Chapter 2
HAWK
M y trigger finger twitched, but it wasn’t because I was itching to shoot the man with my gun pressed against his forehead.
Not that the guy cowering in front of me didn’t deserve it, but because my phone was vibrating for the third damn time in my back pocket.
I smirked, and the pathetic drug dealer flinched when he noticed my expression shift.
I let the muzzle of my Glock drift just slightly off center, dragging it along his temple as I pulled the phone out with my free hand.
The screen lit up with a number I knew well.
Midnight.
My boss and co-owner of Iron Shield. Our motorcycle club, the Iron Rogues, owned the other half.
It was the direct line to his office.
The man didn’t waste time or words, and he knew exactly where I was and what I was doing. If he was calling me mid-interrogation, it wasn’t to shoot the breeze.
And answering wasn’t a suggestion.
“Reaper,” I muttered, stepping back and tilting my head toward the bastard we were threatening. “It’s Midnight. If he even breathes wrong, shoot him somewhere painful. But don’t kill him. Yet.”
We’d caught the asshole trying to push product through the club’s bar, The Midnight Rebel, where I often helped out with security when not on assignment for Iron Shield.
When it came to Iron Rogues territory, we didn’t fuck around.
We practically owned the entire town of Old Bridge, Tennessee, along with most of the surrounding area.
What wasn’t technically ours still fell under our protection.
Nobody took a breath without us knowing about it.
That included law enforcement and local politicians.
The Iron Rogues weren’t some fictional MC ripped from a movie script.
We operated outside the law, but we lived by a strict code.
Honor. Loyalty. Brotherhood. And our own brand of justice.
When it came to people who fucked with the club, we were the judge, jury, and when the situation warranted it, the executioner.
We had zero tolerance for drugs in or anywhere around the club.
That alone was reason enough to have a conversation with the bastard currently about to piss himself in front of us.
But it wasn’t just that. We’d uncovered a plan to boost a shipment of priceless cargo acquired through questionable means.
We were escorting the delivery for our best client.
Nic wasn’t just our prez’s best friend—he also happened to be the head of the DeLuca Crime Family.
This idiot clearly had no idea who he was mixed up with. No sane person would ever rip off one of our organizations, much less two.
Now we expected the sniveling prick to cough up the details. He hadn’t been all that cooperative so far, but judging by the whimpering, it wouldn’t be long before he cracked.
With one last dark look, I stalked over to the corner of the room and pressed the phone to my ear. “Yeah?”
“Back to the office,” Midnight said, voice gravel-thick and unbothered. “Now.”
“You’re pulling me off this?” I started this job and intended to finish it. “He’s almost cracked?—”
“Reaper will handle that shit. Get your ass back here now.”
My spine stiffened, and I wanted to argue, but then he added, “You’ve got a new assignment. Priority.”
Priority. I could practically hear the air quotes.
Shit.
I should have known. Midnight never redirected my work unless it was serious.
“Be there in twenty,” I ground out before hanging up.
I stalked out of the small concrete building we called The Room, hidden deep in the woods behind the compound. The place existed for exactly this purpose—secluded, silent, and soundproof.
I stopped by the clubhouse and took the time to scrub off the flecks of blood and change into clean clothes before I hopped on my bike and headed to Iron Shield HQ.
When I arrived, our receptionist was typing away at her desk.
“Midnight’s waiting,” Sheridan muttered, not bothering to look up when I passed.
“Nice to see you, too, baby sister,” I grumbled, mouth quirking up.
She finally glanced at me, pushing her red glasses up her nose before glaring daggers at me.
I paused long enough to flash her a lopsided grin. “Still pissed?”
“You lied to my date and told him I was underage,” Sheridan spat.
“You’re not old enough to drink.” I pointed out with a frown.
“That’s not what he thought you meant, and you know it!”
“He was too old for you.”
“Maybe if I was actually sixteen!”
“You’re nineteen. Close enough.”
“He was twenty-two.”
“He was a dick.” I shrugged and sauntered toward the stairs that led up to the building’s second floor.
“Twenty-two is not too old for me!” she shouted.
“Too dumb is worse than too old.”
