Chapter 3
Eden’s fingers moved across her hidden keyboard with practiced precision, but her mind kept drifting to the way Hunter’s hands had felt on her wrist.
Dangerous territory.
She couldn’t afford distractions, not when she was this close to bringing down her father’s empire. Not when she was finally within reach of the truth about her mother’s death.
The signal interceptor hummed softly beneath the bar, tracking every digital communication in and out of the clubhouse. Three years of undercover work had taught her patience, had honed her ability to maintain multiple covers simultaneously.
To the Devil’s Mark patches, she was just Merrick Mitchell’s tech-savvy daughter, helping modernize the club’s operations. To her DEA handlers, she was Agent Mitchell, their best shot at exposing an international criminal network.
Only the dead knew who she really was. And soon, if everything went according to plan, the body count would include her father.
“Baby girl.”
The voice froze her blood. She looked up to find Merrick Mitchell—President of the Devil’s Mark MC and the man who’d given her both life and nightmares—looming over the bar.
Merrick Mitchell was an imposing figure—barrel-chested with a full beard shot through with gray, and the kind of rough-hewn features that spoke of barroom brawls and hard living. At fifty, he still maintained the physical presence that had helped him claim and keep his position, though years of excess had added a paunch around his middle. But it was his eyes—the same striking green as Eden’s—that revealed the capacity for calculated cruelty that had built his empire.
The patches nearby instinctively shifted away, knowing better than to be within earshot when the president wanted to talk to his daughter.
“We need to talk.”
Fifteen years of training kicked in automatically. Keep your hands steady. Control your breathing. Never let them see fear. Her mother’s lessons, drilled into her long before that fatal night when everything changed.
She followed him to his office, the walk feeling like a march to execution. The room hadn’t changed since her childhood—leather, chrome, and the cloying scent of cigars masking darker things. The same reaper carved into the desk, its scythe permanently stained with what she’d always suspected was blood. The same photos on the wall showing the club’s history, carefully edited to exclude any evidence of her mother’s existence.
“Romano’s impressed with how you’ve modernized our security systems.”
Merrick settled behind his desk, the leather creaking beneath his weight. The sound triggered a memory—her mother’s screams, leather creaking, the metallic scent of blood. She forced the memory down, maintaining her carefully constructed mask.
“Says you’ve got a real talent for technology.”
“Just doing my job.”
She kept her voice neutral, even as bile rose in her throat. The praise was a test. Everything was always a test with him. Every conversation a chess match where one wrong move could be fatal.
“Family business is important.”
He lit a cigar, the flame briefly illuminating the scars on his knuckles. Scars she remembered him getting the night he’d beaten one of his men to death in front of her. She’d been twelve. The lesson had been clear: this is what happens to people who betray the club. Who betray family.
“Speaking of family...that new mechanic’s been asking questions.”
Hunter. Eden’s heart rate kicked up, but she kept her expression bored. Years of practice made it easy to look unaffected while her mind raced through implications. Had he made some mistake? Had her father’s paranoia picked up something she’d missed?
“Lot of guys try to get my attention, Daddy. You know that.”
The word tasted bitter, but she’d learned long ago to use whatever weapons were available. Playing the devoted daughter had kept her alive long enough to build her case.
“This one’s different.”
Merrick blew out a stream of smoke, studying her through narrowed eyes. The same eyes she saw in the mirror, the genetic legacy she couldn’t escape.
“He’s got soldier written all over him. Military trained. Could be useful...if he checks out.”
The unspoken threat hung heavy in the air. If Hunter didn’t check out, he was dead. Simple as that. Another body added to the long list of people who’d disappeared after catching Merrick Mitchell’s attention.
“Want me to keep an eye on him?”
The words tasted like ash in her mouth. Playing her father’s games made her feel dirty, but it was necessary. Every compromise, every lie, brought her closer to justice.
“That’s my girl.”
Merrick’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. Never had, not since the night her mother disappeared.
