Reaper (Iron Sentinels MC Book 1)

Chapter One

The engine roared like a wild animal beneath Reaper, the custom Harley tearing down the asphalt under a bruised sky.

Adrenaline sharpened his senses, tuning out the distant rumble of thunder and the sharp scent of impending rain. He had one focus: outrun the pack of Blood Fangs at his back. His mouth curved into a grim smile as he glanced at the cracked mirror. Four of them. Close, but not close enough.

“Come on, you bastards,” he muttered under his breath. “ You want a piece of me? You ’ll have to do better than that.”

He gunned the throttle, the bike responding with a surge of raw power.

Trees blurred into streaks of green and brown as he swerved onto a winding back road, his tires spitting gravel and dust.

The Blood Fangs followed, their engines howling in pursuit. The lead rider—a stocky man with a face like a bulldog and a patched leather cut that marked him as the Blood Fangs’ enforcer—motioned to his crew.

They fanned out, trying to box Reaper in. Smart. But not smart enough.

Reaper’s mind worked as fast as his bike. He clocked the terrain ahead: a sharp curve, a steep drop to the left, and a narrow shoulder on the right. He had seconds to act.

Bulldog surged ahead, trying to force Reaper off the road. The bastard leaned his bike dangerously close, the scrape of metal on metal screaming as their handlebars kissed.

“ Back off, asshole! ” Reaper snarled, kicking out with his boot.

His steel toe connected with Bulldog’s knee, and the man barked a curse, his bike wobbling dangerously.

The Blood Fangs’ leader regained control, but it gave Reaper the opening he needed. He cut to the inside of the curve, his bike skimming the edge of the shoulder as gravel spat out behind him.

The sharp turn didn’t just thin the pack—it spread them out.

The rider in the rear, a wiry guy with a spider tattoo crawling up his neck, misjudged his speed and skidded out, his bike spinning into the ditch.

“ Down to three, ” Reaper muttered.

But the Blood Fangs weren’t done yet. Bulldog shouted something to the others, and the two remaining riders fell into formation, tightening the gap.

Reaper felt the weight of their determination. This wasn’t just a chase, it was an ambush.

He reached into his jacket, fingers closing around the cold grip of his Glock. The rumble of engines and the rush of wind masked the sound of him cocking the gun.

The rider on his right pulled up, a chain swinging from his gloved hand. He whipped it toward Reaper’s front wheel, but Reaper swerved, the chain snapping against empty air.

Without hesitation, Reaper raised the Glock and fired. The shot cracked through the air, and the rider jerked, his bike veering wildly before slamming into a tree.

“ Two, ” Reaper said, the word a growl of satisfaction.

But Bulldog was relentless. He and the last rider closed the gap, their bikes flanking Reaper like wolves cornering prey.

The narrow road widened ahead, spilling into a stretch of abandoned industrial lots. Perfect.

Reaper hit the brakes hard, his back tire screeching as he spun his bike into a controlled skid. The maneuver sent Bulldog and his lackey shooting past him. Before they could react, Reaper whipped his bike around and opened fire again.

The second-to-last rider caught the bullet in his shoulder, slumping forward as his bike wobbled out of control.

Bulldog, seeing his numbers dwindle, roared in fury, and turned back to face Reaper. The two bikes circled each other like predators in a steel and asphalt arena. Rain began to fall, the drops hissing as they hit hot metal.

“ You ’re dead, you fucking bastard,” Bulldog spat, pulling a sawed-off shotgun from his saddlebag.

Reaper smirked, his Glock still steady in his hand.

“ You ’ve been saying that for years, Bulldog. Still waiting for you to make good on it,” Reaper retorts.

Bulldog raised the shotgun, but Reaper didn’t give him the chance. He squeezed off two shots, the first missing by inches, the second catching Bulldog’s front tire. The explosion of rubber and the screech of metal filled the air as Bulldog’s bike toppled, throwing him into the mud.

Reaper slowed his bike to a stop, keeping the Glock trained on Bulldog’s prone form. The man groaned, clutching his shoulder as he struggled to sit up.

“ Stay down, ” Reaper warned, his voice cold. “ And tell your men to think twice before running me down again.”

