Shadow (The Chaos Demons MC #7)

Chapter One

Shadow

I hate this part of town. Too many eyes. Too many rats. Too many people who think they’re owed something for breathing the same air as you.

I slide my phone back into my kutte as I step out the bookmaker’s, the envelope of cash tucked safe in the inside pocket. Collections today were easy. No yelling, no crying, no bullshit. Just the way I like it.

Then I hear her. Loud. Laughing. The kind of laugh that grates because it’s too bright, too sharp.

“I swear to God, Remi, if you get us kicked out of another bar—”

“Relax,” she cuts in. “The place was stuck-up anyway.”

I glance up, laying my eyes on her. She’s wearing a short skirt that rides high on her long legs.

Her top’s tiny, barely covering her tits and stopping to show off her midriff.

And, of course, she’s wearing knee-high boots that are way too big around her calves.

Plus, she’s got a whole lot of attitude—it’s obvious in the way she struts like she owns the pavement.

And then, like the universe is personally trying to piss me off, she climbs onto my bike.

My bike.

She throws one leg over, plants her hands on the bars, and grins at her friend like she’s the cover star of a calendar.

“Get a photo from the side. Make sure you can see the chrome,” she instructs, trailing her fingers over the metal work I personally polished just a few hours ago.

I clench my jaw in annoyance.

She shifts her hips, pouts her lips, and starts posing like she’s shooting for some influencer brand deal. I watch her tilt her head, bite her lip, arch her back enough to push her tits right out.

What the actual fuck?

I take two steps forward, slow and deliberate. “Get off the bike,” I grumble, my tone menacing. She doesn’t hear me, or she does and chooses to ignore it. “Now.”

Her head snaps around, and I catch a glimpse of her eyes, bright, sharp, lined in black.

They’re striking, even if the rest of her is a damn mess.

Her hair hangs wild around her face, her pale skin looks like it hasn’t seen the sun in months, and she’s thinner than she should be, like sleep and food are optional extras she keeps forgetting to order.

Heavy liner wraps her eyes, clearly overdone to hide the dark circles beneath, but all it really does is draw more attention to them.

“Oh, is this yours?” she asks sweetly, like I didn’t just growl at her.

I give her a flat look. “You think it parked itself?”

She rolls her eyes, sliding off nice and slow so her arse touches every inch of the seat. There’s more attitude in her expression than grace. “Chill out, Grumpzilla. It’s not like I scratched it.”

“If you had, we’d be having a whole different conversation,” I mutter.

She flashes me a slow, infuriating smile. “Promises, promises.”

Her friend snorts behind her, but I remain unimpressed. “You should be on your way,” I say, arching a challenging brow.

She arches one back, folding her arms over her chest. “Is that so? Do you own this part of the street?”

I step closer, but she doesn’t budge, like she’s challenging me to get in her space.

“I’m serious, little girl. Go play in the bars with all the other idiots.

” Even as irritation burns through me, I can’t ignore the pull of something else, something inconvenient.

There’s a fragility about her, a chaotic kind of beauty she has no idea she’s wearing. And that pisses me off even more.

She smirks. “You might be all big and mysterious, but you don’t scare me. I’ve handled way bigger.”

I grin now, grabbing my helmet. “I don’t do loud . . . or drunk, for that matter.”

That wipes the smile right off her face. Her whole posture changes––the flirt’s gone, replaced by something sharper.

“I’m not drunk,” she snaps.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Her hands go to her hips, and she pushes her chin up. “I don’t drink. Ever.”

“Right.”

She narrows her eyes, like she can’t go until I believe her. “I’m serious.”

I study her for a second. She’s not slurring, not unsteady, and her eyes are too clear to fake.

She’s dressed for the clubs. She’s loud like she’s had a skinful of sweet cocktails. Huh. Now, I’m curious. Why doesn’t she drink?

But she’s already turning away.

“Come on, Roxy,” she calls to her friend, stalking off like she doesn’t feel the heat of my stare burning into her. She doesn’t look back, not once, so I watch her just long enough to burn the sway of her hips into my brain like a bad idea I’ll regret thinking about later.

Fucking loudmouth.

I swing a leg over my bike, the seat still warm from her skin, and fire the engine. My gloves tighten on the bars. I shouldn’t care. She was just some attention-hungry brat playing dress-up for the ’gram.

But something about the way her eyes iced over when I called her drunk . . .

I push the thought out of my head and ride.

By the time I roll through the gates of the Chaos Demons compound, the familiar comfort of club life settles back over me. The roar of bikes. The scent of oil and smoke. The sort of noise I can handle. Noise with purpose.

