Ash didn’t remember the ride. He only remembered the fury that rode him harder than any throttle ever had, eating up the streets until the neon bled into a blur. By the time he cut the engine, his knuckles were already white, his teeth clenched so tight his jaw ached.
One of the Vultures’ lair loomed in front of him—a gutted warehouse dressed up in steel and money. Their patch bikes were lined in neat rows outside, engines still warm. The sound of men laughing, music pounding through bass-heavy speakers, spilled out into the night.
Ash shoved the doors open without hesitation.
The music faltered. Heads turned.
And there he was. Reid, the smug bastard himself, standing at the pool table with a drink in hand, his leather cut shining under the neon glow. He hadn’t even noticed Ash yet. To
