Shirley
The day had been unnervingly calm. Too calm.
The sun slanted golden through the blinds of the clubhouse’s common room, warming the leather couches and catching on the edges of the old wooden tables scattered across the space. From where I sat, curled up with a half-empty mug of coffee, I could hear the distant rumble of motorcycles as some of the guys returned from their morning runs. Normally, that sound comforted me—like a heartbeat of the pack, steady and alive. But today it set my teeth on edge.
Dante was hiding something.
It wasn’t the first time I’d felt it. Over the past few days, I’d caught glimpses of the storm building inside him—the clipped orders, the restless pacing, the way his jaw tightened when someone mentioned the rogues or when my name came up in certain conv
