Chapter 6
SHAW
After working closely together, Mira's professional mask is slipping.
She's bent over fire scene photos at the back table in the Ironside Bar, one hand worrying her lower lip while the other traces burn patterns with a pen she's not actually using to write.
Afternoon light catches auburn highlights in her dark hair.
She shifts in her chair, leaning closer to the photos, and I recognize the tell—she's processing information, building connections she's not ready to share yet.
I should be focused on the evidence laid out between us. Should be analyzing Sullivan's warehouse fire for patterns, comparing accelerant characteristics, building the case that will lead us to whoever's using my club as cover for arson.
Instead, I'm watching the way her teeth catch her lower lip when she's concentrating. The way her breathing changes when I move too close. The way she's started responding to direct orders without realizing she's doing it.
I've stopped pretending this is purely professional.
"The origin point bothers you," I say, breaking the silence we've been working in for the past hour.
She looks up, focus shifting from photos to me. "It doesn't match the others. Pete's facility, Beth's tattoo parlor, Danny's shop, Mike's restaurant—all clean work, almost textbook. But Sullivan's warehouse?" She taps the photo. "This looks messy. Rushed."
I move around the table to stand behind her, leaning over her shoulder to study the image. She stiffens—awareness, not fear—before deliberately trying to relax. Another response I've cataloged. She's hyper-aware of me, fighting it, and losing ground every day.
"You're right," I say, keeping my voice level despite the fact that I can smell whatever shampoo she uses. Clean, faintly herbal. "Pattern's different. Either we're dealing with a copycat, or the same person is escalating and getting sloppy."
"Or they wanted this one found." Mira leans forward, putting distance between us that feels intentional. "What if the others were meant to look like accidents? But Sullivan rejected the partnership. The arsonist had to know at some point the Brotherhood would be watching."
The theory clicks. "So they made it obvious. Established the pattern publicly, forced investigation into the open instead of letting us contain it quietly."
"Which means they want attention on the Brotherhood." Mira turns in her chair, and the movement brings us close enough that I could reach out and touch her. "They want you under scrutiny. Question is why."
Good question. One I've been working through since we started this partnership. The first fires targeted Brotherhood businesses but not the club directly. Someone's building a case against us in public opinion, creating a narrative that makes us look like criminals.
"Reputation damage," I say, staying exactly where I am instead of giving her space. "Someone wants to destroy what we've built. The businesses are collateral."
Mira holds my gaze for a moment longer than necessary before looking away. "We need to figure out who benefits from the Brotherhood's reputation being destroyed. Rival club, competitor businesses, personal grudge."
"Could be any of those." I move back to my side of the table—tactical retreat before proximity becomes more than either of us is ready to handle. "Or all of them. We've made enemies by existing and succeeding. Some people hate seeing veterans build legitimate empires."
The conversation about the Brotherhood's founding needs context, and words alone won't do it justice. Sometimes you have to see where something began to understand what it became.
We walk out of the Ironside Bar into the late afternoon sun.
Mira doesn't question when I head for the Harley.
She climbs on behind me without hesitation now, body settling against mine with familiarity that usually only comes from many hours and miles spent this way.
Her arms circle my waist, hands settling just above my belt, thighs bracketing mine.
The ride to Ironside Customs is short, but I take the long route anyway. Let her see the neighborhoods where Brotherhood members live, the community we're part of rather than apart from.
When I pull into the shop's parking lot and kill the engine, Mira climbs off with steady hands. She's getting comfortable on the bike and losing that initial tension.
The shop is quiet—just Tate working on a custom build in the far bay. He looks up when we enter, raises a hand in greeting, goes back to work. Knows when to leave people alone.
"This is where it started," I tell Mira.
"Before the bar, before official club status, this was just a garage where guys worked on bikes together.
Will had business sense. Cole had mechanical skills.
I had demolitions background that translated to custom fabrication. We built something from nothing."
