Faceless Devotion (Billionaire Bikers #1)

Chapter 1

Morgan

The keys in Morgan Reeves' purse jangled like tiny alarm bells as she dropped her massive black handbag onto the entryway table.

Another day of crushed creativity. Another night alone, waiting for Jason to call from his business trip—telling herself that relationships took work, and that the knot of uncertainty in her stomach was just her overthinking things.

She’d always wanted the love her parents shared, their complete trust in one another, the way they helped and supported one another. How they would dance in the kitchen together when a fun song came on the radio just to be close to one another.

Her shoulders ached from hunching over her graphics tablet, redoing the same logo concept for the fifth time this week only for her boss, Richard, to circle back to the design Morgan had originally presented on Monday.

“Just making sure we’ve explored all the options,” Richard had said with that practiced smile that never reached his eyes. As if she lived for his validation.

She should have been gaining weight with all the stress baking, and therefore stress eating, she was doing. But with the elevator being out the last few weeks, the six-flight climb up to her apartment had been keeping her fit, even while sitting at her desk most of the day.

Morgan kicked off her heels, wincing as her tired feet met the cool hardwood.

8:48 PM. Jason would be calling soon to check in from his business trip in Chicago.

The thought provided little comfort. Nine months together and she was still waiting for that spark, that breathless anticipation that was supposed to come with being in love.

But he’s stable. He’s there. Usually.

Her phone vibrated in her jacket pocket—speak of the devil. But when she pulled it out, it wasn’t Jason, but a text from Tessa. Her best friend since college, brutally honest and armed with zero tolerance for bullshit.

So apparently Chicago has a red dress, candlelight, and Marcello’s breadsticks now? Just spotted your man with some blonde. I’d crash it, but I just wrapped up a work dinner and we carpooled or I’d be front row. Don’t let him talk his way out of this. I’ll call you later.

Tessa never sugarcoated a thing. And after weeks of Morgan quietly second-guessing herself—and where her relationship with Jason was headed—she finally had her answer.

Morgan’s stomach dropped even before she opened the image.

Marcello’s was the upscale Italian place just outside of San Francisco that Jason had once deemed “too expensive” when she’d hinted at going there for her birthday.

Now he sat in a plush corner booth, but not alone.

A blonde in a red dress leaned into him, laughing at something he’d presumably said.

Their fingers were intertwined on the table, his thumb caressing her wrist in the exact way he did with Morgan when they were alone.

Her fingers trembled as she held the phone, the photo still glowing like a betrayal burned into her retinas. Her throat was tight, her breath shallow. She should scream. Cry. Something. But all she felt was cold rage pooling in her chest.

“That lying piece of..."

Her body moved before her brain could catch up. Keys and purse back in hand, heels shoved back onto aching feet. The exhaustion of moments before was gone, replaced by a white-hot rage that propelled her down the stairs to her car, and through the evening traffic.

She parked haphazardly a few blocks away, feeding the meter without counting the coins she shoved into it.

Marcello’s glowed warmly against the darkening sky, all gold light and promises of romance making her stomach twist with the regret of wasted time.

Morgan caught her reflection in the windows of a closed boutique—cheeks flushed, eyes bright with fury, chestnut hair escaping its once-neat bun.

She looked dangerous. A little unhinged.

Good.

The ma?tre d’ looked up as she entered, his professional smile faltering at the storm in her expression.

“Table for one?” he asked cautiously.

“No need. I see my party.” Morgan swept past him, making a beeline for the corner booth where Jason was now feeding the blonde a bite of what looked like tiramisu from his fork.

He saw her three steps before she reached the table. His face performed a comical series of expressions—surprise, confusion, guilt, and finally, a pathetic attempt at casual nonchalance.

“Morgan! What are you doing here?”

She bared her teeth in something that might have been a smile. “Funny. I was about to ask you the same thing. Especially since your Chicago trip seems to have wrapped up rather quickly for you to make it back into town so soon.”

The blonde looked between them, perfectly manicured fingers still entwined with Jason’s. “Wait, who is this?”

“My ex-girlfriend,” Jason said.

“His girlfriend,” Morgan shot back at the exact same time.

Morgan’s jaw dropped. Oh, no he didn’t.

