The air in Dax's private quarters was thick with the scent of pine and the electric charge of a storm about to break. Outside, the distant rumble of the Iron Wolves' bikes sounded like a funeral dirge, but inside this room, the only sound was the frantic thud of my own pulse. Dax slammed the door shut, the heavy wood echoing through the silent wing of the clubhouse.
"You can't do it, Mia," he barked, spinning around to face me. His eyes were wild, stripped of the Vice President's cold calculation. "The Devil's Backbone isn't a track. It's a graveyard. Victor Kane has killed three men on that pass, and those were just the ones the police found."
"I don't have a choice!" I shouted back, matching his intensity. I threw my helmet onto the bed, the plastic clattering against the frame. "If I
