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“There you are, Ace,” Michel said with a grin. “Good to see you. I assume you heard the good news?”

“Goodis pushing it, but yeah, I got it straight from the source.”

“I had my guys take a look at everything.” Michel waved us over to the six immense wooden crates. Most were nailed shut, but one was still open. Michel slid the lid off, revealing stacks and stacks of guns nestled neatly in foam.

“This one’s your order,” Michel continued. “There’s no sign of tampering. Some of the crates hadn’t even been opened. Seems like Sean’s guys didn’t have a buyer ready.”

“They were causing trouble. There wasn’t a plan.”

“Somehow, that’s worse,” Michel muttered. “You know, just because we got the goods back doesn’t change what I said about Sean. Until he’s out of the picture, I can’t work with your clan. And if he burns us again, it’s your hide on the line.”

I nodded. Typically, I wouldn’t stand for that kind of threat from anyone, but Michel was only covering his own ass. He wouldn’t do anything to threaten me or my clan, as long as the feds weren’t onhisass. I understood the logic. At least we had the product we needed to fill the existingorders.“Wouldn’t expect anything less, Michel. I’ll take care of Sean.”

“Good man,” Michel said. “Guys, load the crate up.”

Michel’s guys hammered the lid back on the crate, then heaved it up into the waiting box truck, where it was mixed in with car parts and tires.

Striker closed the truck and locked it. “You think Sean said anything to his dog?” he asked me in a low voice.

“I’m sure he did,” I said. “But if Levi is pulling shit like this on his own, Sean’s going to tap that energy. He’s not done.”

“Great,” Striker said and rubbed his forehead.

“Keep an ear out for any rumors,” I said. “We can’t let something like this happen again.”

Striker nodded. “You coming back to the garage?”

“Not tonight. I’ve got plans.”

“Seems to be the case a lot these days,” Striker said with a knowing look. “Anything the clan needs to know about?”

“We’ll see.” If I claimed Harley—my fated mate—it’d be a big deal for the whole clan.

But we weren’t there yet. We might neverbethere. All I could do was hope she’d had enough time to clear her head.

“All right, get out of here,” Michel said. “I’ve got some rich women from upstate coming to look at custom dressers. I don’t want you to scare them off.”

“Make sure you speak to them in French,” Striker said as he climbed into the box truck. “Rich people love that.”

“C’est vrai,”Michel said, slamming the garage door shut behind us.

Striker threw me a salute, then drove the box truck back onto the narrow highway. I waited a few minutes, then drove after him. By the time I approached Lakeview again, it was late afternoon. Hawk texted to let me know the playground date had been extended into a movie outing, and then dinner at the pizza place.

I pulled into the driveway and was greeted by the sight of my home, the lights twinkling as if to beckon me back. My dragon hummed in pleasure, and my heart warmed. Coming home to Harley at the house, waiting for me, was a lot better than returning to darkness. But even so, it was a dangerous sensation because it most likely would be ending when summer was over.

I opened the front door, and the rich aroma of red sauce enveloped me. Music played softly in the background. Harley was in the kitchen, her hair pulled into a bun, wearing one of my gag-gift aprons—it read “Ain’t No BBQ Like A Dragon BBQ” with a cartoon dragon blowing fire at a steak. Not the cleverest slogan, but Hawk had nearly passed out he’d laughed so hard. It was tied tightly around her waist, accentuating the curve of her breasts and hips. My mouth watered, and it wasn’t because of the delicious scent of the meal.

“Hi,” she said softly. “I made dinner.”

“Smells amazing.”

“It’s nothing crazy. Just pasta.”

The table was already set for two, so I pulled a nice bottle of red wine from the pantry and poured it into the waiting glasses.

Harley shooed me out of the kitchen with a smile and gestured for me to sit down at the table. “Okay, okay,” I said, raising my hands in surrender as I sat. She was totally comfortable in my kitchen now—even more than I was—and I could’ve watched her for hours.

Dinner was pasta with a thick, rich meat sauce, and a huge salad filled with every vegetable in my fridge and thensome. She’d made the croutons herself, she said, using up the homemade bread a local had brought me that I’d abandoned in my freezer ages ago.