Chapter One: Blood and Asphalt

 

The thunder of motorcycles cut through the night like a blade, sharp and unforgiving. Rain pelted against Raven Steele's leather jacket as she stood beneath the flickering neon sign of the Broken Spoke, a dive bar on the outskirts of Blackridge where respectable folks never ventured after dark. Her dark hair clung to her face, mascara threatening to run in rivulets down her cheeks, but she didn't care. Nothing mattered anymore—not since they'd taken everything from her.

Six weeks. Six weeks since Michael’s mutilated body had been pulled from the river, weighted down with chains, his fingers cut off and his tongue removed—the Diamondbacks' signature for dealing with traitors. Six weeks of police giving her the runaround, of leads going nowhere, of a system that didn't care about one dead biker. But Raven had spent those weeks learning, watching, preparing. She'd studied the motorcycle clubs, their territories, their wars. She knew exactly what she was walking into.

The recording device hidden in her jacket pocket was a cold reminder of her real purpose here. Not evidence for the police—she'd learned they wouldn't help her—but documentation for herself, a way to track what she discovered before someone decided she knew too much. The fake ID in her wallet was clean, professional, exactly what she needed to get close to these men without raising suspicion about her past.

Prison had taught her many things. How to read people. How to survive. How to become someone else when necessary. Rachel Sinclair was buried deep, along with the crimes that had put her behind bars. Raven Steele was her masterpiece—clean background, tragic story, exactly the kind of person who could infiltrate a motorcycle club seeking revenge.

The bar's door swung open, spilling amber light and the stench of whiskey and cigarettes onto the wet pavement. A man filled the doorway, his massive frame blocking most of the light. Even in shadow, there was no mistaking who he was: Jax Savage, president of the Savage Saints MC, the most feared motorcycle club in three states. Six-foot-four of muscle and menace, with hazel eyes that missed nothing and hands that had spilled more blood than most soldiers.

"You lost, princess?" His voice rumbled like distant thunder, each syllable carrying the weight of unspoken violence.

Raven straightened her spine, fighting the tremor that threatened to betray her fear. Her nails dug into her palms, the sharp pain centering her. She'd practiced this moment, rehearsed every word, every gesture. "I'm looking for work."

A cruel smile played at the corners of his mouth as his eyes traveled the length of her body, lingering in places that made heat bloom across her skin despite the chill of the rain. He was assessing her—not just as a woman, but as a potential threat, a puzzle to be solved. "We don't hire waitresses."

"Good," she replied, meeting his gaze without flinching. "Because I'm not looking to serve drinks."

Something flickered in his eyes—interest, perhaps, or suspicion. He stepped aside, gesturing for her to enter with a mock bow that somehow managed to be both gentlemanly and threatening. "Then by all means, come in and tell me what you are looking for."

I'm walking into the devil's den, Raven thought as she stepped across the threshold. The warmth hit her immediately, thick with the scent of leather, motor oil, and masculine sweat. But when justice has failed you, when the system turns its back, sometimes you have to make your own rules.

The interior of the Broken Spoke was exactly what she'd expected from weeks of surveillance: a haze of smoke hanging beneath low ceilings, pool tables surrounded by men wearing kuttes emblazoned with the Savage Saints' insignia—a grinning skull wearing a halo, with crossed switchblades beneath it. Women moved through the crowd like predators themselves, dressed in little more than scraps of fabric and too much makeup, their eyes hard with the kind of experience that came from surviving in a world where violence was currency.

Conversations died as she followed Jax through the crowd. Eyes tracked their movement—curious, hostile, hungry. She caught fragments of whispered speculation: Who's the new girl? What's Jax want with her? She looks too clean for this place. These men lived outside the law, and the women who ran with them embraced the chaos. Raven had spent her whole life avoiding places like this, people like them. Now she was willingly stepping into their world, armed with nothing but determination and a fabricated identity.

But she wasn't as helpless as she appeared. The knife strapped to her thigh was small but sharp, and she knew how to use it. The pepper spray in her pocket was industrial strength. Most importantly, she had something these men would want—information that could shift the balance of power in their war with the Diamondbacks.

If she could survive long enough to use it.