really got.”

Everyone comes back from the much-too-short break, with Diesel on their heels, grumbling as they fall in. We pull out in loose formation—me leading on the Ninja, Switch sweeping on his Dyna. Diesel, somewhere in the middle, keeping an eye on a couple of the guys that wobble every time they twist their throttle.

The back roads outside town are perfect: twisty two-lanes cutting through evergreens, pavement smooth and begging to be leaned on. I let the Ninja breathe on the first set of sweepers, knee down, throttle precise. The bike feels like it’s a part of me. Behind me, the heavier Harleys rumble, steadier, but less agile. I can feel Corbin’s eyes cutting through formation, staying on me the whole time.

On the long straight, I twist it, opening her up—eighty, ninety, a clean hundred. Wind screaming past my helmet. The road turns into switchbacks as we climb in elevation. Mason pulls up next to me, revving like an idiot, trying to challenge me. I could smoke him easily, but I don’t. I ignore him and carve every curve clean. No ego. Just years of practice. We stop at a scenic overlook a few miles from the top to cool the bikes. Mason and Thomas both give me a grudging chin lift.

At least they're trying?

Corbin kills his engine and stalks straight over as I pull off my helmet. “Jesus, Tatum.” He sounds pissed. “Where the hell did you learn to ride like that? That wasn’t beginner shit. You’ve been doing this your whole damn life.”

I focused on checking my hair in my mirror, throat tight. “I have. Is that a problem?”

“Bull—What?” He steps closer, voice dropping into something lethal as he closes the distance between us. “You tore up those corners like you owned them. Handled that Honda like you built it from the frame up. This is bigger than Redline. You’ve been around here before. Were you feeding them info on our club? Did you help Eric?”

The question hits like a gut punch. My dad and brother’s patient voices from childhood float into my head, back when this world felt safe. I can’t say either name. Not here. Not to him. I clamp my mouth shut, staring at the valley below instead of those piercing green eyes.

“Tatum.” He reaches out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear, gentle in contrast to his tone. “I need to know if you’re a threat to my brothers.”

“I would never betray this club. I don’t give a fuck what you think about me, Corbin,” I said firmly, anger giving me a tone of finality. “You would be dead if it weren’t for me. I’ve known this life longer than you’ve had that Dyna between your legs. That’s all you get. My past stays buried. I left it there for a reason.”

He studies me for a long beat. Wind rustles the trees. A hawk cries somewhere below us. “Everyone’s got ghosts, Prospect. But if yours come knocking⁠—”

“If they do, they’re coming for all of us. Not just me.” I met his gaze head-on, spine straight. “I burned those bridges myself. I’m here to prospect. Earn my patch. Not unpack my baggage for you or anyone else. Or to be a scapegoat for your own shit.”

Something shifts in his expression—respect mixed with fresh wariness. He nods. “We’ll see about that.”

“No,” I mutter under my breath. “You better hope we don’t.”

The ride back is quieter. I stay in formation, no showing off. My mind is spinning too much to play, anyways. Nicholas’s laugh echoes in my helmet. The way my brother used to sneak me onto club runs on these very roads so we could master them before it was our time. Corbin’s fingers brushing my ear.

Back at the lot, the other prospects park and disperse, wanting to relax and get a drink. I linger by my Ninja, wiping her down out of habit. Thomas eyes me and the bike, like a puzzle he’s trying to solve, before Mason drags him inside. Corbin approaches again, slower this time.

“You did good out there. Better than most of these idiots ever will.” He pauses, then adds quieter, “Whoever taught you knew what they were doing. But if that past shows up here…”