Mira walks through the shop, taking in organized chaos of parts and tools. She stops in front of a Softail frame in my bay, custom work barely started.
"Yours?" she asks.
"Eventually." I join her, running my hand along the frame's clean lines. "When I have time. Building bikes is meditation. The precision, the problem-solving, turning raw metal into something functional—it quiets the noise."
She looks at me with those assessing eyes, putting pieces together. "Fire investigation does the same thing. Gives you control over chaos."
Smart woman. Reads me too easily. "Fire is chaos. Investigation brings order to destruction. Building bikes creates order from raw materials." I pause. "The Forge does something different."
Mira goes very still. I can see her processing the mention of something she's clearly been curious about but hasn't asked directly.
"The Forge," she repeats carefully. "I've heard people mention it. Seen conversations stop when I'm around."
"Private club. Members only. Separate from the bar and customs shop." I keep my voice neutral, watching her reactions. "Most people in town know it exists. They don't know what happens inside."
"And what does happen inside?"
Direct question. I could deflect. Could redirect to the investigation. But we've been building toward this moment for days, and I'm done pretending I haven't noticed what she needs.
"That's a conversation that requires honesty," I tell her, moving closer. "Not investigator to fire detective. Not temporary alliance partners. Just you and me, Mira. You ready for that?"
Her pulse jumps visibly in her throat. "I asked the question."
"You asked what happens in the Forge. But what you're really asking is whether I've noticed the way you respond when I give orders.
The way you relax when I take decisions off your plate.
The way your breathing changes when I use certain tones.
" I step closer, watching her pupils dilate.
"So let me be clear: I've noticed. All of it.
Question is whether you're ready to acknowledge what that means. "
She doesn't back away, but her voice comes out rougher than usual. "I'm here to investigate fires, Shaw. Not to—"
"Not to explore what you need?" I don't touch her, but I drop my voice to that register that makes her breath catch.
"Because I see you, Mira. See the way you fight against wanting structure.
Against wanting someone to make decisions so you don't have to carry every burden alone.
Against wanting to surrender control to someone you trust to use it well. "
"You don't know what I want."
"Don't I?" I let the challenge hang between us.
"Then tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you don't feel the pull when I give direct orders during investigations.
Tell me you don't relax when I handle situations so you don't have to.
Tell me your pulse doesn't kick up when I stand too close or use your name in that specific way. "
She can't. We both know she can't, because everything I've said is true and she knows I've been watching her carefully enough to see it.
"The Forge," I continue, not giving her time to deflect, "is where people who need intensity and structure find it in safe, consensual ways.
Where dominance and submission get explored without judgment.
Where control gets exchanged willingly between people who understand what that means.
" I pause. "Where needs like yours get met by people who know what they're doing. "
Heat creeps up her neck, but she holds my gaze. "And you think I have needs like that."
"I know you do. Question is whether you're ready to admit it."
The air between us goes thick with everything neither of us has said out loud. Mira looks away first, turning back to the bike frame, and I let her have the space to process.
"Tell me about earning your patch," she says after a moment, voice steadier than expected. Deflecting, but I'll allow it. For now.
I move to the wall where my original vest hangs, pull it down, and hand it to her. "What’s to tell? A Brotherhood patch isn’t given. It’s earned in sweat and blood. Founders included."
A brief grin flashes over Mira’s face before she examines the patches with careful attention, fingers tracing worn leather. "How do others earn them?"
"They start by hanging around without a commitment on either side.
If members think you might fit, you get invited to prospect.
That's when the real work begins." I watch her study the center patch.
"Proving you're reliable. That you'll show up when needed, support your brothers, put the Brotherhood before convenience. "
"How long is an average prospect?"
"About a year." I tap the full patch. "When the vote comes at that point it’s usually unanimous."
"And what is Sergeant-at-Arms?" She traces that patch now.
“Sergeant-at-Arms handles security, intelligence, enforcement of club rules." I take the vest back and hang it carefully. "Will thought I was the right person for it."
"Will trusts you."