Chapter 3: My Terms, My Rules

Angelica’s POV

The gates of my workshop were already closed, but the warm yellow glow inside the main service bay told me I wasn't alone.

I didn’t reach for the crowbar under my seat. I already knew the low rumble vibrated through the floorboards before I even stepped out of my truck. That wasn't a standard engine. 

It was a custom-machined 120-cubic-inch V-twin, built for raw power, heavy torque, and zero subtlety.

The Iron Vipers.

I adjusted the collar of my work jacket, pushed open the door, and stepped into the bay.

Three heavy-built men in dark leather cuts sat casually around my shop. Two were younger patched members, sitting on tool chests and passing a thermos back and forth. But the man standing over my main workbench, his massive, 6’4” frame draped in a worn leather vest displaying the skull-and-serpent crest, was the one who held the room's gravity.

Jax Mercer. President of the Vipers.

He was broad-shouldered and sun-bronzed. Dark, intricate runes wound their way down his muscular forearms, peeking out from beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his work shirt. 

Slate-gray eyes, sharp and unnervingly still, turned to meet mine the second my steel-toed boots clicked against the concrete.

“We're closed, Grip,” I said, my voice steady as I pulled off my leather gloves and tossed them onto the counter. “Routine checks are usually scheduled for Tuesdays.”

Jax didn't jump. He didn't shift into a defensive stance or try to pull the overbearing Alpha posture Ethan was so fond of. He just leaned back against the workbench, his dark slate eyes tracking my movement with a calm look.

“One of my guys blew a seal on his primary drive three miles out,” Jax replied, his voice a low, gravelly baritone. “Told him your shop was the only place in three counties with the right grade of steel to fix it properly without charging an outlaw tax.”

“It's three hundred dollars,” I said, walking past him to grab a wrench from the wall rack. “And fifty extra for after-hours labor.”

“Fair price,” Jax murmured, stepping back to give me space, his posture entirely respectful of my domain. “You look like you had a hard day, Haze.”

“I have hard days every day. It builds character.”

Jax chuckled and folded his arms over his broad chest. His eyes flicked down to the thick envelope sticking out of my jacket pocket. He didn't ask about it, nor did he pry, but his gaze sharpened just enough to let me know he recognized the Bloodmoon Pack emblem stamped on the seal.

“Bloodmoon business usually leaves a bad taste in a person's mouth,” Jax observed casually, his voice dropping an octave so his patched members couldn't overhear. “Ethan Vance has been rattling sabers along the south border all week. Word is, his elders are breathing down his neck for a legacy.”

I paused, my fingers tightening around the steel wrench. “Ethan's business is his own.”

“Is it?” Jax asked smoothly. He reached into his vest, pulled out a stack of crisp bills, and laid them neatly on the workbench next to my oil rag. “You're a civilian now, Angelica. You built something good here. Don't let pack politics burn down what you bled for.”

I looked up, meeting his slate-gray gaze head-on. There was no mockery in his expression. No condescension. He looked at me not as a woman in distress, nor as a former pack outcast, but as a peer running a business in dangerous territory.

“I know how to protect what's mine, Mercer,” I said, my tone steel-hard.

“I know you do,” Jax said softly, a ghost of an approving smile touching the corner of his sharp jaw. “That's why I bring my bikes here. Call us if the local wolves start forgetting their manners.”

Without another word, Jax whistled to his two men. They stood up instantly, giving me respectful nods as they followed their President out into the night. Seconds later, the roar of three heavy engines rattled the glass windows of my office before fading down the dark highway.

I stood alone in the quiet bay, staring at the money Jax had left on the bench. He was a half-breed outlaw, surrounded by mystery and governed by his own code, but in three minutes, he had shown me more genuine respect than Ethan Vance had in a lifetime.

I pulled the crimson-sealed contract from my pocket, laid it flat on the desk, and picked up a black marker.

If Ethan wanted me to carry his heir, he was going to sign my terms.

By 9:00 AM the following morning, I pulled my truck into the driveway of the Bloodmoon Pack estate.

The grand stone manor looked as suffocating as it had five years ago, surrounded by dense pine woods and armed pack guards wearing tactical vests over their shirts. As I stepped out of my truck, wearing dark suit trousers, a crisp white button-down, and my dark hair pinned up into a sleek bun, the guards' eyes widened in shock.

I didn't wait to be escorted. I pushed open the doors and walked straight down the central hallway toward the Alpha's study.

Ethan was sitting behind his desk, reviewing financial ledgers with his best friend, Charles. The moment I slammed my palm down onto his desk, both men snapped their heads up.

“Angelica,” Ethan said, his amber eyes lighting up with a mixture of surprise and instant, smug satisfaction. “I didn’t expect you until tomorrow. I see you came to your senses.”

“Shut up and read,” I said, sliding a crisp, newly drafted five-page document across his desk.

Ethan’s smirk faltered slightly. He picked up the pages, his brows furrowing as he read the title: “Addendum to Surrogacy Agreement: Terms of Physical, Financial, and Legal Autonomy.”

“What is this?” Charles asked, leaning over Ethan's shoulder.

“My terms,” I said, leaning over the desk and planting both hands flat on the wood, forcing Ethan to look up into my eyes. “Clause one: The three hundred thousand for Leo's blood-healer is transferred to the clinic's account before I take a single medical step. Clause two: This is a gestational medical procedure, no physical contact, no pack rituals, no mate claims. Clause three: I maintain my business and my personal freedom.”

Ethan let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, tossing the papers back onto the desk. “You're in no position to negotiate terms, Angelica. Your brother is dying.”

“And your pack elders are threatening to strip your Alpha title if you don't produce a purebred heir by the end of the year,” I fired back without missing a beat, catching him completely off guard. 

“I did my digging too, Ethan. You're just as desperate as I am. Sign my addendum, or you can explain to your council why your legacy ends with you.”

Ethan’s jaw clenched, his amber eyes flashing dark with suppressed rage. The smugness vanished, replaced by the dangerous realization that the woman standing before him was no longer someone he could bully into submission.

“Sign it, Ethan,” I whispered, leaning closer. “Or watch me walk.”