“While you’re at it, show him the new pieces in the gallery. See how he reacts.”
The gallery. Eden’s pulse quickened. The private room where her father displayed his “art collection”—pieces stolen from museums across the country, each one worth millions on the black market. The room her DEA handlers were desperate to document.
She pulled up the museum’s documentation on her tablet, scanning Dr. Chen’s latest condition reports. The curator had been cataloguing every piece that passed through the Institute’s restoration department with an almost suspicious thoroughness. But it was her personal notes that caught Eden’s attention—detailed observations about irregularities in certain artifacts’ provenance, carefully worded questions about authentication processes. All technically proper, yet somehow feeling like coded messages meant for specific eyes.
Eden had spent enough time studying the woman’s reports to recognize the pattern. Dr. Chen never directly flagged anything suspicious, but her documentation created a perfect record of every piece that had later proved to be stolen. Almost as if she were building a case, one meticulous note at a time.
“Speaking of the gallery...”
Merrick gestured to a painting on his wall—a dark, twisted landscape she’d always hated. Something about the scene had always seemed wrong, beyond just the artist’s style. Now she wondered if it contained hidden messages, like the ledgers her mother had discovered.
“We’re having a private showing tomorrow night. Some...international buyers are very interested in our collection.”
Eden’s fingers itched for her phone, wanting to transmit this intel to her handlers immediately. Instead, she forced herself to examine the painting with feigned interest.
“The Rembrandt? I thought that one was spoken for.”
“Plans change, baby girl.”
He took another drag of his cigar. The smoke curled between them like all the lies and secrets that had poisoned their relationship.
“The market’s...shifting. Romano’s brought us some interesting opportunities.”
Opportunities. The word triggered another memory—her mother’s voice, urgent and frightened, talking about “opportunities”
that were really threats. The night before she disappeared, Sarah Mitchell had tried to warn Eden about the darkness hiding behind seemingly innocent words.
A sharp knock interrupted them. One of her father’s lieutenants stuck his head in.
“Boss, Romano’s here with the manifests.”
“Send him in.”
Merrick’s attention shifted, dismissing her.
“Close the door on your way out, Eden.”
She forced herself to walk slowly, naturally, even as every instinct screamed to run. In the hallway, she nearly collided with Romano and his ever-present briefcase. Their eyes met briefly—his cold and calculating, hers carefully blank.
“Miss Mitchell.”
He smiled, the expression reminding her of a shark.
“Always a pleasure.”
She nodded and slipped past him, but not before catching a glimpse of the papers in his hand. Shipping manifests, just as the lieutenant had said. But what caught her eye was the logo at the top—a shipping company known to the DEA as a front for international trafficking.
More pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. The stolen art wasn’t just about money laundering. The gallery showing, the international buyers, the shipping manifests… They were moving something bigger. Something that required elaborate covers and multiple layers of legitimacy.
Back at the bar, she found Hunter waiting. He nursed a beer, but his eyes tracked every movement in the room with predatory focus. Their gazes met, electricity crackling between them.
“Your father’s office is interesting,”
he drawled, voice pitched low.
“Lot of valuable art for a motorcycle club.”
“Daddy’s always been a collector.”
She mixed a drink she didn’t need to, using the motion to scan the room for watchers. The careful way Hunter had mentioned the art confirmed her suspicions about his true purpose here.
“He’s got excellent taste in acquisitions.”
The double meaning hung between them. Hunter’s eyes darkened.
“Dangerous hobby, collecting things that don’t belong to you.”
“Everything’s dangerous in this life.”
She leaned closer, letting her hair fall forward to shield her face from the cameras. Close enough to catch his scent—gunpowder and leather and something uniquely male that made her pulse quicken.
“But some things are worth the risk.”
Her phone vibrated—a text from her DEA contact demanding an update. Another from club security about a perimeter breach. And beneath it all, the weight of her father’s expectations and suspicions, the constant fear of discovery, the mission that had consumed her life.
