Chapter 1
TINY
Present
The world’s still half asleep when I roll into Los Angeles, the horizon bleeding orange behind the skyline while smog hangs low over the freeways, tinted pink by the streetlights.
The city never rests. It just shifts its rhythm, the hum rising slow and irritated like it’s waking up pissed off but too tired to show it yet.
I keep the throttle low, the wind cool against my face, the steady rumble beneath me strong enough to quiet most of the noise in my head.
Lattimer’s name has a way of cutting through steel and engine vibration, and even with Peanut tucked warm against my ribs, I can’t shake the feeling that something old just stirred.
Peanut’s little head pokes out of my cut, fur brushing my chin. “We made it back, princess,” I murmur. Usually, she rides in her yellow carrier strapped behind me, but last night she wanted my body heat and whined until I took her out. The princess has lungs that could shame a Harley.
Peanut blinks up at me, unimpressed. I swear that cat judges harder than Capone on Church day.
She found me after the worst night of my life.
Kensi, Aftermaths Ol’ lady, and her dad were run off the road by a rival MC that decided sending a message mattered more than who got caught in it.
I remember the headlights coming fast and wrong, the deliberate push of chrome against chrome.
I laid the bike down to keep us from taking the full hit, and I skidded across gravel and grass while asphalt chewed through denim and skin like it had teeth.
By the time I stopped sliding, half the skin on my right leg was gone. The road rash was deep enough to expose muscle, and somewhere in the chaos, a gun went off. The bullet tore through me, close enough to an artery that the doctors later called it luck.
I walked away, but walking and whole aren’t the same thing.
After the surgeries and grafts, I told everyone I was fine.
I told them I’d been through worse. What I didn’t say was that something inside me cracked when I realized how close Kensi had come to dying because of us, because of this life.
Aftermath is one of my closest friends and my brother, and Kensi is the love of his life.
If anything happened to Kensi because of me, I’d never be able to forgive myself.
I started disappearing at night, sitting alone, letting the pain in my leg bleed into something heavier and harder to name. The clubhouse felt too loud. The world felt too sharp.
One night, I ended up in an alley behind a closed auto shop, my back against a brick wall, stitches pulling tight, the smell of oil and garbage thick in the heat. I told myself I was clearing my head. Truth was, I didn’t care much whether I stayed there.
That’s when this tiny black and white scrap of fur crawled out from behind a dumpster and climbed straight into my lap like she’d been looking for me.
She was all bones and attitude, one eye crusted half shut, tail crooked like it had been stepped on too many times. I muttered that I didn’t need a damn cat, but she ignored me and tucked herself against my chest as if I belonged to her.
I fed her the last of my jerky, and she purred so loudly it vibrated against my ribs.
I thought I rescued her.
Truth is, she refused to let me sink.
Peanut blinks up at me again, as if she knows exactly what I’m thinking. I scratch beneath her chin. “Yeah, yeah,” I murmur. “You saved me. I get it.”
The clubhouse gate comes into view, chain-link shimmering in the streetlights. My Road Captain patch catches the glow when I slow to a stop, and Bones, pulling gate duty, lifts a hand in greeting.
“Early bird, Tiny.”
“Late-night run,” I correct. “Didn’t want the San Diego crew sitting on our goods too long.”
He smirks as steam curls from the coffee in his hand. The smell of burnt beans rides the morning air. “You look like hell, man.”
I grin back. “Good. Means I’m doin’ my job.”
The gate rattles open, metal grinding, and the growl echoes off the building around us.
I ease the bike through. The clubhouse lot is quiet.
Only the faint bark of one of the strays Syvannah and I adopted breaks it.
We now have half the street’s rejects living along the fence line.
Dogs, cats, and even a three-legged raccoon that eats like a king and bullies the others.
I kill the engine, and the sudden silence presses in.
The air’s thick, still, too calm for comfort.
Capone’s been wound tight for weeks, and word from down south says Lattimer’s alive and rebuilding.
I don’t want to believe it, but the streets don’t lie.
The “L” carved into one of our informants last week wasn’t a coincidence.
My boots crunch on gravel as I dismount. Peanut crawls onto my shoulder, tail flicking, head on a swivel like she’s scanning for ghosts.
Then I see her.
Syvannah is crouched near the fence, blonde hair catching the sunrise while she breaks apart last night’s leftovers for the strays. The gold light softens her, but when I get closer, I notice the tension in her shoulders, the way her movements are careful instead of easy.
“Morning, Tiny,” she calls, her voice steady, though her fingers hesitate for half a breath before dropping the food.
“Hey, trouble,” I walk closer. The dogs perk up at my approach, tails wagging, half-expecting food. I crouch beside her, toss a few crumbs from my pocket to the smallest one. “You starting’ an animal sanctuary or building a crew?”
