Single Mom’s Bikers (Black Wolves MC #2)

1. Evie

1

EVIE

Three Months Earlier. Sacramento, California.

I was nineteen when I met Luca Delgado. Twenty when I got his name tattooed over my collarbone. Twenty-one when Daisy was born. Now, at twenty-seven, I’m drugging my children so they won’t remember the night we escape their father.

The sedative dissolves easily in their bedtime milk. My hands don’t shake anymore—not like they did after Luca’s backhand at dinner. I watch my girls drift off, Violet’s small hand clutching her older sister’s pajama sleeve like she always does.

At four and six, they’re too young to understand why Mama sometimes has bruises, why Daddy has “special” rooms they can’t enter, and why the men who visit always carry guns under their suits.

“Just sleep, my babies,” I whisper, lifting Violet first. She weighs nothing in my arms, her dark curls so like Luca’s. “When you wake up, we’ll be free.”

The Mercedes is packed. While the girls slept, I cleared out Luca’s private safe—the one he thinks I don’t know about. Millions in cash, his prized watch collection, and the diamonds he gave me to apologize for breaking my wrist last year. All stuffed into duffel bags and hidden under princess backpacks and stuffed animals.

Rain starts falling as I ease the Mercedes out of our garage. A message blinks on my burner phone. It’s Rose, my private investigator turned close friend: “The guards are changing shifts. Gate’s camera looped. You have eight minutes, Evie.”

Getting my sleeping girls into their car seats was the hard part. Now comes the rest—navigating Sacramento’s wet streets without drawing attention. Three turns until we hit the bridge. Four more until we’re on the highway. I’ve driven this route a hundred times in my head while lying next to Luca, planning this moment.

The burner phone buzzes with another text from Rose a few minutes later: “ GET OUT NOW. He’s left the game early. ”

I press harder on the gas, watching my daughters’ peaceful faces in the rearview mirror. The first sign of pursuit comes as I merge onto the bridge—headlights, too many of them, cutting through the rain behind me. One of the guards must have called him.

Lightning splits the sky as I take the bridge on-ramps.

In my rearview mirror, I count the headlights—five, no, six vehicles. Luca’s in one of them. I know exactly which one—the black Escalade, the one he uses for “business.” The one that sometimes comes home with suspicious stains in the trunk.

I know all he wants now is to strangle what little life I have left inside of me. It wouldn’t be the first time—only that he might be successful now.

The first bullet shatters my side mirror. It was about time, anyway. Trust Luca to always bring a gun to a knife fight.

I swerve, my heart hammering as more shots follow. I can already see the news headline: “Crazy Woman Drugs Kids and Drives into a Ditch With Them in the Back Seat.”

“No,” I mutter to myself. No, this is not how my story ends.

My Mercedes lunges forward, engine roaring as I push it to its limits.

Rain pounds against the windshield as I weave through late-night traffic. The bridge turns to the highway, and then to the back roads I’ve memorized. The sedatives will keep my girls under for hours. They won’t remember the gunfire, the screech of tires, their mother’s desperate flight into the darkness.

“Three minutes to the switch point.” Rose’s voice crackles through the phone. “Dark blue minivan, just like we planned.”

I spot the van exactly where Rose promised—the vehicle switch we’ve planned for months. My hands are steady as I pull alongside it, muscle memory taking over from endless practice runs.

Three minutes to transfer sleeping children and vital bags. Four minutes to wipe down the Mercedes. The rain helps, washing away traces of our escape. My daughters don’t stir as I buckle them into new car seats.

A motorcycle engine roars in the distance. Then another. Luca’s sending his fastest men to cut off escape routes. But Rose planned for this too. The minivan blends perfectly with late-night family traffic, nothing like the Mercedes they’re hunting.

Rose’s final message reads: “Call me when you’re past state lines. Your new life is waiting in Wolf Pike.”

Present Day

I jerk awake to my alarm’s shrill beeping, phantom rain still on my skin. Three months since that night. Two months spent in Lincoln, Nebraska, living in a cramped apartment above a laundromat. Rose’s idea—hiding in the heartland while Luca’s men chased shadows on both coasts. The girls thought it was an adventure, especially when our neighbor gave them a kitten we couldn’t keep.

Now we’re in Wolf Pike, our real destination. The house is bigger than we need, paid for with Luca’s own money. Karma, Rose calls it. The schools are good, the neighbors mind their business, and most importantly, the Black Wolves MC keeps unwanted visitors out of their territory.

Pushing sweat-dampened hair from my face, I silence the alarm. Six AM. First day of school, and I can’t afford to let nightmares slow me down. Not when my interview at Cross Brothers’ Ink Gallery is in three hours.

“Mama?” Daisy’s voice drifts from the doorway. My six-year-old stands there in Pokémon pajamas, already alert. Just like her father before he changed, before the darkness took over. “Violet’s still sleeping.”

“Of course she is.” I manage a smile, pushing away memories of that night. “Want to help me wake your sister?”

Violet grumbles when we enter her room, burrowing deeper under her unicorn comforter. At four, she’s already mastered the art of ignoring mornings. The lighter streaks I added to her hair are much more visible, making her look more like her sister now and less like her father.

An hour later, I’m braiding Daisy’s hair while Violet demolishes her scrambled eggs. My fingers move quickly, weaving the strands into the French braid that’s become our new normal instead of the elaborate styles their abuela once did.

“Bus comes at seven,” I remind them, watching Violet chase the last bit of egg around her plate. “Remember what we practiced? Your new last name is?—”

“Ashbourne!” Violet chirps, proud of mastering the word. “Like yours, Mama.”

“And we don’t talk about before,” Daisy adds solemnly. Sometimes, her understanding breaks my heart. She’s too young to be so careful.

