CLAIMED BY THE REAPER KING

CHAPTER 2

The neon sign outside the Highway 9 Diner hummed with a sickly yellow glow, flickering against the wet window pane. I sat in a worn vinyl booth, the tiny key with the brass tag numbered 104 heavy in my jacket pocket. My hand shook as I pressed my phone to my ear, listening to the dial tone fade into the sharp, polished voice of my manager back in the city.

"Raven?" Marcus sounded irritated, the background noise of our firm’s open-plan office faintly audible. "Where are you? The quarterly audit presentation starts in twenty minutes."

"I am not coming in, Marcus," I said, staring into my cold black coffee. "In fact, I am not coming back at all. Consider this my resignation, effective immediately."

There was a long, stunned pause on the other end. "Is this a joke? You have spent three years climbing to a senior analyst position. You do not just walk away from a salary like yours over a family emergency."

"I am done, Marcus," I replied, my voice dangerously steady. "Clear out my desk or throw my things in the trash. I do not care."

"Raven, if you breach your contract today, you are blacklisted from the firm," he warned, his tone hardening into cold corporate arrogance. "You are throwing your entire life away."

I hung up before he could finish, sliding the phone into my bag. I walked out to my sedan in the parking lot, unzipped my duffel bag, and shoved my office badge, corporate laptop, and blazer into the trunk. Closing the lid, I felt a strange, cold clarity settlement over me. If I drove back to my quiet, safe apartment now, I would be handing my family's killers an easy victory. There was no turning back.

Ten minutes later, I cut my headlights and coasted into the gravel alley behind Miller’s Auto Repair. The garage was dark, closed for the night, but I knew the layout. Jaxon had worked the night shifts here for two years, fixing up rusted trucks while keeping his head down.

I slipped past the broken chain-link fence, the rusted key clutched tightly in my palm. The back lot was cluttered with stripped frames, discarded engine blocks, and towers of rotting tires.

Near the back wall, under a flickering security light, stood a row of old, rusting storage lockers used by former mechanics. I squeezed through a narrow gap between a stack of worn semi-truck tires and approached locker 104.

My hands were slippery with rain as I aligned the tiny rusted key with the padlock. It resisted at first, the tumblers stiff with age, but with a sharp twist, the lock clicked open.

I pulled the heavy door toward me. Inside lay a black canvas duffel bag.

Unzipping it, my heart thumped against my collarbone. On top lay a heavy leather cut, the silver Reaper Kings skull patch prominently displayed across the back. But the left side was stiff, soaked through with a thick, dark stain that had dried into a crusty rust color. Blood.

Beneath the leather cut was a small, black spiral notebook. I flipped it open under the dim yellow light. Pages were filled with Jaxon’s messy handwriting detailing dates, time stamps, and coded highway routes stretching from the county border to the docks down south.

"What did you get yourself into, Jax?" I whispered to the empty air.

A sudden, sharp glare of white light washed over the alley, accompanied by the violent roar of an engine.

A blacked-out motorcycle turned the corner at high speed, kicking up loose gravel before skidding sideways to block the narrow exit between the garage wall and the high wooden fence.

I shoved the notebook into my jacket and grabbed the bloodstained leather cut, backing up against the cold brick wall. My fingernails dug into the leather as the rider cut the engine, plunging the alley back into shadowy darkness illuminated only by his single headlight.

The rider swung his leg over the seat, moving with fluid, predatory grace. He pulled off his full-face helmet, revealing a sharp jawline, messy dark hair, and a jagged scar running down his left cheek.

Colt. The Iron Vipers' most dangerous enforcer.

"You are trespassing, sweetheart," Colt said, his voice smooth, laced with a bitter edge. "That locker does not belong to you."

"It belonged to my brother," I said, holding my ground and keeping the bloodstained patch hidden behind my coat. "What are you doing here, Colt?"

"Checking to see if Jaxon left anything behind before your little friends in leather cleaned the place out," Colt said. He leaned his hip against his motorcycle frame, crossing his arms over his chest. "You look just like your father, Raven. Same stubborn, stupid look in your eyes right before everything goes to hell."

"Do not talk about my father," I snapped, stepping forward. "And do not act like you knew Jaxon."

"I knew him better than you did," Colt countered, his tone dropping into a cold, lethal register. "You ran away to the city to play professional while your brother stayed behind to drown in the filth Knox created. You think Knox is protecting you? You think he sent you away five years ago to keep you safe?"

"Knox did what he had to do after my father died," I said, though the words felt hollow even to me.

"Knox lied to you," Colt spat, taking a step toward me. His dark eyes glinted in the headlight beam. "Your father was not killed by some random rival gang. He was killed because he wanted to pull his territory out of the syndicate. And your brother Jaxon died because he finally dug up the proof."

"What proof?" I demanded, my breath catching in my throat. "What was Jaxon doing with this ledger?"

"Ask your guardian angel," Colt mocked, pointing a finger back toward the main road. "Ask Knox why he was at your ranch forty minutes before your dad drew his last breath. Ask him why your mother vanished the exact same night."

"You are lying," I said, but my voice wavered slightly. "You just want an excuse to start a war with the Reaper Kings."

"Jaxon brought that exact notebook to me two nights ago," Colt said quietly, ignoring my outburst. "He was terrified, Raven. He realized the man who raised him was the same man who destroyed your whole life."

Before I could process his words or demand to see proof, the low, window-rattling thrum of multiple heavy engines reverberated through the alley floorboards.

Bright beams of light swept across the brick walls as three motorcycles rounded the far end of the lane, boxing us in from the street side. The thunderous echo of the exhausts filled the narrow space, cutting off any chance of quiet conversation.

Colt swore under his breath, his hand dropping instantly to the heavy metal frame of his riding belt.

"Looks like the boss man found you," Colt said, stepping back toward his bike with practiced speed. "If you want to stay alive, Raven, keep your mouth shut and do not trust a single word Knox tells you."

Colt swung his leg over his motorcycle, kicked the starter, and revved the engine to a deafening scream. He slammed the bike into gear, tearing down a narrow pedestrian walkway between two buildings, his taillight disappearing into the dark rain just as the Reaper Kings slid to a halt.

Knox cut his engine first. He stepped off his heavy bike, his massive frame cutting through the headlight beams like a shadow. Drake rolled up right behind him, a dark, dangerous grin spread across his face as he watched Colt vanish.

Knox walked toward me, his heavy boots crushing gravel underfoot. His storm-gray eyes dropped from my face down to my hands, catching the edge of the bloodstained leather patch slipping out from beneath my jacket.

The blinding glare of Knox’s motorcycle headlight pinned me against the cold brick wall, locking me in place as his gaze met mine with lethal intensity.