1

I drag the rag across the sticky mahogany of the bar counter. The smell of stale beer and bleach burns my nose. My back screams in protest, a sharp, hot knot of tension right between my shoulder blades.

It’s 2:00 AM at The Rusty Nail. The neon sign in the window buzzes like a dying fly.

"You missed a spot, sweetheart."

Sal’s voice is grease and gravel. I don't look up. I scrub harder at a stubborn ring of whiskey.

"I didn't miss anything, Sal. It’s a stain. This wood is older than I am."

"Maybe you just need the right motivation."

His hand lands on my hip. Heavy. Sweaty. Squeezing.

I drop the rag. It slaps onto the wet wood with a wet thwack. I spin around, slapping his hand away hard enough to make a sound.

"Don't."

My voice shakes, but not from fear. From rage. Six months of this. Six months of double shifts, aching feet, and dodging hands that think a widow is public property.

Sal pulls back, rubbing his hand. He grins, showing teeth stained yellow by nicotine. "Feisty tonight, Thalia. I like that. Nikos always said you had a mouth on you."

My husband’s name hangs in the dead air between us.

"Don't talk about him," I snap.

"Why not? He’s the reason you’re scrubbing my floors instead of sitting on a throne, isn't he?" Sal leans in, smelling of onions and cheap cologne. "How much is left on the debt, doll? Fifty grand? Sixty?"

"Forty-three," I correct him automatically. "And I made the payment this week."

"Barely." He opens the register and pulls out a wad of cash. My tips. He peels off a few bills and tosses them on the wet counter. "You’re short on rent again, aren't you?"

I snatch the money. Twenty-eight dollars. It won't even cover the interest on the loan shark's vig, let alone my rent.

"I’ll figure it out," I say, shoving the cash into my pocket.

"You know," Sal says, his eyes dropping to my chest. "There are easier ways to make money here. The private room in the back pays double."

My stomach turns. "I’m a bartender, Sal. Not a menu item."

I grab my jacket from the hook. It’s denim, threadbare at the elbows.

"Suit yourself," he calls after me as I push through the heavy swinging doors. "But Mick is coming to collect on Friday. And he doesn't take 'I'll figure it out' as currency."

I hit the alley air and gasp. It’s cold, smelling of wet asphalt and dumpster rot, but it’s better than the suffocating scent of the bar.

I dig for my keys, my fingers trembling. My feet throb in these cheap boots. Every step sends a jolt of pain up my calves.

That’s when I feel it.

The weight.

It’s physical, heavy, pressing against the back of my neck. The fine hairs on my arms stand up. I freeze, my hand gripping the pepper spray in my pocket.

I turn slowly.

Across the street, parked in the deep shadows between two broken streetlights, is a beast of chrome and black steel. A Harley.

The rider is a silhouette cut from the dark. Broad shoulders blocked out the brick wall behind him. He’s not moving. He’s just sitting there, legs braced on the asphalt, boots heavy and scarred.

A car passes, its headlights sweeping over him for a fraction of a second.

I see the cut. The leather vest is worn, gray at the edges. The patch on the chest catches the light.

VP.

My breath hitches.

Drakon.

Drakon Vasilios. Vice President of the Wolves MC. My dead husband’s best friend.

He hasn't spoken a word to me since the funeral. He stood by the grave, looking like he wanted to murder the priest, and then he vanished. But I’ve felt him. Every night for a week, I’ve felt this same heavy pressure.

He’s watching me.

I should be scared. He’s a killer. I know what the Wolves do. I know what that patch means.

But I’m not scared.

My thighs clench. A hot, shameful pulse starts low in my belly.

Guilt crashes over me instantly. He was Nikos's brother, I tell myself. He stood at the altar with us.

I force my legs to move. I walk to my beat-up sedan, my heels clicking loudly on the pavement. I fumble with the lock, my eyes darting back to him.

He hasn't moved. He’s a statue. A gargoyle watching over a ruin.

"Why are you here?" I whisper to the empty street.

He doesn't answer. He doesn't rev his engine. He just watches. His gaze feels like a physical touch, sliding over my jacket, my jeans, stripping me down right here in the cold.

I get the door open and throw myself inside. I lock it immediately. My heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird.

I jam the key into the ignition. The engine coughs, wheezes, then roars to life. I peel out of the parking spot, tires screeching.

I check the rearview mirror.

He’s still there. Watching.

I drive too fast. The city blurs past—neon signs, homeless encampments, the glittering skyline of the rich district that feels a million miles away.

Nikos promised me that life. He promised me safety. Family.

Liar.

I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. He left me with nothing but a mountain of gambling debts and a funeral bill I’m still paying off.

And Drakon. He left me with Drakon haunting my shadows.

I pull up to my apartment building. It’s a crumbling brick box in the bad part of town. The hallway lights are always busted. The elevator hasn't worked since the 90s.

I park and run to the entrance, checking over my shoulder. The street is empty. No Harley.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

"Get it together, Thalia," I mutter. "He’s probably just checking up on the widow. Club duty."

Club duty doesn't look at you like you're a meal.

I push the thought away. I climb the three flights of stairs, my legs burning. The stairwell smells of old cooking oil and cat piss.

I reach the third floor. I’m already reaching for my keys, fishing for the jagged piece of metal that opens my sanctuary.

I stop.

My hand freezes mid-air.

My door is white. Peeling paint. Number 3B.

It’s open.

Just a crack. A sliver of darkness showing where the jamb should be flush.

I didn't leave it open. I triple-lock it every time I leave. I have to.

The silence in the hallway is sudden and deafening. The hum of the vending machine downstairs seems miles away.

My pulse roars in my ears.

Reapers?

My first thought is the rival club. The ones Sal warned me about. The ones Nikos owed money to.

I grip the pepper spray tighter. It feels pathetic in my hand. A toy against wolves.

I should run. I should turn around, run down the stairs, and call the cops.

But my tips are in my pocket. My only cash. My grandmother’s ring is in the drawer next to my bed.

I push the door with one finger.

It creaks. A long, high-pitched whine that sounds like a scream.

The apartment is dark. Shadows stretch across the cheap laminate floor.

"Hello?"

My voice is a whisper. A ghost.

I step inside.

The air shifts. It’s not empty.

Someone is here.