Chapter 1
I lean against my bike and watch the organized chaos of another successful mission. While I guard the front of the building, I know my brothers are busy taking out the trash. In this case, the trash is in the form of six men who dared lay a hand on one of ours.
Bush is a few yards away, completely locked in on Zara as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist. He’s not even trying to hide his obsession. Big, dangerous Sergeant of Arms of the Demon Dawgs… acting like a man who just got handed something he never thought he’d have.
Zara’s smiling up at him, soft and real, not that guarded look she had when she first arrived in town. There are still shadows in her eyes—they may never go away—but she’s standing on her own two feet. Strong. Unbroken. Even after living through a nightmare.
I huff out a quiet breath, shaking my head.
“Man’s got it bad,” I mutter to myself.
But there’s no judgment in it—just… respect.
Bush deserves this. He made a choice years ago to turn on his former club because they planned to rape a young girl brutally.
Now that the girl has grown into a beautiful woman, the assholes still planned to tear her apart.
Bush stopped them again, this time with a little help from his new club—the Demon Dawgs.
Now, after abandoning his home for a new life in another country, he’s gained a little of that home back in the form of the young woman whose life he once saved. Seeing him happy feels right.
As for Zara, she’s one of us now, and I realize with a jolt that she’s not only Bush’s woman but she’s also my friend. The thought throws me.
I’ve never had female friends. Not really. Women were always one thing in my world—temporary, transactional, or off-limits because they belonged to someone else. Clean lines. Simple rules. No emotions.
The first shift happened when Chrome brought Cicely into our lives.
She’s smart, sassy, and strong, everything a President’s Old Lady should be.
Zara followed not long after. Different, but just as important.
Zara’s a little softer than Cicely, but she brings a different steel.
Two women who have made themselves at home in a clubhouse full of men.
They aren’t the only ones, though. Chill, Viper, and Izzy may be visiting from another clubhouse, but they’ve left their mark.
They’ve earned the respect of every man wearing the Chicago rocker under the Demon Dawgs’ emblem.
I don’t doubt that this was Chrome’s plan all along.
After our Vice-President’s misogynistic view on women resulted in two club members turning into traitors, Chrome has been on a mission to change the culture in the clubhouse.
I don’t blame him; he wants Cicely to feel at home before he asks her to be his wife.
He wants the clubhouse to be family-friendly instead of a sex den.
I didn’t see this coming when I joined the Demon Dawgs, but I’m not complaining.
“What are you still doing here?” Chrome asks, catching me unaware.
I frown at him. “What do you mean?”
“You have that job tonight? Security for Bragga. He’s hosting the fundraiser for the mayor.”
“I remember. Thought you might want help moving the prisoners to the Shed.” The Shed was where we took our enemies—their final port-of-call in most instances.
“We’ve got it. Chill and Viper can assist if Bush needs backup. You go ahead and get going. Don’t want to keep the wealthy asshole waiting. The paranoid fucker thinks protestors will crash the party. You’re there to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“Got it.”
Chrome claps my shoulder once, firm. “Head back. Gear up. You leave in an hour.”
“On it.”
I take one last look at Bush and Zara. He’s got his hand on her back, protective without thinking about it. She leans into him as if she trusts him completely. Seeing them together feels right.
Turning away, I swing onto my bike and fire it up, the engine roaring to life beneath me. The sound cuts through the quiet, grounding me back in what I do best. I pull out into the street, heading back to the clubhouse. Time to get ready for whatever the night’s about to throw at me.
After a quick shower and a change from denim and leather into a tuxedo, I’m ready.
I slick my hair back in an attempt to look as if I don’t spend most of my time on a motorcycle or working in a garage.
Downstairs, I find six other Demon Dawgs waiting, all dressed the same way.
We look like we’re here for a photo shoot. I give the signal and lead the way out.
The ballroom smells like money. Or maybe it’s just my imagination.
