The Biker and The Fed

Chapter Two

DOMINIC

She fights like someone who's killed before.

Three muggers down in under ten seconds, and she doesn't even drop her purse. Clean strikes. Efficient. The kind of training that takes years to become instinct. Her back kick puts the third guy down hard enough that I hear his skull bounce off concrete from across the street.

I stay in the shadows and watch her straighten her jacket, step over the groaning bodies like they're obstacles on a sidewalk. No hesitation. No shock. Just cold calculation and perfect execution.

My wolf recognizes her before my conscious mind catches up.

Mate.

The word slams through me like a round to the chest. Absolute. Undeniable. Every instinct I have screams to cross the street, to claim her, to make sure every male in a ten-mile radius understands she's mine.

I don't move.

She turns, those dark eyes finding me in the darkness like she can feel the weight of my attention. We stare at each other across rain-slicked asphalt. Even from here, I can see the controlled breathing, the way her hand stays loose at her side in case she needs to fight again.

This woman is dangerous.

And she's mine.

I force myself to turn away, to walk back toward the club before I do something that will compromise everything. The mate bond pulls at my chest like a fishhook, but I've spent fifteen years as a SEAL learning to ignore biological imperatives in favor of tactical necessity.

This is tactical necessity.

The rain soaks through my jacket by the time I reach Crimson Moon's back entrance. Inside, the bass line still thrums through walls and floor. The club will run another two hours before last call. I take the back stairs to my office on the third floor.

My office is sparse—desk, laptop, filing cabinet, leather couch I've slept on more nights than I care to count. The window overlooks the street. I can still see the parking lot where she left her car. Toyota Camry. Four years old. Unremarkable.

Nothing about her is unremarkable.

I pull up my laptop and open the encrypted drive. Time to find out who the hell Scarlett Kim really is.

Her cover identity is good. Social media goes back three years. i********: shows her dancing at clubs in Portland and Seattle. f*******: has the right balance of personal posts and professional promotion. The references check out—I called two of them last week.

But the timeline is too clean. And her eyes are too sharp for someone who's just trying to make rent.

I bypass the surface search and go deeper. Military databases first. My SEAL clearance still opens doors it shouldn't. I search for martial arts training, taekwondo specifically. She moved like someone with Korean training—the kicks had that snap, that focus on speed and precision.

Nothing under Scarlett Kim.

I expand the parameters. Asian-American women, ages twenty-five to thirty, martial arts background, graduated from any federal law enforcement academy in the last five years.

Seventeen results.

I scroll through faces until I find her.

Karen Song Park. Age twenty-seven. Graduated Quantico at twenty-four—youngest in her class. Specialized training in supernatural investigation, tactical operations, close-quarters combat. Expert marksman. Fluent in Korean and English. Criminology degree from NYU. Prior education: two years at Juilliard, ballet performance major.

There she is.

I lean back, light a cigarette, crack the window. Karen Park. Not Scarlett Kim.

Her official photo shows shorter hair, more severe styling. But the eyes are identical—dark, intelligent, calculating. Her file continues: Father deceased eight years ago, homicide, case unsolved. Mother missing, presumed dead.

Mother: Song Miyoung.

I stop.

Song Miyoung. White wolf. Otherkind activist. Famous in supernatural circles fifteen years ago for advocating shifter rights, for pushing back against pack hierarchies that treated omegas and rare bloodlines like property. She made speeches. Wrote articles. Made powerful enemies.

Then she disappeared. Same year her husband was murdered.

I pull up what little information exists. A photo of Miyoung at a podium, mid-speech. Long dark hair. Beautiful. Fierce. Unmistakably Korean. Her daughter has the same jawline, the same fire barely contained behind professional composure.

Karen Park isn't just FBI. She's the daughter of Song Miyoung. White wolf royalty.

And white wolves don't just disappear. They get taken.

I close the laptop and sit in the darkness, thinking. The pattern crystallizes. Seventeen shifters missing in eight years. All rare bloodlines. And the FBI sends in Karen Park—half white wolf, trained agent, daughter of the most famous white wolf activist in two decades.

