Ruined By King (Sons of Ruin: Tucson Chapter #1)

1. King

KING

The Ironwood Rally is neutral ground, which means I have to act like I don't want to put a bullet in at least three people here.

Four, actually. Just clocked another one near the beer tent.

I take a long pull from my bottle and let my gaze sweep the crowd — casual, easy, like I'm just another biker here to drink, bullshit, and pretend the real world doesn't exist for a weekend.

Bikes gleam under the string lights, hundreds of them lined up in rows like soldiers at attention.

The music's too loud, some classic rock cover band murdering Lynyrd Skynyrd on the main stage.

Everywhere I look, there's leather and chrome and women in too-short shorts and men with patches that would mean war on any other night.

But not tonight. Tonight we're all friends.

What a fucking joke.

My territory ends about forty miles north of here. The Sons of Ruin don't need to be at these rallies — we've got nothing to prove and no alliances to shore up — but showing face matters. Politics. Perception. The game never stops, even when everyone's pretending it does.

"You're doing that thing again." Rogue drops onto the picnic bench beside me, two fresh beers dangling from his fingers. He passes one over without asking if I want it.

I take it. "What thing?"

"That thing where you look like you're calculating how many bodies would fit in the desert."

"Four," I say. "But the ground's too hard this time of year. I'd need a jackhammer, and that's more attention than it's worth."

"See, this is why people think you have no sense of humor." Rogue stretches out his long legs, crossing them at the ankle. "They don't realize you're fucking hilarious. In a terrifying way."

"I'm a delight."

He snorts. "Sure, Prez. You're a goddamn ray of sunshine."

Rogue — Ryan, if anyone's stupid enough to use his government name — has been my VP for four years.

Before that, he was just another brother, but he was always the one I trusted to watch my back when things got ugly.

He talks too much, flirts with anything that moves, and has a smile that makes women forget they have any sense at all.

He's also the smartest man I know and the only one who can give me shit without catching a fist for it.

Lock materializes on my other side, settling onto the bench like a shadow finding its place.

He doesn't say anything. He rarely does.

Our Sergeant-at-Arms communicates in looks, grunts, and the occasional act of violence.

Right now his eyes are tracking the cluster of Road Kings patches near the main bar, cataloging faces and positions with the same calm focus he'd bring to cleaning his guns.

"Six of them," he says. Just that. Just the number.

"I counted seven," I reply.

"One's a prospect. Doesn't count."

Fair enough.

The Road Kings are out of Phoenix. We've got history — none of it good.

Nothing active right now, no open beef, but the kind of tension that never really dies.

Their president, a piece of shit named Chains, has been pushing at our borders for years, testing, probing, looking for weakness.

He hasn't found any. But men like that don't stop looking.

His Sergeant-at-Arms is here tonight. Rocky. Mean old bastard with a temper and a reputation for holding grudges until they rot. He's standing near the beer tent, thick arms crossed over his chest, watching the crowd like he trusts it about as much as I do.

I don't give a shit about Rocky.

I give a shit about who's standing next to him.

Don't look.

I look.

She's right there, maybe fifty feet away, half-hidden in the shadows at the edge of the firelight.

Auburn hair spilling over her shoulders, catching bits of gold and copper from the flames.

Jeans that hug every curve I'm not supposed to be looking at, a black tank top that's doing nothing to help my self-control, and a mouth I've imagined doing things that would start a war.

No patch or insignia — nothing that marks her as club.

But everyone here knows whose daughter she is.

Demi.

Rocky's daughter. The Road Kings' princess.

And the woman I've been trying not to think about for three rallies now.

I first saw her at the Mesa run last spring.

She was standing off to the side while her father talked business, arms crossed, looking at the crowd like she was counting the minutes until she could leave.

Something about the expression on her face snagged my attention.

Not boredom — something sharper. Restlessness.

Like a bird trapped in a cage too small for its wings.

I told myself I was imagining it. Projecting. Seeing something that wasn't there.

