The Biker and The Fed

KAREN The bass line bleeds through brick three blocks out. My body recognizes the rhythm before my mind catches up—four-four time, primal and deliberate, the kind of beat designed to make people forget themselves. Different music from what I trained to, but the purpose is the same. Make them feel. I stop half a block from Crimson Moon and pretend to check my phone. The art deco neon bleeds crimson across rain-slicked pavement, turning puddles into pools of blood. June in Portland means perpetual drizzle, humidity that clings like a second skin, air that tastes of ozone and secrets. Two bouncers flank the entrance in suits cut to accommodate shoulder holsters. The one on the left is werewolf—I can smell the musk and territory aggression from here. The other reads human but moves with military precision. My phone vibrates. Agent Pete Robinson, checking in. I silence it. He wants confirmation that the wire between my breasts is active, that I remember my cover story, that I won't improvise. Three months of preparation led here. Three months since Deputy Director Walsh spread photographs across her desk like tarot cards—seventeen missing women, all rare shifters, all vanished within two hundred miles of this club. The pattern circled Crimson Moon the way predators circle prey. "The Iron Fangs MC owns it," Walsh had said, her voice carefully neutral. "We believe they're connected to supernatural trafficking." I hadn't asked if my mother was among the photographs. The absence was answer enough. Eight years since my father's body was found torn apart in our garage. Eight years since my mother shifted into her white wolf and disappeared hunting his killers. The FBI declared her dead after two years. They're wrong. I can feel her out there, a phantom limb I can't amputate. I cross the street. My heels—Louboutins from the Bureau's wardrobe, red-soled and criminally high—click against wet concrete with metronomic precision. One-two-three-four. The same count I used in the studio before everything shattered. Thirteen years of ballet before I traded Juilliard for criminology, pointe shoes for a Glock 19, Swan Lake for crime scene photographs. Before my father taught me that grace is just another weapon if you know how to wield it. The werewolf bouncer shifts his weight as I approach. Blocking. His cologne can't quite mask the scent underneath—pine and barely leashed violence and something that makes my wolf stir uneasily under my skin. "Private club." Gravel and warning. "I have an audition. Nine o'clock." I keep my voice breathy, nervous. "Scarlett Kim." He checks his tablet. I breathe through my mouth the way my father taught me the first time I shifted at twelve and couldn't understand why the world suddenly smelled like violence and territory and things I had no words for. Don't let them smell your fear, Karen. Don't let them smell anything. Master Sergeant David Park knew what I was before I did. Special Forces turned dojang instructor, he'd trained me in taekwondo with the same patience he brought to teaching nervous kids their first forms—except he taught me the real versions. The ones designed to cripple and kill. The ones I used six months after he died to put three men in the hospital when they tried to follow me home from campus. "Second floor." The human bouncer's voice is clipped, efficient. "Ask for Richard." Inside, Crimson Moon unfolds in burgundy velvet and amber light. The main floor curves around a center stage where a redhead performs aerial silks that belong in Cirque du Soleil. The crowd is sparse for Tuesday—maybe forty people in leather booths and high-backed chairs, well-dressed, watching with the kind of attention that suggests they're here for art, not just flesh. This isn't some dive where bikers get drunk and grab ass. This is curated. Expensive. Controlled. Every instinct I have screams danger. I catalog exits as I move through the tables. Two on ground level, emergency exit near the bar, service entrance I glimpsed from the alley. Three men in the far corner wear the kind of suits that say money and lawyers. A woman in the VIP section has eyes that flash amber when the light hits them right—wolf, probably high-ranking pack. The bartender moves with casual efficiency, but his hands have the scarring that comes from serious violence. Someone murmurs as I pass. The words blur into the music, but the tone is clear—appreciation, speculation, hunger. I keep my shoulders back, chin level, moving with the controlled grace that carried me across Lincoln Center stages. Spot your turns. Hold your center. Don't let them see you shake. The stairs hide behind a curtain, brass rail cool under my palm. I climb quickly, pulse elevated but steady. Three months of pole fitness classes left my inner thighs perpetually bruised and my shoulders burning, learning to move my body like an offering instead of the weapon I've spent eight years crafting. Second door. I knock twice. "Come in." The office is drowning in filing cabinets and paperwork, the organized chaos of