The Vulture’s Queen

The air reeked of smoke, gasoline, and blood. The younger president of the Vultures MC, Ronan Cade, stood over the body of his fallen recruit—seventeen, barely out of high school, and eager to earn his patch. Now he lay cold, sprawled in the gravel behind their Arizona clubhouse, his jacket stained crimson. “This wasn’t a warning,” Ronan growled, knuckles white on the handle of his helmet. “This was a declaration.” Behind him, the rest of the Vultures stood tense and quiet. Their leader was a man of steel, always calculating—rarely rattled. But this hit had crossed a line. And when Ronan Cade snapped, the world burned. “We retaliate,” his VP said, stepping forward. Ronan didn’t answer. His storm-gray eyes were already elsewhere—plotting. Tactical. Merciless. This wasn’t just about war anymore. This was personal. Across town, in a house too big and cold for comfort… Evelyn Graves stared out the cracked window, fingers gripping the mug of black coffee her father never allowed her to sweeten. Sugar was a “luxury for useless mouths,” and her father, Reed Graves, had made it clear since she was twelve: her mouth was better shut. Her older brothers roared with laughter downstairs. They didn’t even look at her anymore. She was a ghost in her own bloodline, invisible unless someone needed something polished, brewed, or delivered in silence. But today… today something shifted. She heard the door slam. Then silence. Not the usual tension—but something different. A storm coming. Her gut clenched. Later that night, on the road between enemy lines… Evelyn had never ridden a motorcycle before, but she’d snuck out with one of her brothers’ bikes, more out of desperation than rebellion. A moment of freedom. One mile. Just one. She didn’t see them coming. A sudden roar of engines. Headlights like twin dragons. She skidded to a halt—but they surrounded her. Vests marked with the Vultures' insignia. “Get off the bike,” one growled. She froze. Her father had warned her of these men. Vultures. Vicious. Rabid. A death sentence. But the one who stepped forward wasn’t what she expected. Not a brute. Not dirty or cracked with age. He was young—maybe thirty. Built like a warrior sculpted from shadows and fire. Eyes sharp as broken glass and just as dangerous. But he didn't leer. Didn't touch her. Just… looked. Ronan Cade. “Who the hell are you?” he asked, voice smooth, low. “I’m nobody,” she whispered. But her last name—Graves—would betray her soon enough.