Polished marble under my boots, chandeliers dripping crystal overhead, and champagne flowing.
This party likely costs more than most people make in their lifetime.
Soft music hums in the background, something classical and forgettable, just noise to fill the silence between fake laughter and quiet deals.
I’ve got my back to the wall, arms loose at my sides, eyes moving.
Guests drift in clusters—designer tuxes, glittering gowns, the kind of people who smile too much and mean too little. They nibble on hors d’oeuvres, tiny bites of food that probably cost more than a full meal at most restaurants.
I don’t touch any of it, because I’m not here to enjoy myself. I’m here to watch and make sure no one worth less than millions crashes the party. My gaze lands on the man of the hour, Karl Bragga.
He stands near the center of the room, holding court. Short-cropped blonde hair, perfectly styled. Expensive tailored tuxedo. He’s laughing, clapping a hand on some guy’s shoulder, playing the role of charming host.
But his eyes…
They’re ice-blue, flat, and dead. I’ve seen eyes like his before. They say the eyes are the mirror to the soul. His eyes prove his soul vacated residency long ago.
Yeah. I don’t like him. Not even a little.
I return to scanning the room. My brothers cover the exits.
Torque, standing on the opposite side of the room, nods at me when I glance at him.
Everything is calm, at least for now. I don’t know if anyone seriously plans to crash the party, but Bragga is paying for security, so we’re here. The money is too good to pass up.
Movement catches my attention.
A woman glides through the crowd, and for a second, everything else fades to the background.
She’s… different.
Soft brown hair, the kind of color you’d see on a fawn standing in a quiet forest. It falls in gentle waves around her shoulders, catching the light with every step.
Her dress is elegant but not loud—like she’s trying to blend in instead of standing out.
Although that won’t work, she’s a knockout.
There’s something about her. She’s graceful and lovely.
She’s also nervous. I see it in the way her fingers twist together for just a second before she smooths them out.
In how her smile lingers a beat too long, like she’s making sure it stays in place.
She makes her way toward me, and I straighten slightly, attention sharpening.
“Good evening,” she says softly, her voice warm but edged with tension. “I just wanted to check in… make sure you have everything you need.”
That’s not what I expected.
Most hosts don’t even look at us.
I nod once. “We’re good.”
Her gaze flicks over me, then past me to the rest of the team, like she’s cataloging faces. Not in suspicion—more like she’s trying to remember who we are.
“Thank you,” she says, offering a small, genuine smile. “I appreciate you being here. Truly.”
There’s a pause, then she adds, “I’m Cressida Bragga.”
Up close, she looks even younger. At least a decade difference between her and Bragga, maybe more.
“Piston,” I reply.
Her smile softens, like she’s relieved by something as simple as a name.
Then the air shifts.
I feel him before I hear him.
Karl Bragga steps up beside her, his presence cutting through the space like a blade.
“Cressida,” he says, voice smooth but carrying an edge that doesn’t belong in polite company. “Why are you wasting your time with the help?”
Her shoulders go tight. Subtle. Most people wouldn’t notice.
I do.
“I was just making sure—” she starts.
“That’s not your responsibility,” he cuts in, quiet but firm. His smile never reaches his eyes as he glances over me like I’m part of the furniture. “They’re paid to be here. That’s all the attention they require.”
Something in my chest goes hard.
Cressida lowers her gaze for a second, that careful smile slipping just enough to show something real underneath.
“Yes, Karl.”
He places a hand on her back, steering her away without another word.
I spend the rest of the night splitting my attention between Cressida and doing the job I was hired to do. There is something about her that makes me feel that I need to check in on her.
As the guests leave, I lose track of Cressida while my men and I head outside to ensure they reach their vehicles safely.
I leave my men outside so I can do one more sweep inside.
While the party had been contained to the first floor, I moved upstairs to ensure there were no stragglers.
When I pass a set of double doors, I pause when I hear what sounds like a woman crying out in pain.
Without thinking, I open the doors and freeze.