Bulldog glared up at him, his eyes filled with hate. But he didn’t move. Reaper revved his engine and peeled out, leaving the Blood Fangs’ leader in the dirt.

The ride back to the Iron Sentinels’ club garage was quiet, save for the steady hum of the Harley beneath him. The adrenaline ebbed, leaving Reaper with a bone-deep weariness. He was too old for this bullshit.

Pulling into the garage, he killed the engine and swung off the bike, his boots crunching against the oil-streaked floor. The familiar scent of grease and motor oil greeted him, grounding him in the safety of home.

He barely had time to let out a breath before he noticed her.

Savannah.

She stood near the far wall, her arms crossed, her expression equal parts frustration and relief.

Savannah looked like a firecracker wrapped in leather, her dark hair tumbling in loose waves over her shoulders, damp from the drizzle outside. Her jacket, scuffed but well-fitted, hugged her slim figure, while ripped jeans clung to her legs like a second skin. Her boots were worn but sturdy, the kind that had seen their fair share of miles.

Reaper’s gaze lingered for a beat too long, catching the curve of her cheek and the defiance in her almond-shaped eyes. They were a warm, honeyed brown, the kind that could soften a man’s edges if he wasn’t careful. Even now, with grease smudged on her fingers and a scowl on her face, she radiated a raw, unpolished beauty that hit him square in the chest.

He cursed under his breath and dragged his eyes away, focusing on the busted chain hanging from her bike instead.

She was too young—early twenties, by his guess—and too fresh-faced to be caught up in his world of dust and danger. He’d seen what this life did to women like her, chewing them up and spitting them out with scars too deep to see.

Reaper ran a hand through his graying hair, trying to smother the flicker of attraction before it grew into something he couldn’t control. She deserved better than some battle-worn biker with a bad temper and a past that would scare most people off. Better keep his distance. Reaper focused on her bike.

Her bike—a smaller, sleek model that looked like it had seen better days—was propped up on the lift, its chain dangling loose like a broken limb.

“ Trouble? ” Reaper asked, his tone rough but laced with a hint of amusement.

Savannah shot him a glare that could’ve melted steel. “ You could say that. Damn thing broke down on the highway. I had to push it here. ”

Reaper chuckled, despite himself. “ Sounds like you ’ve had a hell of a day.”

“ You ’re one to talk,” she shot back, her gaze flicking to the mud and grime streaked across his jacket. “ What happened to you? ”

“ Nothing I couldn ’t handle,” he said, brushing past her to grab a rag from the workbench.

He wiped the worst of the dirt from his hands before turning back to her.

She was still watching him, her tough exterior cracking just enough for him to catch the worry in her eyes.

“ Need help with your bike? ” he offered, his voice softer now.

Savannah hesitated, then nodded. “ Yeah. Thanks. ”

Reaper set to work, his hands moving with practiced efficiency as he inspected the bike.

Savannah hovered nearby, her presence a steady warmth in the cool, dimly lit garage.

“You shouldn’t be riding this thing alone,” he said after a moment, his tone gruff. “Not with the trouble out there.”

Savannah tilted her head, a teasing smile playing at her lips. “ Worried about me, Reaper? ”

Reaper glanced up, meeting her gaze. For a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them.

“ Yeah, ” he admitted, his voice low. “ I am. ”

Savannah’s smile softened, and she stepped closer, her hand brushing his arm. “ Guess I ’ll just have to stick close to you, then.”

Reaper’s chest tightened, a feeling he wasn’t used to stirring deep inside him. He covered it with a smirk, returning his focus to the bike. “Damn right you will.”

As the rain outside turned to a steady downpour, Reaper worked in companionable silence, the tension from the chase fading into the background.

This wasn’t the first time Savannah had come to him for bike repairs. She had rolled into Steelhaven, the Iron Sentinels MC territory, a couple of months ago. No one knew much about her or where she’d come from. Reaper had seen her type before: guarded, wary, and carrying secrets she wasn’t ready to share. But he knew how to handle someone like her. Be patient enough, and eventually, she’d fess up or let something slip—a clue, a crack in the armor.

All he had to do was wait.