The girls’ backpacks wait by the door, new and bright against the worn welcome mat. Rose vetted the school herself, ensuring its security measures met her standards. My friend might be paranoid, but her caution has kept us alive these three months.

By some miracle, we make it onto the front porch by 6:55. The morning air carries a hint of desert heat to come, but right now, it’s perfect. Almost peaceful. I watch my girls climb the bus steps, their new backpacks bouncing. Only when the yellow bus turns the corner do I let myself breathe.

“Now’s not the time to break down!”

The deep voice startles me, breaking through my thoughts. I turn to find my neighbor wrestling with his lawn mower, and for a moment, all I can do is stare. Rose’s intel mentioned the Cross brothers—three tattooed, motorcycle-riding owners of the gallery where I’ll be interviewing for a job as an office manager later. But her detailed reports didn’t capture how the youngest one, Zane, looks without a shirt.

Black ink covers his arms and chest, telling stories I find myself wanting to read. Sweat gleams on skin tanned by the Wolf Pike sun. When he straightens up from the mower, I realize I’m not the only one staring.

“You must be the new neighbor.” His eyes, an unusual shade of amber, rake over me with unconcealed interest. “Moved in last week, right?”

“Two nights ago.” I keep my tone cool. According to Rose’s background check, Zane Cross is thirty-seven, single, and runs their tattoo empire alongside his brothers. Perfect neighbor for a woman in hiding. Terrible complication for a woman who needs to stay invisible. But I’ll take my chances.

He kicks the stubborn mower. “Damn thing’s possessed.”

“Or maybe it just needs someone who knows what they’re doing.” The words slip out before I can stop them. Three months of keeping quiet, staying unnoticed, and here I am baiting a man who could probably bench-press me.

His eyebrows shoot up. “You offering to help?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I turn toward my door, very aware of his gaze following me. “Some men don’t like being shown up by a woman.”

“Sweetheart, I’m not most men.”

“That’s what they all say.” I reach for my door handle, needing to escape before I do something stupid like flirt back. “Good luck with your possessed mower.”

“Hey, neighbor,” he calls after me. “At least tell me your name.”

I pause, hand on the doorknob. Rose’s voice echoes in my head. Stick to the story, and keep interactions minimal . But there’s something about him that makes me turn slightly. “Neighbor. Neighbor’s just fine.”

He shakes his head slowly. “Zane Cross. I’m Zane Cross. Welcome to Wolf Pike, neighbor.”

Inside, I lean against my front door, heart racing. What am I doing? Rose chose Wolf Pike specifically because of the Black Wolves Motorcycle Club’s protection. The Cross brothers’ reputation for defending their territory—and the people in it—make them perfect neighbors for a woman running from the mob.

But she didn’t warn me about this. About the way Zane’s presence seems to fill any space he’s in. About how his eyes promise things I can’t afford to want.

PS: I haven’t even met the other brothers yet.

I strip off clothes on my way to the shower, needing to wash away both old fears and new desires. Hot water pounds against my shoulders, but all I can think about is Zane’s knowing smirk. The way his muscles moved under those tattoos. How his voice carried that edge of challenge.

I close my eyes, letting the water cascade over my skin. My hands move without thought, cupping my breasts. My thumbs brush over my nipples, and they harden instantly. The sensation sends a jolt through me. I squeeze, plucking at them, my breath catching.

When was the last time I allowed myself to engage in such pleasure?

My hand slides down over the curve of my stomach, but it stops. I bring it back up, wrapping it lightly around my throat. My fingers press gently, and my pulse thumps under them. A shiver runs through me, leaving me breathless.

Fuck.

I lift my leg and place it on the bathtub, exposing myself fully. My fingers drift lower, finding the slickness between my thighs. I gasp at how wet I already am, my clit swollen and begging for attention.

I let myself imagine Zane’s strong hands on my skin as I begin to rub my clit, slowly at first, teasing and circling. A soft sound escapes my lips, and my body arches into the touch. The pressure builds as I move faster, the heat pooling low in my belly.

Two fingers dip inside, sliding easily into the wetness. I press deeper, pulling out and pushing back in. The rhythm takes over, my hips moving to meet my hand. My leg shakes, still suspended, but I don’t care.

The sensations are overwhelming, crashing over me in waves. I can’t remember the last time I felt this good. My breath comes in short gasps, and my free hand grips the edge of the shower for balance.

It builds and builds, the tension coiling tight. Suddenly, I stop, pulling my fingers free just as the climax hits. My body shakes violently as I release, a rush of wetness spilling out of me.

I lean back against the wall, trembling as the aftershocks roll through me. The water keeps pounding, washing everything away except the memory of how good it felt.

Zane’s smirk flashes in my mind again, and I know I’ll be thinking about him all day.

By the time I step out of the shower, my body feels looser, but my mind’s clearer. I have two hours to become Evie Ashbourne, a competent single mother applying for a respectable job. The other woman, Elena Delgado, who stole millions from her mafia husband and ran with their daughters, needs to stay buried.

I choose my outfit carefully—creative enough for a tattoo gallery, professional enough for an office manager position. The mirror shows a woman with carefully brown hair, subtle makeup, and just enough curves to be noticeable without drawing attention. Perfect.

My phone buzzes with Rose’s morning check-in text: “All clear. You’ve got this.”

I text back a quick confirmation, then grab my portfolio. Inside are credentials for a life I never lived. But I know every detail by heart—the accounting degree, the office experience, the story about a husband who cleaned out our accounts and ran.

Through my front window, I see Zane still fighting with his mower. Part of me hopes he’ll be at the interview. Another part dreads it. Either way, I’m about to get tangled up with the Cross brothers.

At least this time, it’s my choice.