The morning sun hit the asphalt of the Iron Wolves' private track like a physical weight, creating a shimmering haze of heat and gasoline. I stood by my Ducati, my fingers trembling slightly as I tightened the bolts on the fairing. Every muscle in my body ached from the basement floor, but the adrenaline singing through my veins was louder than the pain. Around me, the club was a hive of activity bikers prepping their machines, the scent of exhaust thick enough to taste, and the constant, low-grade thrum of engines that sounded like a gathering storm.
Dax stood a few yards away, deep in conversation with Reaper and a few other high-ranking members. He didn't look at me, but I could feel his presence like a magnetic pull. After the kiss in the garage, the air between us had shifted. It was
