Fragile bones, iron hearts.

Devane doesn't do family. She does territory. As the ruthless leader of a notorious biker gang, she's built her reputation on cold eyes and colder decisions. She takes what she wants and never looks back. Sentiment is weakness. Love is a liability. The only soft thing she's ever allowed herself is the tattoo on her wrist—a faded, ghostly handprint she never explains. A debt she can't repay. Clarisse is unravelling. A ballerina forged in pressure and perfection, she controls the one thing no one else can: her body. Every skipped meal is a small victory. Every sharp bone is proof of discipline. She doesn't need saving. She doesn't need anyone. She's fine. She's always fine. Then a wedding neither of them wanted makes them family. Thrust under the same roof, Devane and Clarisse are now cousins by marriage—and enemies by instinct. Devane is chaos and cigarette smoke, cold and unapologetic. Clarisse is silence and uneaten dinners, a girl folding inward. They clash at every turn. Devane thinks Clarisse is a fragile little princess playing at suffering. Clarisse thinks Devane is a brute who takes up too much space. But the tension between them is a living thing. And it's growing. Every slammed door. Every lingering stare. Every accidental touch that lasts a second too long. Devane finds herself watching Clarisse in ways that have nothing to do with family. Clarisse finds herself craving a danger she's spent her whole life avoiding. Neither of them is ready for what happens when hatred starts to feel like hunger. And neither of them knows that this isn't the first time their lives have collided.