someone running multiple operations. Richard looks up with the practiced disinterest of someone who's conducted this interview a hundred times and expects nothing from number one-oh-one. "Scarlett Kim?" "Yes." He assesses me like I'm livestock at auction. Human. Definitely human. "Experience?" "Three years. Portland and Seattle. Contemporary and pole." The lie sits smooth on my tongue, backed by fabricated social media accounts and references that will check out because the FBI builds excellent cover stories. "We run a clean operation." Already moving toward the hallway. "No prostitution, no drugs, no drama. You work for tips and house percentage. Break the rules, you're gone. Clear?" "Clear." The hallway opens into a private room—small stage, single pole, sound system that belongs in a recording studio. The space smells like leather and musk and territory marking. Wolf. Definitely wolf. This is where they test the new girls. Where they watch to see if you're worth keeping or just another body that won't last the week. "Music preference?" "Doesn't matter." Something slow pours through the speakers—all bass and breathless vocals, the kind of song designed for late nights and bad decisions. I step out of my heels onto cool wood. The pole waits like a dance partner, chrome that will hold my weight if I commit fully. I close my eyes. Let the music sink into muscle memory that predates the Bureau, predates even my father's death. This is older—the part of me that learned to move before I learned to fight. Then I dance. My body knows what to do even as my mind catalogs threats. Chassé to the pole, spin and catch, leg hook that sends me into rotation. I'm not graceful like the aerial performer downstairs, but I'm strong. Taekwondo and FBI training built muscles in my back and core that translate into control. My thighs grip chrome, my core holds me suspended upside down, hair sweeping the floor. For one breath, I'm not federal agent. Not half-white wolf. Not the daughter hunting ghosts. Just movement and music and the sharp pleasure of a body obeying commands. The song ends. I slide down and land in second position—habit from another life, automatic as breathing. Richard types on his phone without looking up. "You're hired. Tuesday through Saturday, nine to two. You start next week." "Next week?" I'm breathing harder than I should. "Not sooner?" "Boss likes to meet new hires first. He'll review the footage." My stomach drops. "Footage." "Security cameras. Standard." He finally looks at me. "If he approves, you start Tuesday." He leaves before I can ask more questions. I stand alone on the stage, pulse hammering. Security footage means Dominic Kade is watching. Ex-Navy SEAL turned MC president, the man whose name appears in three separate case files on missing shifters. The man who might know where my mother is. The air shifts. It's subtle—a change in pressure, in scent, in the way sound seems to dim and focus. My wolf recognizes it before my conscious mind catches up, some ancient hindbrain knowing that an apex predator just entered the territory. Alpha. I turn slowly. He fills the doorway I didn't notice before. Six-five, built like violence wrapped in black cotton, all muscle and controlled power. Black hair cut military-short. Ink crawls up both forearms—intricate work that disappears under rolled sleeves. His face is all brutal angles and sharp beauty, the kind of looks that would photograph like a fallen angel if fallen angels knew how to throw punches. But his eyes. Silver. Not gray—actual molten silver, like mercury or moonlight captured in human form. They pin me in place with an intensity that makes my skin feel too tight, my breath catch, my wolf do something it's never done before. Preen. Dominic Kade. And he's been watching me dance. "Richard's wrong." His voice is whiskey over gravel, dark and smooth and dangerous. "You don't start next week." My heart trips. "I don't?" "You start now." He pushes off the doorframe, each step deliberate as he crosses toward the stage. "If you can handle one more audition." I force myself to hold his gaze. "I just auditioned." "That was for Richard." He stops at the edge of the stage, close enough that I can see scars on his knuckles, the silver ring on his right hand, the way he moves like someone who's killed before and will kill again. "This one's for me." The challenge hangs between us. I should back down. Should play the nervous applicant who needs this job. Instead, I step to the edge of the stage, barefoot and still breathing hard. "What kind of audition?" His mouth curves—not quite a smile, more like the baring of teeth. "Dance for me. No audience. No recording. Just you and me." "Why?" "Because I want to see if you can handle private sessions." He tilts his head, studying me. "VIP clients pay for exclusive performances. Girls who can't handle the attention don't last." The wire between my breasts suddenly burns. "And if I say no?" "Then you work the main floor. We both know that's not why you're here." My pulse spikes. What does he mean