Page 4 of Tempted By Shadow

SHADOW

Ican’t stop thinking about her.

It’s been four hours since she walked across the lot and I’m still replaying it like a goddamn movie. The way she moved — tired but fierce, like she were daring the world to get in her way. The dark hair. The sharp mouth. The way she looked at me like I was barely worth noticing.

“My brother has got you doing the shitty jobs?”

Brother. That word should’ve been a cold shower. Instead, I stood there like an idiot, grease on my hands and nothing useful coming out of my mouth, watching her walk away.

The President’s sister.

Fuck.

I’m in the garage now, finishing the carburetor rebuild I abandoned when she showed up. My hands know what they’re doing even when my brain doesn’t, and right now my brain is useless. Stuck on loop. Dark hair. Sharp mouth. Hips swaying as she walked away without looking back.

I knew King had a sister. Everyone knows. She took off a couple years ago, chasing some guy to Vegas, and King doesn’t talk about it. Which means nobody talks about it. Club rule number one: you don’t poke at the things King doesn’t want poked.

But knowing she existed and seeing her walk past me like that are two different things.

Stop it.

She’s King’s sister. The President’s baby sister. Off-limits in more ways I can’t even count.

And I’m a prospect. Twenty-five years old, no family worth mentioning, no future outside these gates. The patch is everything. It’s the first thing I’ve ever wanted that might actually be mine if I don’t fuck it up.

I’m not going to fuck it up over a woman.

Even one who walks like that. Talks like that. Looked at me like⁠—

Seriously, I need to get a grip.

I force myself to focus on the rebuild. Piece by piece. Gasket, float, needle valve. Mechanical. Predictable. Nothing like the chaos that just walked into the clubhouse.

I started hanging around the clubhouse about two and a half years ago. Didn’t have anywhere else to be. My mom had checked out — drugs, mostly. She’d disappear for days, then weeks, then one day she just didn’t come back. My dad was never in the picture. I was nineteen, sleeping on a different couch every week, and the Sons of Ruin compound was the only place that didn’t look at me like I was a problem waiting to happen.

I washed bikes at first. Swept the garage. Ran errands nobody else wanted to run. Grunt work, nothing important, but I showed up every day, and I didn’t complain, and I didn’t steal. That’s a low bar, but you’d be surprised how many guys can’t clear it.

King noticed. He didn’t say much — King never says much — but he started giving me more to do. Harder jobs. Stuff that mattered. And when I asked about prospecting, he didn’t laugh me off.

Then I fucked it up.

I was still running with some guys from before. Old habits. They wanted me to drive for a job, and I was stupid enough to say yes. We got caught. I was looking at serious time, and the public defender they assigned me had about fifteen minutes to give a shit about my case.

King showed up instead.

He didn’t have to. I wasn’t patched. I wasn’t even a prospect yet — just some kid who washed bikes and wanted something more. But he walked into that holding cell like he owned the place, looked at me for a long minute, and said: “You want a way out of this, or you want to keep being a dumbass?”

I wanted a way out.

He made some calls. Talked to some people. I don’t know what he said or what it cost him, but three days later I was out and the charges were gone. He told me I had one chance. One. I could prospect for real, earn my place, build something — or I could go back to the streets and wait for the next arrest to stick.

Two years ago. Right around the time his sister took off for Vegas, I found out later. Our paths never crossed.

Two years of prospect work. Two years of proving, over and over, that I’m not the kid who almost threw everything away for a stupid joyride. That I’m worth the chance King took on me.

The club is the first place I’ve ever belonged. The first time anyone’s looked at me and seen something other than a fuckup waiting to happen. The patch isn’t just leather and thread — it’s proof. Proof that I can be more than where I came from. Proof that King was right to take a chance on me.

I owe him everything. My freedom, my future and my life, probably.