Chapter 1
BONNIE
ONE WEEK EARLIER
“Bonnie! Get your ass down here!”
Dad’s voice booms through the clubhouse, cutting through the noise of motorcycles revving in the lot and brothers shooting pool in the main room. I’m upstairs in my bedroom sketching designs for next week’s appointments when his bellow makes me jump, pencil skittering across the paper.
Shit. What did I do now?
I drop my sketchbook and head downstairs, boots loud on wooden steps that creak under my weight.
The clubhouse smells like motor oil and cigarette smoke, forty years of outlaw life soaked into these walls.
Photos of dead brothers watch me pass—faces I grew up knowing, men who died defending Ruthless Devils territory.
Dad’s office door stands open. I can see him behind his desk, leather vest stretched across his broad shoulders.
His arms are thick with faded tattoos from his younger days.
He’s built like the heavyweight boxer he used to be before the club consumed his life—six-foot-four of pure muscle gone slightly soft around the edges but still dangerous as hell.
“This better be news about Jackal,” I say, dropping into the chair across from his desk. “When’s he coming home? Or when can I go visit him?”
Dad looks up from whatever paperwork he’s been signing.
Green eyes exactly like mine, weathered face framed by a full beard that’s more gray than brown these days.
His mustache hangs in two long strands that curl past his jawline.
The old-school biker style makes him look like he stepped out of the seventies.
His desk is solid oak, scarred from years of heavy use.
Harley parts and engine components line the shelves—pistons, carburetors, chrome pieces he’s collected over the decades.
Photos cover one wall—club runs from the eighties, fallen brothers at their funerals, a few shots with local politicians who’ve learned to play nice with the Ruthless Devils.
On his desk sits a framed family photo Mom forced us all to take nine years ago. Dad’s arm around her shoulders, Jackal and me standing in front of them, all of us actually smiling for once. It’s the only picture in here that shows his softer side.
I’ve been in this office countless times growing up, usually getting lectured about my grades or my attitude. The attitude got worse after Mom died. I started cussing more, picking fights, and talking back to anyone who tried to tell me what to do.
Dad blamed it on grief, but really I just stopped giving a shit about playing nice when life proved it didn’t matter anyway.
“Also, who were those weird men that came by earlier?” I ask. “They gave me a bad feeling. Had Savage Legion colors, but they weren’t here to fight.”
“Sit down and shut up,” he says, setting his pen aside. “We need to talk.”
“I was just gonna sit down anyway,” I mutter, dropping into the chair across from his desk.
“Then listen good because I’m only saying this once.” He leans back in his chair, studying my face like he’s memorizing it. “You’re getting married.”
I blink. “What?”
“Marcus Stone proposed an alliance. Marriage between our families to end this war that’s been bleeding us dry for decades.”
I laugh because it has to be a joke. “You’re fucking crazy if you think I’m marrying that psychopath.”
“Watch your mouth.”
“Watch my mouth? You just told me I’m being sold off to our biggest enemy, and you want me to watch my mouth?”
Dad’s face darkens. “Nobody’s selling anybody. This is business.”
“Business?” I’m on my feet now, pacing in front of his desk like a caged animal. “Marcus Stone kills our people for fun. He’s the reason Tommy’s dead, the reason Jimmy’s in a wheelchair. And you want me to marry him?”
“I want this war to end before it destroys everything we’ve built.”
“So you’re sacrificing your daughter to save your club?”
Dad stands up slowly, all six-foot-four of him unfolding like a switchblade. His leather vest hangs open over a black T-shirt, showing off his arms covered in ink.
“I married your mother when she was around your age,” he says quietly. “Our families were at war then too. The marriage brought peace, and your mother and I fell deeply in love over the year.”
“And look where that got Mom.”
The words are out before I can stop them. Dad’s face goes white, then red, then something dangerous I’ve never seen before. His hand rises like he’s going to backhand me across the room.
