The Blind Biker's Obsession

“Tell me why your father tried to kill me.” Vivian Shaw stopped just inside the office. The man behind the desk had spoken softly. That made the threat worse. She heard the guards close the door behind her, then the muted click of the lock. Nikolai Draven sat with his hands folded beside a neat stack of papers. Black glasses covered his eyes. He didn’t turn toward her until she shifted her weight; then his head angled toward the sound. “Sorry?” she said. “Thomas Shaw. The mechanic who died in prison six years ago.” His voice held no question. “He planted the bomb beneath my motorcycle.” Vivian’s throat tightened. She had not told him her name. Hadn’t told anyone in this club what her father was called. “I haven’t introduced myself.” “I know your voice from the recordings.” He lifted one finger. “Your footsteps are different.” “So you’ve been listening to me?” “I’ve been expecting you.” She took two steps into the room. The guards stayed by the door. The air smelled of old coffee, leather, and g*n oil. “You expect every applicant to come in armed?” “Are you?” Her fingers brushed the small pistol tucked beneath her jacket. Niko’s mouth barely moved. “That answers that.” “You can hear a g*n?” “I heard your hand touch it. I don’t need to see it to know what it is.” Vivian’s pulse kicked. He said it without apology, as if blindness were a fact she was expected to accommodate, not a weakness he needed to explain. “Why hire me?” she asked. “Because your father left questions unanswered.” “My father died in prison.” “He died before I could make him tell me who helped him.” Her hands curled. “He didn’t plant your bomb.” The room went still. Niko’s fingers tapped once against the desk. “You sound very certain.” “I’m certain he was innocent.” “Then perhaps you know who was protecting him.” “I don’t.” “Your father was a mechanic for my club. He had access to my garage, my motorcycle, and the men who wanted my brother dead.” Niko paused. “He was in prison before I could ask him what he’d done.” “You’re leaving out the part where he died there.” “I know how he died.” “Do you?” Vivian snapped. “Or did one of your men tell you what to believe?” Niko’s fingers stopped tapping. The silence stretched until one of the guards shifted by the door. Vivian heard the leather of his holster creak. Niko turned his head toward him. “Stay where you are.” The guard went still. Vivian hated the little flash of admiration that moved through her. He couldn’t see the man. He didn’t need to. One sound had been enough to place the threat, and one sentence had stopped it. “You murdered my father,” she said. “Did I?” “You had him locked up. He died before his appeal went through.” “Your father was convicted by a court, Miss Shaw.” “On evidence your club gave them.” “Evidence your father helped create.” She stepped closer to the desk. “You expect me to believe that?” “No.” His voice remained calm. “I expect you to stay long enough to hear why I believe it.” “I’m not here to work for you.” “Your application says otherwise.” “My application says what you needed it to say.” Something changed in his breathing—small, controlled, but there. He’d heard the lie land. “You came here with a plan,” he said. Vivian pulled the pistol from beneath her jacket and raised it toward his head. The guards moved. Niko didn’t. “Miss Shaw,” one warned. “Take another step and he dies.” Nobody moved. Niko kept his hands on the desk. “You’re pointing a g*n at a blind man.” “I know exactly where you are.” “And I know where you’re standing from the sound of your voice.” He tilted his head, listening. “You’re afraid.” “Don’t pretend you know what I feel.” “I’m not pretending. Your breathing changed.” She tightened her grip. “You killed my father.” “I didn’t.” “Then why did he die in your war?” “Because he knew something.” “Convenient.” “True.” Vivian’s arm trembled. She hated that he could hear it. Hated the room, the guards, the fact that he sat there as though she were the one who had come to threaten him. She lowered the g*n just enough to reach across his desk. Her hand closed around a metal letter opener. The blade pressed beneath his jaw. The guards surged forward. “Stay back!” Vivian shouted. “I will cut him.” The men froze again. Niko’s throat moved against the cold metal. He didn’t flinch. “You’ve got a g*n in one hand and a letter opener in the other.” “Would you rather I choose?” “I’d rather you tell me what you came to do.” “I came to destroy you.” For the first time, his stillness shifted. Not fear. Not surprise exactly. Something more attentive—as if she had finally said the only thing in the room worth hearing. “Good,” he murmured. Vivian pressed the blade closer. “Good?” “I’ve been waiting six years to meet you.” Her stomach tightened. “Why?” “Because I knew Thomas had a daughter. Because I knew he’d kept you away from the club. Because I knew you’d come looking for answers once he was gone.” “You’ve been watching my family?” “I have a file on you.” “Photographs?” “Among other things.” The blade scraped his skin. A bead of warmth touched Vivian’s fingers. “Don’t you dare—” “I won’t.” Niko’s voice stayed even. “I’m going to reach for my coat pocket. If you think I’m reaching for a weapon, cut me.” Vivian didn’t answer. He moved slowly. His hand found the edge of his coat, then slipped inside. She could have stopped him. She didn’t. He pulled out a stiff rectangle and held it between two fingers. “A photograph,” he said. “I can’t examine it. You can.” “Why show it to me?” “Because I want you to tell me what you see.” Vivian took it without lowering the letter opener. The paper was old, its corners softened. A man she recognized stood beside a motorcycle, his head turned toward the camera. Her father. The other man wore a leather jacket marked with the Black Reapers’ insignia. Vivian recognized the face from club portraits and news clippings: Alex Draven, Niko’s younger brother, dead in the bombing. Her grip faltered. “What is it?” Niko asked. “My father,” she whispered. “And Alex.” “Describe it.” “They’re standing beside a motorcycle. Your brother’s alive in the picture.” “When was it taken?” She turned the photograph over. Her mouth dried. “The date says…” She swallowed. “Three months after the explosion.” Niko’s fingers tightened on the desk. “Read it again.” “Three months after your brother supposedly died.” The letter opener slipped from Vivian’s hand and clattered against the floor. Niko turned toward the sound. “Now, Miss Shaw,” he said, his voice low, “tell me how two dead men took that photograph.”