“Don’t tempt me.” She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’d make it work.”
“I know you would.”
She studies my face like she’s looking for cracks. “You look exhausted. How bad was the run?”
“Smooth enough,” I lie. “No hits. No tails.”
Her jaw tightens just slightly. “You always say that when it’s bad.” She exhales and looks back at the dogs, but I can feel the question still hanging between us.
Peanut hops from my shoulder to Syvannah’s lap, claws catching lightly on her shirt before settling. Syvannah laughs softly and brushes fur from her collarbone. “Your princess thinks she owns me.”
“She probably does,” I reply, and without thinking, I reach up to flick a piece of cat hair from her shoulder.
My knuckles graze her skin. It’s barely a touch, yet she stills beneath it. So do I.
Syvannah’s breath catches, subtle yet there, and her eyes lift to mine. The city’s noise fades until there’s only the space between us, and it suddenly feels too small.
My hand lingers longer than it should.
There’s a pull in my chest that has nothing to do with protection and everything to do with desire.
Then Syvannah shifts almost imperceptibly, as if bracing for something that isn’t coming. I drop my hand.
“Go inside soon,” I tell her. “Capone’s wound tight, and when he’s like that, the air gets mean.”
She nods, but her fingers curl into Peanut’s fur like she’s grounding herself. “You don’t always have to carry it alone.”
The words land heavily.
Before I can answer, Capone’s voice cuts across the lot. “Church now!”
Syvannah glances up, then sighs. “Guess that’s your cue.”
“Yeah.” I rise, brushing dirt from my jeans. She looks small against the fence, yet strong in a way that guts me.
I leave her with the dogs and head toward the clubhouse. The air shifts as soon as I cross the threshold. It’s thicker, heavier, filled with smoke and adrenaline. The scent of gun oil clings to the walls.
The brothers are already gathering in Church.
Trigger’s pacing like a caged wolf. Torch leans against the wall, cracking his knuckles, and Blayze wears that calm expression that fools no one.
Derange and Aftermath sit shoulder to shoulder, quiet for once.
Red’s got his laptop open, the green light reflecting off his glasses.
Capone stands at the head of the table, and his presence alone is enough to shut everyone up.
He doesn’t waste time. “Got a call from San Diego. One of our shipments never made it through. Three trucks. All gone.”
A low curse rolls through the room.
Capone slams a photo onto the table. It’s a man’s neck, charred and carved, the “L” so deep you can see tendon. The smell of scorched flesh is real enough to taste, phantom smoke in my throat.
“Found this on the driver,” Capone says, voice cold. “Lattimer’s back.”
The name settles heavily in my chest. Not just because of what he’s done before, but because men like him don’t just hit shipments.
They go after what hurts. My stomach tightens.
The bastard should’ve been rotting in the dirt years ago.
He’s the kind who doesn’t stay dead long.
Too much money, too many devils in his pocket.
Capone’s gaze sweeps the room. “We don’t move blind. Not yet. I want eyes on every route we run. Tiny, you and Dagger take the south line. Blayze and Torch, east. If this is Lattimer’s doing, I want confirmation before we retaliate.”
“Yes, Prez,” I answer automatically, already mapping out miles in my head. Roads I know better than my own reflection.
“Until then,” Capone adds, tone low and final, “nobody rides alone.” He lights a cigarette, inhales, and the smoke curls around the edges of the table like a warning.
The meeting breaks. Boots scuff, voices murmur, the sound of engines starting outside fills the air like distant thunder.
I linger, staring at the photo. The shape of the mark and the angles of the cuts are too clean.
Too proud. The burn halo is in perfect symmetry, a craftsman’s cruelty.
This is Hellhound work. There’s no mistaking it.
I can still smell the motel room from years ago, with motor oil, sweat, and blood turning to rust.
A chill crawls up my spine.
The ghosts I thought I buried might not be done with me yet.
I step outside into the bright sunlight. Heat rises off the asphalt, shimmering. L.A. traffic hums beyond the walls, with horns and sirens blending into one long warning.
Syvannah’s still by the fence, her hand resting on one of the dogs’ heads. Peanut prowls nearby, tail high, acting like she’s the queen of the lot. When Syvannah glances over her shoulder, she sees me. Her smile softens, becoming private, like she saved the real one just for me.
That smile steadies me in a way nothing else can. It slows my blood, cuts through the static, and reminds me why I stay when every instinct says to ride. For half a heartbeat, I let myself believe peace might be possible. I let myself imagine what we would look like if I believed I was enough.
But even as I walk toward her, I notice the way she checks the street beyond the fence. How her fingers flex as if she’s fighting something only she can feel.
The storm isn’t just coming for the club.
It’s coming for her.
And if my past is crawling back to life, it’s going to find us both standing here in the open.