by that? Does he know— No. He can't. My cover is flawless. "Fine." I step back to the pole. "Same song?" "No." He pulls out his phone, and a moment later different music fills the room. Slower. Darker. All minor keys and raw vocals that feel like an exposed nerve, like someone took heartbreak and set it to rhythm. "This one." The opening notes are intimate. Dangerous. This isn't club music. This is bedroom music, the kind meant for an audience of one. I meet his eyes. His expression gives nothing away. I start to dance. This time I don't close my eyes. I keep my gaze locked on him as I move—every spin calculated, every arch deliberate, every moment of controlled suspension a silent conversation. His face remains impassive, but his eyes track every shift, every muscle, every inch of exposed skin like he's cataloging data for later use. The pole is cold against my palms. My thighs burn with the effort of maintaining positions I learned over three brutal months. But I don't stop. Don't look away. Don't give him the satisfaction of seeing me break. The music builds. I climb higher, invert, and let my body spiral down in the move my instructor swore I'd never master. My hair sweeps the floor. Blood rushes to my head. The world inverts. Dominic moves. One step closer. Then another. Until he's right at the stage edge, looking up at me as I hang suspended. "Enough." His voice cuts through the music. I catch the pole, pull myself upright, slide down to the floor. We're separated by two feet and the height of the stage. It feels like nothing. "You're good." His eyes haven't left mine. "Better than good. Professional training." Not a question. "I used to dance. Before this." "Ballet." My breath catches. How— "The way you move. The turnout. The extension." He steps onto the stage, and suddenly the space between us evaporates. "You didn't learn that in pole fitness classes." I force myself not to retreat. "Does it matter?" "It matters because you're lying." Close enough now that I can smell him—leather and gun oil and something wild underneath that makes my mouth water, my pulse spike, my wolf do things I don't have names for. "The question is why." My training screams deflect, maintain cover, don't engage. "Everyone has secrets." "Some secrets are dangerous." "So are some truths." His hand reaches out—slow, giving me time to move—and his fingers brush my jaw. Just the lightest touch, but it burns like a brand. He tilts my face up, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's determined to solve. "Who are you really, Scarlett Kim?" I should pull away. Should laugh it off. Should do anything except stand here with my heart trying to punch through my ribs and my skin on fire from a single touch. Instead, I meet his silver eyes and tell him a truth wrapped in lies. "Someone who needs this job." "Why?" "That's my business." His thumb traces along my jawline, callused and deliberate. The touch is feather-light but my body responds like he's touching everything. "Everything that happens in my club is my business." "Then don't hire me." "Oh, I'm hiring you." His hand drops but he doesn't step back. "Because whatever you're running from—or looking for—I want to know what it is." The air between us crackles with something I refuse to name. He's too close. I can see flecks of darker gray in his silver eyes, a faint scar above his left eyebrow, the way his pulse beats steady in his throat while mine races like I've run a marathon. I want to touch him. Want to trace that scar with my fingertips, press my palm against his chest to see if his heart is as controlled as his expression suggests. Terrible idea. I lean in anyway. His hand catches my waist—fast, sure, pulling me closer instead of pushing me away. My palms find his shoulders, and god, he's solid. All muscle and heat and barely restrained power thrumming under expensive cotton. His mouth hovers an inch from mine. "Tell me to stop." I should. Every protocol, every rule, every ounce of training says I should tell him to stop. "No." His lips brush mine—barely a kiss, more like a promise, a threat, a question. My fingers dig into his shoulders. The wire between my breasts digs into my skin, reminder of everything I'm risking, everything I could lose. I don't care. His other hand slides up my spine, fingers threading into my hair, angling my head exactly where he wants it, and— He pulls back. Steps away like I burned him. "Come back Tuesday." His voice is rough, controlled, dangerous. "Nine sharp. Don't be late." Then he's gone, disappearing through the doorway before I can catch my breath, before I can process what just happened, before I can figure out why it feels like I just lost something I never knew I needed. I stand alone on the stage, heart hammering, lips tingling from almost-contact. My hands shake as I pick up my discarded heels. What the hell just happened? The rain has picked up when I exit through the back. Richard pointed me toward the employee entrance, and I'm grateful for the shortcut that lets me avoid the main floor, avoid