They think we're connected to the disappearances.

They think we might know what happened to her mother.

The mate bond pulls at me again, insistent. My wolf wants to go to her. Wants to protect her from the truth she's hunting.

But I don't trust her. Can't trust her. She's federal. She's investigating us. And she's willing to lie, to strip, to get close to people she thinks are criminals—all to find answers about her mother.

That kind of determination is admirable.

It's also dangerous as hell.

I pull out my phone and text Caleb: Need you at the clubhouse. One hour.

Then Tyler: Need a deep background on someone. Encrypted. Tonight.

Both respond immediately with confirmation.

I crush out my cigarette and head for my truck.

The clubhouse sits on the eastern edge of our territory—old warehouse we converted five years ago. Reinforced walls, military-grade security, space for thirty brothers when needed.

I pull up forty-five minutes later. The rain has stopped. A few bikes in the lot—brothers who live here full-time, plus whoever's on security rotation tonight.

Caleb is already waiting in my office. VP of the Iron Fangs for six years, my second for longer than that. We served together overseas. He knows when I'm calling him in for club business versus something else.

This is something else.

"What's going on?" He closes the door behind me.

"The new dancer. Scarlett Kim."

"What about her?"

"She's FBI."

Caleb goes very still. "How sure are you?"

"Certain." I pull up the file on my laptop, turn it so he can see. "Karen Park. Supernatural Investigation Division. Graduated Quantico three years ago. She's undercover."

He studies the screen, his expression darkening. "f**k. What's her angle?"

"Her mother is Song Miyoung."

"The white wolf activist? The one who—"

"Disappeared eight years ago. Yeah." I close the laptop. "Karen thinks we're connected to the missing shifters. She's here looking for information about her mother."

"Are we? Connected?"

"No. But someone wants it to look like we are." I light another cigarette. "All seventeen disappearances circle our territory. We didn't take them, but we're the obvious suspects."

Caleb is quiet for a moment. Then: "What do you want to do about her?"

"Nothing. Yet."

"Nothing." He looks at me like I've lost my mind. "Dom, she's federal. Undercover in our club. That's—"

"Manageable. She doesn't know that I know who she is. As far as she's concerned, her cover is solid." I exhale smoke toward the window. "We let her work. We watch her. We make sure she doesn't find anything that could actually hurt us."

"And if she does find something?"

"She won't. Because we're clean." I meet his eyes. "But I need to know who's actually taking these women. Because whoever it is, they're setting us up. And when the FBI comes with warrants, they're going to find exactly what I want them to find."

Understanding dawns on Caleb's face. "You're going to use her."

"I'm going to let her investigate. And when she reports back that we're clean, that carries more weight than if we'd just denied everything." I pause. "But I need you to keep this quiet. No one else knows who she really is. Not the other brothers, not the girls. No one."

"Why?"

"Because if word gets out we've got a fed in the club, someone's going to want to handle it. Permanently. And that's not happening."

Caleb studies me for a long moment. "There's something you're not telling me."

There is. The mate bond. The way my wolf recognized her the moment I saw her. The fact that every instinct I have is screaming to claim her, protect her, keep her safe.

But I don't trust her. Can't trust her. Not yet.

"She's my responsibility," I say instead. "I hired her. I'll handle her."

He doesn't look convinced, but he knows better than to push. "What do you need from me?"

"Background on Song Miyoung. Everything we have from six years ago when she came through Portland. Who she talked to, what she was looking for, where the trail went cold."

"You think Karen's mother is still alive?"

"I think someone powerful enough to make seventeen women disappear without a trace is still operating. And I think Song Miyoung got too close to finding out who." I stand. "Pull the files. I want everything by tomorrow."

"You got it." Caleb heads for the door, then pauses. "And Dom? Be careful with this one. Feds are bad enough. But a fed with a personal vendetta? That's dangerous."

"I know."

He leaves.

Tyler arrives ten minutes later with a laptop bag and the slightly manic energy of someone who lives primarily in cyberspace. Our IT guy, best hacker in the Pacific Northwest, and the reason our security is tighter than most government facilities.