Her glare tracked me until I headed up the stairs. I grinned to myself because she’d get over it. Eventually.
I took them two at a time and swung into Midnight’s office. He sat behind his desk, flipping through one of the matte-black folders we used for client files. His expression was unreadable, his dark eyes scanning details like they were code waiting to be cracked.
“Stop pissing off the front desk,” he said without looking up.
“Where’s the fun in that?”
He finally looked at me and scowled. “Don’t give a fuck if you’re having fun, Hawk. If she quits because she gets sick of dealing with your shit, you’ll be the one sitting at that desk. Unless you're dead.”
Nothing in his expression suggested he was joking. But I decided not to dwell on that.
“Won’t happen,” I assured him. “She loves working for me.”
“She doesn’t work for you , asshole. She works for me ,” Midnight growled as he leaned back in the chair, fire burning in his eyes so briefly I wasn’t sure I’d really seen it.
“Close enough.” I dropped into the chair across from him, my muscles loose but my senses sharpened. “What’s the job?”
He slid the black folder across the desk. “Protection detail.”
My brows pulled together in irritation. “You pulled me off a critical interrogation for glorified babysitting?”
Midnight’s expression held a dark warning, and I pressed my lips together to avoid saying anything else.
As an enforcer for the club, I outranked him, but just barely.
Here, though, he was my superior, and I respected the chain of authority.
Plus, Midnight didn’t put up with shit from anyone.
Only Fox and Maverick—our prez and VP—knew his background.
Or anything that wasn’t surface-deep. To the rest of us, he was a mystery.
All we knew was that he’d worked in security of some sort.
He was cold, calculated, and deadly as fuck.
His tone was even and low. “If I put you on trash duty, then that’s what you’ll do, Hawk.”
I nodded.
“Besides, it’s not babysitting when it involves family. She’s Lainie’s friend.”
That shut me up. Lainie was the younger sister of our treasurer, Phoenix. And the best friend of Savage’s old lady, Tamara.
I’d take a bullet for Lainie. No questions asked. Same way I would for Tamara or any of the other women my brothers had claimed as their own. They were protected. Cherished. Nonnegotiable.
If this friend meant something to Lainie, I’d do it. But I wasn’t happy.
“This is more than bodyguard duty,” Midnight continued. He gestured to the client file. “Gemma Moffitt. Boudoir photographer. Women-only. Keeps her work encrypted and locked down, but someone cracked her system. Stole files.”
I opened the folder and flipped past the summary page.
The first image hit me like a fucking sucker punch.
A small, square ID photo in the top corner. Warm brown eyes. Heart-shaped face. Cute, pert little nose. And full, soft lips made for sin.
A thick toffee-colored braid draped over her shoulder, drawing my eyes to voluptuous tits that had my cock turning hard.
Her features had a natural softness, but something sharp was behind her gaze. A spark. Confidence and warmth wrapped in curves that made my blood go hot.
What the fuck?
I swallowed hard and flipped to the next page.
There were copies of the stolen images. I studied them with an almost clinical eye.
They were tastefully done—soft lighting, silhouettes, implied nudity.
I looked for commonalities among them, a possible clue as to why these particular photos were chosen.
Then I reached the last one, and I felt like someone had clocked me in the solar plexus.
It was her.
Holy fucking shit.
Her head was thrown back, facing away from the camera. But I didn’t need her face to be visible to recognize that body.
My cock hardened instantly, my libido reacting like it had been waiting for this exact moment to come alive again.
I hadn’t felt this in years. Not a flicker of interest. Not even a twitch. The guys assumed it was because I hadn’t gotten over my ex, but they couldn’t be more wrong. I’d realized years ago that she wasn’t meant for me.
I’d been young and dumb back when we got engaged. Hell, it hadn’t even been my idea. Our moms had basically planned the whole thing. If we hadn’t had the longest engagement in the history of my hometown, I probably would’ve been miserably married to her now.
My years-long dry spell wasn’t me pining for her. I just hadn’t been drawn enough to a woman to put any effort in. But Gemma made my mouth water and my cock throb painfully.
My hands curled into fists as I stared at the photo.
She was draped across a vintage couch wrapped in a loose white silk robe that barely clung to her shoulders.