Then I saw her again at the Tucson rally two months later. Same posture, same distance, same look in her eyes. And this time she caught me watching. Our gazes locked across the crowded lot, and I felt something shift in my chest. A crack forming in a foundation I thought was solid.

She looked away first. It took me longer than it should have to do the same.

But I haven't stopped thinking about her since.

"King." Rogue's voice cuts through the noise. When I glance at him, he's watching me with those sharp eyes that see too fucking much. "You good?"

"Fine."

"You sure? Because you've got that look."

"What look?"

"The one that usually means someone's about to have a very bad night."

Lock makes a low sound of agreement. Traitor.

"I'm fine," I repeat, and make myself look away from her. The beer is bitter on my tongue, too warm, but I drink it anyway. Something to do with my hands that isn't something I'd regret.

"Uh huh." Rogue's not buying it, but he lets it slide.

Instead, he tips his chin toward a group of women walking past — tight dresses, high heels completely wrong for the dusty ground, and the kind of smiles that say they know exactly what they're looking for tonight.

"Now that's more like it. What do you think, Lock? Blonde or brunette?"

Lock doesn't even glance at them. "Neither."

"You're impossible." Rogue sighs dramatically. "What about you, King? When's the last time you—"

"Don't."

"I'm just saying, a little stress relief might—"

"Rogue." I let the warning harden my voice. "Drop it."

He holds up both hands in surrender, but he's grinning. He knows he's pushing buttons. He just doesn't know which ones.

The women pass by. One of them — the blonde — catches my eye and smiles, all invitation. She's beautiful. Objectively, undeniably beautiful.

I feel nothing.

My gaze drifts back across the fire pit without my permission, searching for auburn hair and firelight. She's moved. The space where she was standing is empty, and I feel that absence like a splinter under my skin.

I scan the crowd. There — near the food trucks, walking alone. The women she was with have drifted back toward the Road Kings camp, but Demi's heading in the opposite direction, putting distance between herself and her father's people.

Alone. Away from the crowd, away from her father's people. I shouldn't like that as much as I do.

I shouldn't follow her.

I set my beer down and stand.

"Where are you going?" Rogue asks, too casual.

"Food."

"You hate the food here. You said it tastes like—"

"Then I'm getting air."

"Prez, we're outside. We're literally surrounded by air."

"Rogue." I look down at him, and something in my expression makes his smirk falter. "Leave it alone."

He exchanges a glance with Lock. I don't wait to see what passes between them. I'm already moving, letting the crowd swallow me as I track her through the maze of people and bikes and flickering light.

This is a bad idea. I know it's a bad idea. Every step I take is another nail in a coffin I'm building for myself, and I can't seem to stop swinging the hammer.

She stops at a taco truck near the edge of the rally grounds, away from the thickest part of the crowd.

Digging through her back pocket for cash, head down, shoulders tight.

Even from twenty feet away, I can read the tension in her body.

She doesn't want to be here. She's just going through the motions, playing the role of Rocky's loyal daughter while something inside her strains against the leash.

I know that feeling. I know it bone-deep.

Turn around, I tell myself. Go back to your brothers. Have another beer. Forget about her.

I walk right up beside her.

"The carnitas are decent," I say. "Skip the chicken."

She goes still. I watch it happen — the slight stiffening of her spine, the catch of her breath. A man's voice, too close, when she thought she was alone.

When she turns, those brown eyes go wide for a split second before she locks it down. She knows exactly who's standing next to her now.

Christ.

Up close, she's even more dangerous than I remembered.

There's fire banked behind that careful expression, and a stubbornness in the set of her jaw that makes me want to test it.

Her lips press together — deciding, calculating, probably weighing how much trouble she'll be in if anyone sees us talking.

"You're a food critic now?" she asks. "Thought you just threatened people for a living."

"That's more of a hobby. I like to stay well-rounded."

Her mouth twitches. Almost a smile. She kills it before it can fully form, but I saw it. That tiny crack in her armor.

"I know who you are," she says.

"Good. Saves time on introductions."

"And you know who I am."