"You said encrypted deep dive?" He's already pulling out his equipment.

"Karen Park. FBI Supernatural Investigation." I slide him the basic file. "I want everything. Education, employment, known associates, current residence, phone records, financial history. Everything."

Tyler's eyes light up. This is his happy place. "How deep?"

"Deep enough that I know what brand of toothpaste she uses."

"Got it." His fingers are already flying across the keyboard. "This is about the new dancer?"

"Yeah."

"She's fed?" He looks up, surprised. "Damn. Didn't see that coming. Though I guess the cover is good if—" He stops, reading my expression. "This stays between us."

"You, me, and Caleb. No one else."

"Understood." He goes back to typing. "Give me forty-eight hours. I'll have everything."

"Twenty-four."

"Twenty-four." He grins. "Challenge accepted."

I leave him to his work and head back to my office. The club is winding down now. I can hear last call being announced, the

music shifting to something slower as the girls finish their sets.

The mate bond pulls at me. Insistent. Demanding.

I ignore it.

Karen Park is out there somewhere—probably debriefing with her handlers, filing reports, planning her next move. She thinks she's hunting us. Thinks she's in control of this investigation.

She has no idea I already know who she is. No idea that I watched her take down three muggers with the kind of precision that comes from serious training. No idea that the man she almost kissed tonight recognized her as his mate on a level that bypasses conscious thought.

And she definitely has no idea that I don't trust her.

The mate bond doesn't care about trust. It's biological imperative, spiritual connection, the kind of absolute certainty that has nothing to do with logic or choice. My wolf knows she's mine. Knows it with the same certainty it knows to breathe.

But I've spent fifteen years as a SEAL learning to override biological imperatives. Learning to think past instinct, to operate on pure calculation when emotions could get you killed.

This is one of those times.

Karen Park is dangerous. She's trained, determined, and willing to do whatever it takes to find her mother—including infiltrating an MC, lying to everyone around her, and potentially destroying people who might be innocent.

I can't trust that.

Won't trust it.

Not until I understand exactly what she's willing to sacrifice for answers. Not until I know whether she'll choose her badge or the truth when they inevitably conflict.

I pull up her file again on my laptop. Study her official photo—the severe hair, the guarded expression, the eyes that give nothing away.

But I remember how she looked on that stage. The fire in her when she danced. The cold precision when she fought. The way she looked at me like she was trying to solve a puzzle and I was the missing piece.

My wolf growls approval at the memory.

Down, I tell it. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Because Karen Park might be my mate, but she's also FBI. And until I know which one matters more to her, I'm keeping my distance.

Even if it kills me.

I close the laptop and stand at the window, smoking and watching the street. The city sprawls out in sodium light and distant sirens, all the violence and beauty of Portland at night.

Karen Park is out there somewhere. Sleeping, planning, preparing for her next shift.

She thinks she's hunting us.

What she doesn't understand is that I'm hunting her right back.

And when this is over—when she finally realizes what she walked into—I'll make sure she understands exactly what it means that I let her.

But first, I need to find out what happened to her mother.

Because if Song Miyoung is still alive, she's the key to everything.

And if she's dead—

I crush that thought before it fully forms.

One problem at a time.

Right now, my problem is a twenty-seven-year-old FBI agent with her mother's eyes and enough determination to get herself killed.

She's also my mate.

The two facts sit in my head like opposing forces, pulling me in different directions. The bond says protect, claim, keep safe. My training says maintain distance, gather intelligence, trust no one.

For now, training wins.

But the bond isn't going away. Eventually, she'll feel it too—the pull, the recognition, the absolute certainty. And when that happens, when she figures out what we are to each other, everything changes.

I just need to make sure she stays alive long enough to reach that point.

Even if it means lying to her. Even if it means watching her dance for other men while the mate bond screams at me to claim her in front of everyone.

Even if it means protecting her from the very truth she's desperate to find.

Some truths destroy the people who discover them.

And I'll be damned if I let that happen to my mate.

Even if she doesn't know that's what she is yet.

Even if I'm not sure I can trust her when she does.