The tie was cinched just enough to draw attention to her narrow waist and wide, round hips.
One leg was bent, and the robe parted just enough to show miles of smooth skin all the way to the edge of her lace panties.
Holy hell.
Her tits strained against a matching bra, the robe slipping down just enough to expose more creamy skin. The cups of the lingerie were so low I could almost see the dark area around her nipples.
I flipped back to the first page and looked at the face that I knew, without a doubt, belonged to the body in that last picture.
And I lost my fucking mind.
“Who’s seen this?” I snarled.
Midnight blinked once, calm as ever. “Just Deviant and me,” he said, referring to our resident tech genius. “Though I doubt Deviant really looked at them when he pulled the portfolio together.”
“It better fucking stay that way.” My tone was low and dangerous. A warning.
I already wanted to crack his head open and scrub the image from his mind. The thought of anyone else seeing Gemma like that caused my possessive feelings to turn murderous. When I found the son of a bitch who’d stolen that photo, he was gonna wish he’d never been born.
Midnight’s expression tightened, and his voice was low and steady when he said, “I’m going to let you explain that before I fire your ass.”
I didn’t want to fill him in. At that moment, neither Midnight nor Deviant knew there were photos of Gemma in the file, and I wasn’t happy with the idea of pointing it out. But Midnight didn’t make idle threats.
“The last photo. It’s the photographer.” My jaw clenched hard as I forced myself to admit I was feeling territorial over a woman I’d never even fucking met. “I don’t want anyone else seeing her like that.”
Midnight’s brows lifted, and something flickered in his eyes. “Maybe you’re not?—”
“Mine,” I growled before I could stop myself.
Silence fell between us. I realized I was on my feet, knuckles white around the folder.
Finally, I cleared my throat and tried to level out my voice so I appeared calmer than I felt. “I’m taking this job.”
He studied me for a long beat. Something was working behind his dark eyes, and I prepared myself to face his wrath if he tried to hand Gemma over to someone else. It wasn’t gonna happen.
I had no idea why I was so determined to keep this case. Or why the fuck my body was on fire over a fucking picture. It made me feel like my mind and body weren’t my own. And that pissed me off. I was never, never out of control.
Eventually, he leaned back and gave a slow nod. “Alright. You meet her tomorrow. Lainie will bring her to The Midnight Rebel in the morning since you’re upgrading Savage’s security feed.”
I didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. Just turned and walked out.
A glance at my watch told me I was late for my shift at The Midnight Rebel.
Dammit. I was not in the fucking mood to grit my teeth through drunk assholes, slap away a few wandering hands, and pretend not to hear every groupie giggling over which biker they wanted to “accidentally” fall into.
But Savage was taking the night off, and I’d promised to fill in as extra security since Fridays were always chaos.
The walk to the bar only took a few minutes, but I spent it trying—and failing—to get my shit together.
I wouldn’t let this bombshell interfere with my life. For fuck’s sake. I didn’t even know the woman.
I wasn’t like my other brothers, who were already locked down and happily pussy-whipped. I’d stayed detached. Focused. Professional.
I’d never even looked twice at the women who hung around the bar. But now I couldn’t stop picturing Gemma on that couch. The image was burned into my brain.
When I got to the bar, the doors banged open as I stormed in.
“Late,” Savage muttered, glancing up from the prep work he was doing before the bar opened, and he bailed with his wife and kid.
“Take it up with Midnight,” I grunted as I marched toward the bar. “New assignment.”
I snatched a glass and a bottle of my favorite whiskey, poured two fingers, and tossed it back.
“Fucking client briefing,” I muttered. “What kind of a name is Gemma, anyway?”
Gorgeous.
That was what it fucking was.
Just like her.
Shit!
“Sounds soft. Too soft,” I muttered as I took the glass and whiskey with me into the kitchen. I poured a third drink and downed it slower this time. “Probably sweet. Probably fragile.”
But that wasn’t what had me on edge.
She was dangerous in a way I couldn’t explain.
And somehow, she already belonged to me.
Gemma Moffitt had no idea what she’d done to me. Or what I was going to do to the bastard who stole her photos.
But she was about to find out.