“Do it,” I tell him, lifting my chin. “Hit me. That’ll solve everything, because the only thing you understand anyway is violence.”
His hand shakes in the air between us, and for a moment, I think he’s actually going to do it, going to knock me flat for speaking the truth about how his world killed the woman he claims to have loved.
But he doesn’t. His hand drops to his side and he looks away, jaw working like he’s chewing glass.
“The constant fighting, the stress of this war—that’s what killed your mother,” he says finally. “The heart attack wouldn’t have happened if she weren’t living in fear every day, wondering if I’d come home or end up like the rest of them.”
“So selling me off is better?”
“I’m not selling you off.” His voice carries the weight of absolute authority. “I’m securing your future. Marcus has agreed to terms that protect you and end this bloodshed.”
“What terms? What exactly did you negotiate for my life?”
“You’ll be treated with respect. No harm comes to you or any Ruthless Devils member. Our territories merge, our businesses combine. Everyone profits, everyone lives.”
I stare at him like he’s grown a second head. “You actually believe Marcus Stone will keep his word?”
“I believe he’s smart enough to know that breaking his word means war with every MC west of the Mississippi.”
The clubhouse hums with activity around us. Boots on hardwood, the crack of pool balls, someone’s bike backfiring in the lot. Normal sounds of a life that’s about to be ripped away from me.
“I won’t do it.”
Dad’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yes, you will.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because you love this family more than you hate Marcus Stone. And because I taught you that part of survival means making hard choices.”
He walks around the desk to sit on the part of it that’s closest to me. This close, I can smell his cologne mixed with motor oil and cigarettes—the scent of my childhood, of safety and protection and unconditional love.
“They’ll be here for you in one week,” he says. “The ceremony will be on neutral ground, full honors, witnessed by both clubs. You’ll be treated as befits the daughter of a president.”
“Until I’m not useful anymore.”
“Until you learn to be useful in new ways.” He turns back to his desk, picks up his pen, as if the conversation is over. “Don’t do anything stupid between now and then. This is for our collective good.”
I want to scream, to throw things, to burn this whole place down around us. Instead, I turn and walk out of his office with my head held high, slamming the door behind me.
The hallway feels like a tomb. I need air. I need speed. I need to get the fuck out of here before I do something that’ll get me locked in my room until the wedding.
My Harley sits in the lot among twenty other bikes. A 2019 Softail my brother bought for my eighteenth birthday, painted deep purple with silver flames.
I swing my leg over the seat, hit the ignition, and feel the engine rumble to life between my thighs. The sound drowns out everything else—the clubhouse, the brothers, Dad’s voice telling me I have no choice.
No choice. I’ve heard that my whole fucking life.
No choice but to stay home while the boys went on rides.
No choice but to sit quietly during meetings while grown men made decisions about my world.
No choice but to watch from the sidelines as Jackal got groomed for leadership while I got groomed for marriage.
Growing up as the only kid in a clubhouse full of adults sucked. The youngest member was at least ten years older than me, and they all treated me like some kind of mascot. Pat the little princess on the head, give her a candy bar, and send her to her room when the real business starts.
Even when I proved I was smarter than half of them, tougher than most, they still saw me as Iron McKenzie’s little girl who needed protection from the harsh realities of club life.
I gun it out of the lot, tires spitting gravel, not caring where I’m going as long as it’s away from here.
The wind hits my face. Highway stretches ahead, empty except for the occasional truck or car. I lean into the bike, pushing the speedometer past seventy, past eighty, the world blurring into streaks of green and brown and blue sky.
This is what flying must feel like. No walls, no rules, no father deciding my future without asking what I want.
A glance in my mirror shows another bike behind me, keeping pace but not trying to catch up. It’s a black Dyna with silver details, pipes loud enough to wake the dead. I know that bike. I know the rider too.
Ash.
