Lena
The garage was a pressure cooker. The overhead fan just stirred the humid, oil-thick air without cooling a damn thing. I wiped sweat from my forehead with a grease-blackened forearm, leaning over a stripped-down Ducati. Everything felt too close—the walls, the smell of burnt fat from the diner next door, the weight of the silver daggers I knew were somewhere in the shadows outside.
Then the air changed.
The heavy rolling door didn't just open; it groaned under the weight of someone who didn't care about being quiet. Max stepped in. He wasn't a shadow today. He was a solid, overwhelming presence in a tailored leather vest that looked like it cost more than my entire tool inventory.
"We’re closed, Max," I said, not looking up. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, annoying r
