Chapter 3

Daphne POV:

At nine sharp, I got off the transit van outside Iron Claw Freight, the legitimate trucking and custom-bike front that funded the club's weapons and monthly Tribute. The air reeked of high-octane gasoline and scorched rubber.

My encrypted phone buzzed in my pocket. A message from Grandfather Cornelius flashed on the screen: "Fifty million wired to your black card. Starline fleets are on standby. Find out who's bleeding the Iron Claw ledger to rival Packs, Frost, then tear up the marriage writ."

I slid the limitless card back into my pocket and pushed open the dispatch office door.

Chewing pink bubble gum behind the counter was Hatti Mejia, the floor manager and a veteran Sweetbutt—one of the club girls who poured drinks and warmed beds without ever earning a permanent claim or a line in the family registry. She wore a cropped vest with a rhinestone supporter sticker, reeking of cheap musk perfume.

"Well, look at the Prez's little wolfless sparrow." Hatti popped her gum and slammed a stack of greasy clipboards onto the metal desk. "Surviving one night at the house doesn't mean you're patched in. Around here, dead weight scrubs the latrines."

"What's my assignment?" I asked, ignoring the bait.

Hatti's eyes glinted with malice. She pulled a dispatch sheet stamped with a red skull and slapped it against my chest. "Bay Two. You're prepping and signing off on Emmanuel Hurley's custom chopper for the state run today."

By the coffee machine, three Prospects—probationary rookies wearing only a half-patch on their vests who had to stand against the wall and speak only when spoken to—sucked in collective breaths. One whispered that Emmanuel was a hot-headed Patched Member, a sworn war-wolf with full voting rights who had broken the wrists of three mechanics last month just for touching his handlebars.

Up on the second floor, behind the tinted one-way glass of the VIP observation deck, I caught the faint scent of cedar and whiskey. Darrell was standing up there in the shadows, waiting to watch me run out crying.

I took the red-skull sheet, walked across the grease-stained concrete, and shoved open the heavy iron door to Bay Two.

Heavy metal music blasted from the speakers. In the center of the hot bay sat a custom Harley painted with silver-white flames. A muscular young man covered in ink stood shirtless beside the lift, violently smashing a heavy torque wrench into a tray of spare parts.

"I told you idiots to stay out! The next moron who touches my carburetor gets his neck snapped!" Emmanuel roared, spinning around with bloodshot eyes.

As I stepped through the rising steam of motor oil into the light, the heavy wrench slipped from his fingers and clanged onto the concrete.

The feral rage in his eyes vanished, replaced by sheer shock. Three years ago on the Oregon border, a rival Pack's ambush had left him with shattered ribs and a punctured lung. I had stitched him up and rebuilt his wrecked engine under my underground alias, Leo. Even without my scent, he knew my grey-blue eyes and the way I held my hands.

"B-Boss L—" Emmanuel's throat bobbed, his knees bending as if to drop.

I raised one finger to my lips and spoke over the music. "Mr. Hurley, I'm the new dispatch assistant assigned to clear your bike. Behave yourself and let me work."

Emmanuel snapped his spine straight like a drilled recruit, his chest heaving. "Yes, ma'am! Whatever you need!"

I pulled on a pair of leather work gloves, leaned over the frame, and stripped the intake manifold in ninety seconds flat. The high-speed engine resonance that had stumped the club's mechanics was coming from an uneven valve seat. I ground a brass shim down by half a millimeter on the lathe, fitted it in, and hit the ignition.

The twin cylinders roared to life with a smooth, thunderous purr.

Up behind the second-floor glass, the shadow holding the whiskey glass went rigid. Down on the floor, the club's most violent star rider was trotting behind me like an eager golden retriever, wiping wrenches with a rag before handing them to me.

"Your dispatch sheet is ready." I tossed the gloves onto the bench. "Try not to blow the head gasket tonight, Mr. Hurley."

Emmanuel grinned, scrawled his signature across the bottom, and shouted loud enough for the whole shop to hear, "Miss Daphne, you're riding with me to the victory dinner tonight! Nobody else touches your door!"