Cordelia double-checked the address on her phone. The little blue dot blinked stubbornly over a patch of road she almost swore led nowhere. But then, just past the turn, the sight hit her like a wall.
Chrome glinted under the Nevada sun. Rows of motorcycles, each one gleaming or growling with personality, lined the front of a sprawling brick-and-steel building. Men moved between them like they owned the ground they walked on — broad-shouldered, leather-clad, the kind of presence that didn’t need words to command attention. Tattoos curled over their arms and necks, disappearing beneath black sleeves and cut vests, like living stories inked on muscle.
Cordelia had grown up around ranchers and ranch hands, but this was… different. These men weren’t just big. They were massive. Predators in