"Rocky's daughter. Road Kings princess. Off-limits in about fifteen different ways." I hold her gaze. "Yeah. I know."

"Then you know you shouldn't be standing here."

"Probably not."

"So why are you?"

"Saw something I wanted to taste."

The words land exactly the way I meant them to. Her lips part, just slightly, and I watch the flush creep up her neck.

She stares at me. I can see her trying to figure out my angle, searching for the trap. She won't find one. There is no angle. There's just this — me, her, and the dangerous pull between us that I'm done pretending doesn't exist.

"Is this some kind of power play?" she asks. "Getting close to Rocky's daughter to send a message?"

"If I wanted to send your father a message, I wouldn't be subtle about it."

"Then what is this?"

Because I've thought about bending you over my bike so many times it's a problem. Because I want to know what sounds you make when you come, and I want to be the one dragging them out of you.

"Trouble," I say. "For both of us."

I take a half-step closer. Close enough to feel the heat of her body in the cool night air.

"You've been watching me too. Don't pretend you haven't."

Her chin lifts. Defiant. "You're imagining things."

"Am I?"

"Yes."

"So at Mesa, when you stared at me across the lot for a full thirty seconds before you looked away — that was my imagination?"

Something flickers in her expression. Surprise that I remembered. Maybe surprise that I noticed in the first place.

"Or at Tucson," I continue, "when you found a reason to walk past the Sons' camp three times in one night. Imagination?"

"I was—"

"Or twenty minutes ago, when I felt your eyes on me from across the fire pit. When I looked up and you were already looking. Was I imagining that too?"

She doesn't answer. Her chest rises and falls a little faster.

"Demi." I say her name just to feel the shape of it in my mouth. Her breath catches. "Walk away if you want. I'm not going to chase you down. I'm not going to make a scene. But stop pretending this isn't happening."

"This can't happen." Her voice is barely above a whisper.

"I know."

"My father—"

"Yeah."

"Your club—"

"Demi." I hold her gaze. "I don't give a shit about the reasons."

The air between us feels charged, electric, like the sky before a storm breaks. She's close enough that I could reach out and touch her. I don't. Not yet. Not here. But God, I want to.

"This is crazy," she whispers.

"Yeah."

"We can't—"

"I know."

She shakes her head slowly, but she doesn't move away. "You're going to be trouble, aren't you?"

"The worst kind."

Something shifts in her expression. The resistance doesn't disappear, but it cracks. Just a little. Just enough.

Then she steps back.

"Enjoy your tacos," she says softly. And she turns and walks away, disappearing into the crowd without looking back.

I watch her go. My hands are fists at my sides, and something in my chest feels cracked open and raw in a way I haven't felt in years. Maybe ever.

Let her go, I tell myself. This is insane. She's right — this can't happen. There's no version of this that doesn't end in blood and fire.

But I'm already counting the days until the next rally.

When I get back to the table, Rogue takes one look at my face and his whole demeanor shifts. The smirk drops away. His eyes sharpen.

"King." His voice is careful now. Wary. "Tell me that wasn't what I think it was."

"It wasn't anything." I sit down and reach for my abandoned beer. It's warm and flat. I drink it anyway.

"Prez." Rogue leans in, dropping his voice. "That's Rocky's daughter. The Road Kings' princess. If anyone saw you—"

"No one saw."

"If Rocky finds out—"

"He won't."

Lock is watching me with those quiet, assessing eyes. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. I can read the concern on his face as clearly as if he'd shouted it.

"So that's it, then." Rogue's trying to convince himself as much as me. "You talked. You got it out of your system. It's done."

I think about the way she looked at me. The way she said this can't happen while her whole body leaned toward me like I was gravity. The way I felt more alive in those five minutes than I have in months.

"Yeah," I say. "Done."

Rogue nods, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. "Good. Good. That's... yeah. Good."

Lock doesn't nod. Lock just keeps watching me, and I know he sees right through the lie.

I drain the rest of my beer and crush the can in my fist.

Done.

What a fucking joke.