Page 3 of Raw & Reckless

Yet, as I stand there on the cold sidewalk, I already know the truth. I won't say a single word to Jeremy about the stranger on the bike. This secret, stolen moment is simply too precious to ruin.

As I turn back toward the library doors, my heart still hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a single, lingering thought whispers through my mind: I wonder if he was just passing through town... or if maybe, just maybe, I’ll run into him again.

3

PHOENIX

The air inside the Rebel Kings clubhouse war room smells of stale coffee, burnt rubber, and raw tension. Stryker sits at the head of the heavy oak table, his broad shoulders squared and a dark, dangerous scowl etched into his face. He’s the fierce, growly President of this club, in control of every heartbeat and gear shift in Port Royal.

To his right, Wolf sits in silence, a picture of stoic stillness. Our Vice President takes in Stryker’s low-burning rage and explosive passion in stride, offering a quiet, calculating perspective that keeps the club from tearing the city apart prematurely.

And then there’s me, the club's enforcer, standing alongside my brothers, hell-bent on serving the Rebel Kings with every ounce of my hard-earned muscle.

"Give me the brief," Stryker growls, his voice a harsh rumble that vibrates against the walls.

I drop my hands onto the table, leaning forward. "I’ve spent the last two weeks tracking Agent Davis. The man lives and breathes by a militaristic clock. Office at seven, federal field bureau by eight, routine check-ins with local informants at noon. He’s been meeting under the table with port authority officials trying to dig up dirt on our shipping routes at King's Logistics, but he’s coming up dry because the books are clean."

I lay out every detail of the agent's work habits, his contacts, and his daily movements with surgical precision. But every single time my mind brushes against the hours between four and six on Tuesdays and Fridays, a heavy silence blocks my throat. I purposefully leave out the woman.

It didn't take much digging to find her identity after I saw her step out of that drab fortress. Layla. The younger sister of Agent Davis. It’s not as bad as finding out she’s his wife, but it’s close enough to a death sentence in Stryker’s eyes. I know damn well Stryker would never approve of my newfound, obsessive fixation on a federal agent's family member. So I lock it behind my teeth, keeping my expression flat and cold.

When the meeting finally breaks, the raw energy in my chest feels like a caged animal. I need air. I need space. I straddle my custom chopper, kick the engine to life, and tear out of the clubhouse lot. I tell myself it’s just to clear my head, to refocus on the club's mission. But my front tire has a mind of its own.

Ten minutes later, I find myself parked across the street from the public library once again, the engine ticking softly as it cools in the damp afternoon air.

I kill the motor and let my gaze lock onto the giant windows at the front of the building. I’ve spent the last two weeks gathering information on Agent Davis, yes, but I’ve spent just as much time learning the rigid, suffocating rhythm of Layla's life.

I know she comes here from four to six on Tuesdays and Fridays, occasionally stopping by the bakery on her way home. Through quiet observation, the ugly picture has become clear: she’s isolated, kept under her brother’s thumb, and has next to zero autonomy.

It’s a miracle I even caught a glimpse of her in the first place, considering she barely ever leaves the house, and even then, only ever to specific, pre-approved locations. Her brother is controlling, paranoid, and suffocating, wrapping her in a cocoon of fear that has left her helpless and terrified of the world outside her door.

A flash of movement behind the glass catches my eye.

I finally see her long, wavy black hair. My breath catches as I watch her intently pull those dark locks up into a messy ponytail. It shouldn’t be a sexy thing, but when she raises her arms to secure the hair tie, the motion stretches the soft fabric of her sweater, and my eyes instantly fixate on the lush, perfect curve of her breasts.

I track her every movement as she settles into a chair, crossing her shapely legs and getting utterly lost in her book. I notice the way her lips pull into a sweet, soft smile when she hits a passage she likes, and how she anxiously nibbles her bottom lip when the plot turns tense. She reads with her whole mind and body, entirely consumed by the words on the page.

Suddenly, her head lifts up, darting around like an adorable meerkat. Where that ridiculous thought comes from, I have no idea, but I should be used to the way she scrambles my brain by now.

Her head turns. Her striking indigo eyes lock straight onto my green ones.

Much like the first time I parked outside, her gaze burns right through the glass and straight into my chest. The constant, violent noise in my head instantly dulls and fades away into absolute nothingness, until I’m solely focused on the way her eyes slowly scan up and down my body. I bite back a low, rough groan, swearing that I can somehow feel her visual touch tracing my skin like a physical caress. She’s not afraid of me, even though common sense and every red flag her brother ever manufactured say she should be.

Then, abruptly, her head whips in the other direction, snapping the connection.

A few minutes later, she's packing up her bag and heading toward the exit. Like clockwork, I prepare to kick my bike into gear, letting her see me leave before I circle back to camp out in the shadows of the setting sun to watch over her journey home.

Only, this time, my peripheral vision catches something else moving in the dim alleyways.

Someone hiding in the shadows. Two people, actually.

My survival instincts are instantly on high alert. Every single muscle in my body coils with awareness and electric tension. I kill the engine, hop off my bike, and move with silent, predatory speed, creeping along the narrow alleyway wedged between the library and the old laundromat next door.

Layla pushes open the library doors and steps out onto the sidewalk. Before she can take two steps, she is immediately cornered and crowded by two men dressed head-to-toe in black with thick balaclavas pulled up to cover their faces.

I don't think. I just move.

I step out of the shadows, my sheer, towering, intimidating size freezing them dead in their tracks before I even utter a single syllable. I place my massive frame directly between Layla and the two masked intruders, clenching my fists so hard my knuckles grind, ready to pulverize them into the concrete if they dare take another breath.