But looking at Hunter, seeing the same shadows and secrets in his eyes, Eden felt something she hadn’t experienced in years: hope. Dangerous, foolish hope.
Tomorrow night’s showing could give her everything she needed to bring down her father’s operation. All she had to do was survive until then. Simple.
But nothing was simple anymore. Not with Hunter watching her with those knowing eyes. Not with Romano’s mysterious manifests. Not with her father’s empire of blood and theft hanging by a thread.
The bar’s security cameras caught her attention, their steady red lights a constant reminder of surveillance. She’d designed the system herself, building in backdoors that let her monitor every corner of the clubhouse. Including the storage room where Romano was now meeting with her father.
Her hidden screens showed them examining something—not the manifests, but what looked like ancient tablets. The kind that shouldn’t exist in any legitimate collection. The kind her mother had been investigating before she disappeared.
Eden’s hands tightened on the edge of the bar as painful memories surfaced. Finding her mother’s research hidden in a false bottom of her jewelry box. Discovering the truth about the artifacts her father dealt in. Realizing that Sarah Mitchell’s disappearance wasn’t an abandonment but a murder.
The DEA thought this was about drugs and stolen art. They had no idea how deep the conspiracy really went. No idea that the artifacts weren’t just valuable—they were dangerous. That they contained secrets powerful people would kill to protect.
Secrets her mother had died trying to expose.
Through the cameras, Eden watched her father and Romano examine the tablets. Their lips moved, but she’d disabled the audio in that room weeks ago, preparing for exactly this kind of meeting. She didn’t need to hear them to know what they were discussing. The same things that had gotten her mother killed.
Her phone buzzed again—this time with a message that made her blood run cold. An alert from one of her automated searches, tracking financial transactions through the club’s hidden accounts. A familiar name had popped up: Thompson. Her DEA handler’s signature on documents she knew he hadn’t authorized.
The implications hit hard. If Thompson was compromised…
“You okay?”
Hunter’s voice pulled her back to the present. He’d moved closer, using the pretense of ordering another drink to study her face.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
In a way, she had. The ghost of every lie, every betrayal, every secret that had led to this moment.
Eden had learned long ago that blood wasn’t thicker than water—it was thicker than guilt. Than loyalty. Than love. Her father had taught her that lesson well.
Now she just had to prove she’d learned it.
Even if it meant sacrificing the first man who’d made her feel something real in years.
She looked at Hunter, seeing the warrior beneath his careful cover. The man who could either save her mission or destroy everything she’d worked for. The complication she couldn’t afford but couldn’t seem to resist.
“Just ghosts from the past,”
she said finally, forcing a smile that felt like broken glass.
“Nothing worth worrying about.”
He didn’t believe her—she could see it in his eyes. But he played along, maintaining their careful dance of half-truths and hidden motives.
The night stretched ahead, full of shadows and secrets. Tomorrow would bring the gallery showing, the chance to gather final proof of her father’s crimes. The opportunity to avenge her mother’s death.
But tonight...tonight she had to maintain her cover. Had to keep playing the devoted daughter while gathering evidence that would destroy everything her father had built.
The irony wasn’t lost on her. Sarah Mitchell had died trying to expose the truth about the artifacts. Now Eden was using those same artifacts to dismantle the organization from within.
Like mother, like daughter.
The thought should have comforted her. Instead, it felt like a prophecy.
Or a curse.
Through the cameras, she watched her father shake Romano’s hand, sealing whatever deal they’d made. Watched as the tablets disappeared into Romano’s briefcase, taking their secrets with them.
Soon, she told herself. Soon she’d have enough evidence to bring it all down.
Until then, she had a role to play. A cover to maintain.
A dangerous game to win.
Even if winning meant losing everything—including the man watching her with eyes that saw too much. Even if winning meant following in her mother’s bloody footsteps. Even if winning meant becoming the very thing she was fighting to destroy.
After all, blood was thicker than water. But secrets...
Secrets were thicker than blood.