Damian Torres, Dad’s second-in-command and Jackal’s best friend since they were prospects together. Twenty-nine years old, vice president patch earned through blood and loyalty. The man Dad chose to fill Jackal’s shoes when my brother got sent away.
He’s following me because that’s what Dad would expect. Protect the president’s daughter, even from herself. Make sure she doesn’t run, and doesn’t do anything stupid that might fuck up his precious alliance.
I should be angry and pull over, tell him to back off, that I don’t need a babysitter.
But I’m not angry. I’m grateful.
Because Ash is here, following at a distance like he always does when one of us rides alone.
Dad probably told him to keep an eye on me after that meeting, make sure I don’t do anything stupid.
But knowing Ash, he’d be out here anyway.
He’s been watching out for me since Jackal left, not because he has to, but because that’s who he is.
Ash lost everything to Marcus Stone. His original club, his family, his whole world burned to ashes—literally—when Savage Legion torched their clubhouse during a peace meeting. He was seventeen and barely a prospect when it happened, the only survivor of a massacre that left thirty men dead.
Dad took him in because Ash’s father had been a friend, because the kid had nowhere else to go. Ash earned his place through sheer determination and worked his way up from prospect to patched member to vice president faster than anyone in club history.
He hates Marcus Stone with the kind of fury that burns cold and patient, waiting for the right moment to strike. And now Dad expects him to smile and shake hands while I get handed over to the monster who destroyed his life.
The thought makes me push the bike harder, engine screaming as I take a curve too fast. Ash matches my speed.
Miles pass in a blur of asphalt and wind. The sun starts to sink toward the horizon. It’s beautiful and peaceful and completely at odds with the chaos in my head.
Eventually, I’ll have to go back. Face my father, face the reality of what’s coming. But not yet.
Right now I’m still free. Still, Bonnie McKenzie, tattoo apprentice and fighter of injustice, not some bargaining chip in a war I never asked to be part of.
The road stretches ahead, promising nothing but more miles and more wind and more time before I have to become somebody else’s property.
Finally, Ash pulls up alongside me, gesturing toward an upcoming exit. Part of me wants to gun it and leave him in the dust, but he’d just chase me down anyway. I follow him off the highway to a scenic overlook, gravel crunching under our tires as we pull to a stop.
The view stretches for miles—rolling hills and empty road disappearing into the horizon. Beautiful and peaceful and completely at odds with the chaos in my head.
Ash kills his engine and swings off his bike. I stay seated, hands gripping the handlebars like they’re the only solid thing left in the world.
“You gonna sit there all day?” he asks, pulling off his helmet.
“Maybe.”
He walks over and leans against my bike, close enough that I can smell leather and that cologne he’s worn since I was fifteen and stupid enough to develop a crush on my brother’s best friend.
Him and his two closest MC brothers—Ghost and Titan.
Three men I had no business thinking about the way I did, but teenage hormones don’t give a shit about logic.
“Your dad’s making a mistake,” Ash says quietly.
“You think I don’t know that?”
“So why aren’t you fighting it?”
“Fighting it won’t change anything.” I finally look at him. “The club’s bleeding money and members. Dad’s desperate. And I’m the only card he has left to play.”
“There’s always another way.”
“Not one that keeps everyone alive.”
“Come on,” he says, straightening up. “You look like you need a drink.”
“I need about ten drinks.”
“That can be arranged.” He walks back to his bike, throws one leg over. “Let’s head to Rusty’s. Ghost and Titan are probably already there getting into trouble.”
The mention of them sends an unwelcome flutter through my chest. Stupid crush that never went away, just got buried under layers of reality and responsibility.
Ghost with his quiet intensity and those hands that can kill or heal depending on what’s needed.
Titan, who’s built like a mountain and fights like he’s got nothing to lose.
Three men I’ve wanted since I was old enough to understand what wanting men meant.
Three men who’ve never looked at me as anything more than Jackal’s little sister.