“You’re exactly right,” she bit out. “Your ex-girlfriend. Don’t ever contact me again.”

Her tone was ice. Her hands, not so much.

Jason stood up, releasing the blonde’s hand. “Morgan, don’t make a sc—”

“A scene?” She laughed, and the sound was brittle even to her own ears.

“Save it, Jason. How long has this been going on?” She flung up a hand to stop him from replying, “Actually, don’t tell me.

I don’t care. Apparently I’m your ex-girlfriend.

Too bad you forgot to mention that fact until right now, or have the past 9 months been a complete lie too? ”

“Morgan, please,” he lowered his voice, glancing nervously at nearby tables where diners were now openly watching the scene unfold. “Let’s talk about this somewhere private.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Morgan turned to leave, then paused. The blonde was staring at her, shock giving way to confusion. “By the way, if he tells you he’s going out of town for work? He’s not.”

She turned sharply, fury stiffening her spine, holding her composure together with sheer will as she marched back through the restaurant. The ma?tre d’ stepped aside, shooting her a look that might have been sympathy.

Outside, the cool night air hit her like a slap—sharp and sobering.

She kept walking, not really seeing the sidewalk beneath her heels, just trying to outrun the sound of Jason’s voice echoing in her head. My ex-girlfriend.

Her heart pounded in her chest, not from fear but from sheer disbelief. Nine months. Nine months of careful compromise, of trying to believe that stability was the same as love. And for what?

Breadsticks and betrayal.

A shaky breath escaped her lips as she pressed a hand to her stomach as she slowed her pace. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to scream, cry, or throw something.

Instead, she just walked. One foot in front of the other, jaw tight, eyes forward.

She made it halfway down the block before she heard Jason calling after her.

“Morgan! Stop! This was just a business dinner.”

She kept walking, quickening her pace.

“Morgan!” His voice was closer now, sounding annoyed rather than apologetic. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing! Would you just listen to me for a second?”

His hand clamped around her wrist, spinning her toward him. It didn’t hurt, but the presumption—that he had any right to touch her after what she’d just witnessed—ignited something primal in her chest.

“Let. Go. Of. Me.” Each word was a carefully controlled missile.

“You’re acting crazy. That was a client in there. An important client who happens to be into me, and I was closing a deal.”

“By holding her hand? By feeding her dessert? By lying to her that I was your ex?” Morgan tried to pull away, but Jason’s grip tightened. Not enough to bruise—yet—but enough to make her blood boil.

“It’s business. Sometimes you have to play a part.”

“Is that what I was too? Just playing a part while you were busy with other women? Was I just the stand-in to keep your parents happy?” She jerked her arm free. “Don’t contact me again. We’re done.”

“Don’t be like this. You’re overreacting.” He reached for her again, but she backed away.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Come on, baby. I’ve got that promotion in the bag after I’m done with this client. We can move in together and start actually going for what we want in life. We had plans.”

“You had plans. Apparently to use me as a backup while you did whatever you wanted.” Morgan hefted her oversized purse higher on her shoulder, putting it between them like a shield. “Touch me again, and I swear to God, Jason, I will—”

“You’ll what?” He stepped closer, looming over her with his hand clenched on her shoulder, his earlier charm replaced by something uglier.

“That was just a client meeting. You’re being dramatic.

” He gave her shoulder a little shake, “Stop blowing things out of proportion. This isn’t a big deal. Nothing happened.”

She couldn’t believe his nerve!

Morgan became vaguely aware of movement across the street.

Through the haze of her anger, she registered the rumble of motorcycle engines going silent.

A group of men had parked down from the restaurant.

One figure—a dark silhouette against the evening street lights—had paused while dismounting, helmet turned in their direction.

She couldn't make out details at this distance, only the unmistakable stillness of someone paying attention.

Morgan jerked out of Jason’s grip and pushed him away, ice in her voice, “I said, don’t touch me.”

As she turned to leave, Jason caught her wrist once more, jerking her to a halt and causing her to catch sight of the four bikers making their way across the street towards her and Jason.

The one at the front, indistinguishable beneath his black motorcycle helmet, three others flanking him—a tall, lean man with sharp features; a broader, muscular one with a beard; and a third with close-cropped dark hair and watchful eyes.

