Page 34 of Angel’s Claim

Diesel spent two weeks getting that bike ready for me.

The rage that's been simmering in my chest flares hotter.

"You done?" I ask.

"Not even close," Dusty says. "See, you embarrassed me last night. Made me look like a bitch in front of the whole bar. And we can't have that, can we?"

"You embarrassed yourself," I say. "I just made sure the girl got home safe."

"That girl's a stuck-up cunt who needed to learn some manners—"

I move before I can stop myself. Two steps forward, and I'm in Dusty's face. He stumbles back, surprised, and his buddies tense.

"Say that again," I say. "I fucking dare you."

Dusty recovers, puffing out his chest. "What, you gonna hit me, prospect? Not a good look for your precious MC."

"I don't give a fuck about the look," I say. "You talk about her like that again, and I'll break your jaw."

One of Dusty's buddies, a big guy with a shaved head and a neck tattoo, steps forward with the tire iron. "You threatening him?"

"Just making a promise," I say, not taking my eyes off Dusty.

Dusty laughs. "Tough guy. I like it. But see, here's the thing… You're one, and we're five. And not everyone in this town is a fan of the Iron Phoenix. Some of us think you bikers are full of shit, strutting around like you own the place. Someone needs to remind you that you don't."

"That someone you?" I ask.

"Yeah. That's me."

I glance at the others. Three of them look eager, drunk, stupid and ready to fight. The fourth, the one standing back with his hands in his pockets, looks uncomfortable.

Smart man.

"Last chance," I say, looking back at Dusty. "Walk away. Go home. Sleep it off. Tomorrow we can all pretend this didn't happen."

Dusty spits at my feet. "Fuck you, prospect."

The guy with the shaved head kicks my bike.

My bike that's already on the ground. Already damaged. Already a fucking mess because one asshole couldn't handle me telling him to fuck off last night.

I'm done.

Done being patient. Done waiting. Done trying to de-escalate.

That's my MC bike. The one Diesel built for me with his own hands, stayed late in the garage for two weeks to get perfect, gave to me with a gruff *don't fuck it up, prospect* that meant more than any speech could have.

And these drunk assholes are destroying it because Dusty got his feelings hurt.

"Angel, don't!" Bree's voice, trembling and terrified, from the motel entrance.

I glance back at her. She's still standing by the door, exactly where I told her to wait, but she looks like she's barely holding herself together.

"Stay there," I call to her.

"Angel, please!"

"Stay there!" I repeat, firmer this time.