Prologue
Taylor ran as fast as her heels could take her. The scene she’d witnessed was so horrendous she wanted to throw up. She should’ve known it was weird—getting a vague text from her friend to meet “somewhere quiet.” Some godforsaken place in the middle of nowhere. They were city girls through and through. What the hell were they even doing here?
Still, part of her knew. Deep down, she'd known something was off for weeks.
She was sick of running—especially in four-inch red stilettos that cost more than her rent. Her eyes landed on a bar glowing at the end of the street like some half-lit hellhole. It was either that or scream into the night. Right now, whiskey seemed more productive.
So she walked in, chin high, like she wasn’t dying inside.
The place reeked of beer, sweat, and engine grease. The music—some gritty indie rock—rattled the walls. Leather jackets. Tattooed arms. Eyes that lingered too long. She didn’t belong here, not in a glittering cocktail dress and mascara-streaked cheeks.
Didn’t matter. She didn’t care.
She tossed her brown curls over one shoulder, slid onto a barstool, and ordered a double whiskey without looking around. She stared at the amber liquid like it held answers, then threw it back with a bitterness that had nothing to do with taste.
And still, the tears came. Quiet and furious.
Fucking Blake.
He destroyed their marriage with lies. Now he’d burned her last lifeline—her best friend, the one person who’d known her since braces and bad poetry. She could still see them tangled together, half-naked and flushed. Her whole world had imploded in five seconds flat.
She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand and slammed the glass back on the counter.
“Another,” she muttered.
The bartender—some gruff guy with knuckle tattoos—nodded silently and poured.
She lifted the second glass, desperate to chase the pain into oblivion, when a deep voice, smooth and dark like sin, slid into her ear.
“Thought fancy girls like you knew how to savour whiskey.”
Her entire body stiffened. That voice didn’t just speak—it moved. Down her spine. Across her skin. Like it had every right to be there.
She turned, fully prepared to rip him apart, but the words died on her tongue.
The man was tall. Broad shoulders under a black shirt that hugged a frame built for trouble. His jaw was cut like stone, his eyes impossibly dark. Dangerous didn’t begin to cover him.
And that energy—dark, magnetic, unapologetically male. Like he owned the whole goddamn bar. Maybe he did.
“If I want to toss whiskey back like a cheap shot, I’ll do just that. Thank you very much.”
He chuckled, low and amused, like she was a cute kitten baring her claws.
“Didn’t say you couldn’t, sweetheart. Just hate to see good bourbon wasted on bad moods.”
His gaze dipped, slow and deliberate, taking in every inch of her—heels to hemline, glitter to smudged eyeliner. But it wasn’t leering. It was…appraising. Like he saw right through her.
Taylor squared her shoulders.
“Newsflash: I’m not in the mood for biker bar poetry.”
He stepped closer, one hand resting casually on the edge of the bar, like he belonged there. Like everything in this place bent to him.
“Not poetry. Just observation.”
“Then observe someone else.”
“I would. But they’re not crying in five-hundred-dollar heels with fire in their eyes.”
She blinked. Heat rose in her throat. She hated how he saw her. She hated even more that a part of her wanted to let him.
“You always pick up crying women?”
“Only the ones too stubborn to ask for help.”
She scoffed. “I’m not some damsel in distress.”
He smiled—but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Didn’t say you were. I like girls with teeth.”
There was a pause. Heavy. Thick with something she couldn’t name.
“Name’s Jax,” he added finally. “You?”
She stared at him. At the quiet confidence, the unshakable presence. A man like him didn’t ask. He took. But somehow, this wasn’t about power.
Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was the shattered pieces of her night still clinging to her skin. But for some reason, she answered.
“Taylor.”
Jax nodded once, like he’d already known.
“You look like trouble,” he said.
She tilted her glass, the whiskey catching the low light.
“You have no idea.”