Axel’s waiting outside with his arms folded over his chest and his shades on, despite the dying light.

“Got it?” he asks as I kill the engine.

I nod and pass him the envelope.

He peels it open and counts the stack in that calm, quiet way he has.

Axel doesn’t yell unless you deserve it.

He doesn’t need to. There’s a weight to him, steady, unshakable.

Men twice his size would rather bleed than disappoint him.

When Axel speaks, you shut up and listen.

He built this club on loyalty, not fear, and that’s why we follow him. That’s why I do, at least.

“All there?”

“Yeah,” I grunt.

He tucks it into his kutte. “Good. You free now?”

“Depends.”

“Grizz bailed. Said something about food poisoning, but I think his old lady had plans for him.”

“Don’t blame him.”

Axel smirks. “I need a second pair of eyes. Dancer interviews start in ten minutes. Figured you could help me pick who gets a spot.”

“For Zen Den?” I ask. The girls we employ there don’t usually dance, they just fuck.

“Dancers,” he corrects. “Legit ones for Steel’s.” We’ve branched out, inheriting a gentleman’s club as a debt payment, something none of us have a clue how to run.

I arch a brow. “What?” He shrugs. “All we gotta do is watch them dance. How hard can it be?” He sniggers at his words.

I roll my shoulders, my jaw tight. I don’t like crowds, don’t like being the centre of attention. And I sure as hell don’t like sitting through half-naked women pretending to want me for cash.

But I won’t say no to my president without good reason, and it beats chasing down dicks who can’t pay their debts.

Remi

I wasn’t supposed to end up here.

I definitely wasn’t supposed to be backstage in a smoke-scented hallway, wearing nothing but my best bra, a black thong, and the same knee-high boots that made Grumpzilla twitch earlier. I smile at the memory.

“You can’t go on like that,” hisses Roxy, her eyes wide.

“I didn’t come prepared.”

“Have you ever even danced?” she asks, sounding exasperated.

“Well, no, but it can’t be that hard.” She arches a brow, so I add, “No offence.”

I met her two nights ago in a café just around the corner from here.

I’d arrived on a coach and needed somewhere to warm up.

Roxy was with a group of women, all counting notes as they drank coffee and hummed along to the radio.

I think she took pity on me when she spotted me eyeing her coffee, and she bought me one.

That led to a conversation where she offered me a few nights on her couch.

And that’s led me to here, the club where she’s been dancing for the last year.

And for one night only, they’re auditioning new dancers.

Forty-eight hours ago, I was figuring out where to crash next. My savings are down to scraps, and I need the type of job that doesn’t ask too many questions and will pay me cash in hand.

“I can fake confidence. I can move. I’ve danced in clubs, even on tables on a night out. Never professionally, but . . .”

“How hard can it be?” she mimics with an eyeroll. “Let me grab you an outfit from back,” she adds, turning on her heel and dashing off.

I twist my hands together nervously. What the hell am I doing? But before I can talk myself down, a voice calls, “Next!”

Fuck.

My stomach flips and I glance in the direction Roxy just went. I can’t keep them waiting, I might miss my chance, so I square my shoulders and stride out, forcing a bright smile.

The lights blind me for a second, until I see the shadowed booth at the back of the room.

Two men.

One watching with a curious smile.

The other?

Stone-faced.

Leaning back like the chair’s offended him just by existing. Arms folded across his cut. Jaw like carved granite.

Of course, it’s him.

Grumpzilla.

No smile. No change in expression. But I swear to God, his fingers twitch as his eyes land on my boots. Good.

I turn toward the pole––the only prop in the whole room—and let the music start. It’s slow, dark, and bass-heavy.

I move like I mean it.

I don’t know what I’m doing, but I let my body take over. I pretend I’m not being watched, like I’m drunk on adrenaline and not fear or desperation.

Spin. Drop. Arch. Slide.

There’s a rhythm to it, something primal, a way to hold their gaze without letting them own it. I feel powerful. Wild. Free.

And when I finally stop and stand tall, breathing hard, I feel his stare more than anyone else’s.

Not hungry. Not impressed. Just . . . furious.

My smile falters, trying to think if I did something wrong, something that would make him mad. Then I give my head a shake. I don’t even know this fucker and I’m reacting like the old me. The woman who over-analysed everything. The woman who was too scared to breathe wrong.

Luckily, I’m not her anymore. Or at least, I pretend not to be. So, I square my shoulders and saunter off stage with my chin tipped up slightly.