questions, avoid thinking about silver eyes and the ghost of a touch that still burns. Three blocks to the parking lot where I left my car. I stick to well-lit streets, hyperaware of every shadow, every sound, every shift in the air. The wire between my breasts has left indentations in my skin. I'll have to explain to Pete why there's no useful audio, why I destroyed federal equipment. I turn down a side street—shortcut I mapped during prep—and that's when I hear them. Footsteps. Multiple sets. Moving fast. I don't run. Running triggers the chase instinct. Instead I keep walking, measuring distances, cataloging potential weapons. Keys already sliding between my fingers. Makeshift brass knuckles. My father's first lesson: Anything can be a weapon if you know how to use it. "Hey, sweetheart." Three of them blocking the alley end. The speaker wears a dirty jacket and hungry eyes. The other two spread out, flanking. Standard mugging formation. "I don't want trouble." I reach slowly for my purse like I'm going for my wallet, letting them see the movement, letting them think I'm complying. "Too bad." Missing teeth when he grins. "Hand it over. Phone, purse, jewelry. Now." I palm my keys properly, letting them slide between my fingers. The left one moves first—stupid, telegraphed, lunging for my purse. I pivot. Drive my heel into his instep. Bone crunches. He screams. I follow with a palm strike to his nose—feeling cartilage give way—and he drops. The second one grabs for me. I duck under his arm, spin, drive my knee into his kidney. He wheezes. I sweep his legs and he hits concrete with a sound like meat hitting stone. The leader pulls a knife. "Big mistake, bitch." He lunges. I sidestep, catch his wrist, twist. The knife clatters away. I don't give him time to recover—front kick to his solar plexus. He stumbles back. I follow with a spinning back kick that puts him down hard enough that his head bounces off the ground. Ten seconds. Three attackers. My breathing barely elevated. My father would be proud. I pick up my purse, step over the groaning bodies, continue toward the parking lot. My hands are steady. My heart rate already dropping. Muscle memory from thousands of hours in my father's dojang, from the extra training at Quantico, from every moment I've spent turning myself into something that can survive what killed him. I make it halfway down the next block before I feel it. Eyes. Watching. I turn. He's standing in the shadows across the street. Tall. Built. Black hair catching streetlight. Dominic. Our eyes meet across rain-slicked asphalt. Even from here I can see the silver gleam, can feel the weight of his assessment, can sense something shifting between us that has nothing to do with the mission and everything to do with the way my wolf recognizes him on a level that bypasses conscious thought. I wait for him to approach. To say something. To acknowledge what we both know—that he followed me, that he watched me take down three men, that I just showed him exactly what I'm capable of. He turns and walks away, disappearing into darkness between streetlights like he was never there. I stand alone in the rain, heart racing for entirely different reasons now. He was following me. Testing me. Gathering data. And I just showed him I'm far more dangerous than any stripper should be. I make it to my car, get in, lock the doors. Sit in the driver's seat with my hands gripping the wheel, trying to process everything that just happened. The wire sits heavy against my skin—evidence of a cover that's already compromised. Dominic knew I was lying. Knew I had training. Knew something was off. And he hired me anyway. Almost kissed me anyway. Followed me to see what I'd do when I thought I was alone. Rain drums against the windshield. The city bleeds neon around me—all rain-slicked streets and sodium light and secrets hidden in shadows. Somewhere in this network of lies and violence, my mother is alive. I can feel it the way I used to feel the downbeat in a symphony—instinctive, certain, impossible to ignore. Dominic Kade knows something. I saw it in his eyes when he looked at me. Recognition. Calculation. Interest. I should call Pete. Should report the breach. Should pull out before this gets more complicated. Instead, I start the engine and drive home through rain-slicked streets, my lips still tingling from almost-contact, my wolf still restless under my skin, already counting the hours until Tuesday when I can go back. Because Dominic Kade isn't the only one who can play games. And if he thinks one almost-kiss and a display of combat skills is going to scare me off, he doesn't know who he's dealing with. My mother is out there. And I'm not leaving until I find her. Even if it means dancing for an alpha who looks at me like he's already decided I'm his. Even if it means lying to everyone including myself about why my pulse races when those silver eyes find mine. Even if it means burning everything I've built to get answers. Some truths are worth the cost. I just hope I survive long enough to pay it.