Jason noticed their approach and froze, hand still tight around her wrist. She turned back towards him and as the men made it across the street, Morgan jerked free and took a few steps back.

The man in the black helmet stepped forward, half blocking Morgan from Jason’s view, while his friends hung back slightly, alert but letting him take the lead.

“I believe the lady asked you not to touch her.” The voice from behind the visor was deep, slightly muffled, but the warning in it was unmistakable.

Jason scoffed. “This is between me and my girlfriend—”

“Ex-girlfriend.” Morgan corrected, finding her voice again. “Apparently you have a new girlfriend in there waiting on you, so you better hurry on back to her.”

“I already told you, it wasn’t like that,” he shot back at her. “Look, whoever you are,” Jason sneered at the biker, “You need to back off. This doesn’t concern you.”

The biker in the helmet took a step forward, and despite being roughly the same height as Jason, he somehow seemed to tower over him. “When a man disrespects a woman on a public street, it becomes everyone’s concern.”

Something in his stance, the coiled readiness beneath the leather, must have finally registered with Jason.

Jason was lean—runner’s build, all wiry limbs and polished business attire.

Next to the bikers, he looked like he belonged behind a desk, not in a street confrontation.

The man in the helmet wasn’t much taller, maybe a little over 6 feet, like Jason, but he seemed to take up more space, his presence pressing in like a storm front.

The others were no less imposing. Broad shoulders. Sharp eyes that missed nothing. That quiet, heavy stillness that said they didn’t need to puff up their chests to be dangerous—they already knew exactly what they were capable of.

Jason’s confrontational posture withered beneath the confidence emanating from her masked rescuer.

Jason took a half-step back, eyes flicking between them, probably realizing how outnumbered he was now that he wasn’t just trying to ‘talk it out’ with Morgan.

“Whatever,” Jason muttered, “It was just a misunderstanding.” He turned to Morgan. “We’ll talk later.”

“No, we won’t. Don’t call me again, I’m blocking your number.” Morgan squared her shoulders and stood straighter.

She couldn’t help but be thankful she’d never let him leave his things at her house, there would be no messy exchange of belongings.

Jason shot one last venomous look at the biker before stalking back toward the restaurant, presumably to explain the situation to his “client.”

The bearded man tilted his head towards Jason’s retreating back, “We’ll make sure he gets where he’s headed.” The three other bikers trailed leisurely after Jason.

Morgan exhaled shakily, the adrenaline that had carried her this far beginning to ebb. “Thank you,” she said to the leather-clad stranger. “You didn’t have to step in.”

The biker tilted his helmet. “I saw everything from down the street. A guy like that... a woman can never be too careful.”

Morgan nodded, suddenly aware of how vulnerable she felt standing on the dimly lit street, her emotional armor cracked wide open. “I should go.”

“Is your car nearby?”

“A couple blocks.” She gestured vaguely behind her.

The biker hesitated, then asked, “Would you like an escort? Just to be safe.”

The sensible part of Morgan—the part that checked her locks twice before bed and never accepted drinks from strangers—immediately formed a polite refusal.

But tonight had already taken a sledgehammer to her carefully constructed life.

Her boyfriend of nine months seemed to be someone else's boyfriend too.

The safe choice had proven the most dangerous of all.

Morgan hesitated. This was reckless, she knew it. A helmeted stranger offering to walk her to her car should have triggered every red flag she had. But she was tired—bone-deep tired of playing it safe, only to end up betrayed. For once, she wanted to feel something other than disappointment.

“Actually,” she said, surprising herself with the steadiness in her voice, “That would be nice.”

The biker offered his arm with an old-fashioned gallantry that seemed at odds with his intimidating appearance, the black visor of his helmet reflecting her own wide-eyed image back at her.

Morgan hesitated, heart pounding. This night had already shattered every safe boundary she'd carefully constructed. The sensible Morgan Reeves would thank him politely and walk away.

But that Morgan had died the moment she'd seen the photo of Jason's fingers intertwined with another woman's.

After just a moment’s hesitation, she reached toward the stranger's outstretched arm, her hand trembling in the space between them, hovering at the precipice of a decision that felt bigger than just accepting an escort to her car.