3

The Iron Wolves clubhouse squatted on Route Forty-Seven like a wounded animal, all rough timber and metal siding, surrounded by motorcycles that probably cost more than my entire year's salary. A hand-painted sign declared it "Wolf Territory," and the setting sun cast long shadows across the gravel parking lot that made everything look vaguely menacing.

I sat on my Ducati across the street, helmet still on, trying to convince myself this wasn't the stupidest decision I'd ever made. The smart play would be to run. Leave Coldwater, change my name, start over somewhere the Death Dealers and Snake and Dax Steele couldn't find me.

But running meant abandoning Murphy, whose garage had given me a second chance when no one else would. It meant letting my father's memory be buried under lies. It meant admitting that Ghost Rider, the fearless racer who'd dominated those underground tracks was just a mask for a coward.

I'd already lost everything once. I wasn't going to lose myself too.

I kicked the Ducati's stand down and dismounted. The clubhouse door opened before I reached it, and Dax stepped out. He'd changed since this afternoon, he worn jeans instead of leather pants, a faded Iron Wolves t-shirt that clung to muscles I tried not to notice. His dark hair was down now, falling past his shoulders.

"You came," he said. Not surprised, exactly. More like satisfied.

"I came to see your so-called proof. That's all."

"That's all I'm asking." He held the door open. "After you."

The clubhouse interior was exactly what I expected and nothing like it at the same time. Yes, there was the mandatory bar along one wall, the pool table, the leather couches that had seen better days. But there were also photographs covering every available wall space not just club photos, but family pictures. Kids at birthday parties. Graduation ceremonies. A wedding.

These weren't monsters. They were people.

That somehow made everything worse.

"Most of the club's out on a run," Dax explained, leading me past the main room toward a hallway. "Dutch is in Pittsburgh on business. I wanted you to see this without an audience.

He stopped in front of a heavy oak door at the end of the hall. He keyed a code into a digital lock a high-tech security measure that felt out of place in such a rustic building and pushed the door open.

This was clearly his sanctuary. Unlike the rest of the clubhouse, this room was organized with military precision. Along one wall sat a workbench covered in blueprints and engine components; along the other, a wall of filing cabinets and a desk topped with three computer monitors.

"Sit," he said, gesturing to a worn leather chair.

I didn't sit. I walked over to the desk, my eyes scanning the monitors. One showed a digital map of the city with various territories highlighted in red and blue. Another was scrolling through lines of financial data.

"You said you had recordings," I prompted, keeping my voice cold. "Show me."

Dax didn't argue. He tapped a few keys on a laptop. A grainy audio file began to play. The quality was poor, filled with the background hum of a bar, but the voices were unmistakable. One was deep and gravelly Dutch Steele. The other was sharp, nasal, and dripping with malice.

"Your mechanic friend is becoming a liability, Dutch," the nasal voice said. "He knows too much about the supply lines. And his garage sits right on the border of the north corridor. We want that land."

"Chen’s a good man, Victor," Dutch’s voice replied, sounding tired. "He’s done right by the club."

"I don't care if he’s a saint. You break him, or I leak the photos of your boy’s 'accident' to the Feds. You know what they’ll do to the Wolves if they find out the VP was running more than just bikes through the border. Bankrupt him. Make him a pariah. Do it, or the Iron Wolves end tonight."

There was a long silence on the tape. Then, a heavy sigh. "Fine. I'll handle Chen."

The recording ended. I felt like the floor had dropped out from under me. I had to grip the edge of the desk to keep my knees from buckling. For three years, I had hated the Iron Wolves with a singular, burning passion. I had blamed Dutch Steele for every tear I’d shed and every debt I’d inherited.

"Victor Kane," I whispered. "The president of the Ravagers."

"The Death Dealers’ local puppet," Dax corrected. He stepped closer, his presence warm and overwhelming in the small office. "My father was a coward, Mia. He chose the club over his friend. He chose a lie over the truth. But he didn't do it out of malice he did it because he was trapped."

"He still did it," I snapped, turning to face him. My eyes were hot with unshed tears. "He still watched my father die and didn't say a word."

"Which is why I'm doing this," Dax said. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a thick folder, dropping it on the desk. "This is the paper trail. Every 'faulty' invoice Dutch created, every bribe paid to the inspectors to shut your father down. And here " he pointed to a smaller stack " is the evidence that Victor Kane orchestrated the race last night. He wanted you exposed. He wanted to use your debt to force you into his pocket, so he could use you against me."

I looked at the files, then back at Dax. The "Competence Kink" he’d mentioned earlier wasn't just about racing; seeing the meticulous way he’d dismantled his own father’s lies was terrifyingly impressive. He was a strategist. A hunter.

"Why tell me the truth about Victor?" I asked. "You could have just kept me in the dark and used me to win your race."

Dax took a step toward me, his dark eyes searching mine. "Because I've seen you ride, Mia. You don't just have skill; you have heart. And you can't win a championship like this if you're riding for a lie. You need to know who the real enemy is."

He reached out, his hand hovering near my shoulder as if he wanted to comfort me, but he pulled back at the last second. The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on.

"The Iron Championship is in six weeks," he said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "The prize is fifty thousand. It clears your debt, it clears Murphy's Garage, and it gives us the leverage to officially kick the Ravagers out of our city. In exchange, you live here. You work in our garage. You let me protect you until the race is over."

"Live here?" I scoffed. "With the men who helped ruin me?"

"With me," Dax countered. "In my quarters. It’s the only place I can guarantee your safety from Snake’s men."

I looked at the photograph in my pocket my father smiling at Marcus Steele. My father had believed in family. He had believed in helping people even when it cost him.

I looked at Dax Steele, the man who was offering me a way to finally stop running.

"I have conditions," I said, my voice finally steady.

Dax crossed his arms over his chest, a small, dangerous smirk playing on his lips. "I figured you might. Let's hear them."