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Another chorus of shouted questions cuts him off. He waits again until the screaming reaches a low rumble.

“The gang in question is Underground Vengeance. But they’re only part of the problem. Their leader, who goes by the name ‘Scar’, is the man holding my son prisoner.”

“Fuck!” Scar jumps off the couch and starts pacing.

“I’m in close contact with another club, the Demon Riders, that’s going to help bring my wife’s killers to justice,” Sheriff Curtis says.

“Who are the Demon Riders?” I ask.

“A rival club funded by Blackstone. We’ve had run-ins with them in the past.”

“What kind of run-ins?”

“Drive-by shootings at the bar. Their members stalking ours, trying to infiltrate our club. Shit like that.”

“How do you know Blackstone’s funding them?”

“Matrix followed the money trail. Blackstone’s too good to make it easy for just anyone to find his secret accounts, but Matrix knows how to get into places others can’t access, even law enforcement.”

“Have you told anyone about this?” I ask.

“Who would I tell? The sheriff?” he scoffs.

“Don’t snap at me. I’m just trying to understand how this impacts us right now.” I scowl at him.

“Sorry.” Scar runs a hand over his head. “This is so fucked.”

“What can we do?”

“I don’t know. I need to call—” His phone rings. The screen flashes with Nitro’s name across it. “Yeah? Yeah, we saw it, too … I know … Are you still at the bar? Good. Get the prospects into position outside. Make sure we’ve got two guys on the inside, too. Where’s Reaper? Find him and tell him to ride to Nina’s place. Talon’s watching Max, but I don’t know if they saw the news … Yeah, I’m leaving right—You found Reaper? Good. Yeah, send them, too … Okay. Keep me posted.”

“What did he say?”

“He’s got a surveillance team heading to the Demon Rider’s Clubhouse. We know who all the current patched-in members are, but they could send prospects out to do their dirty work. I’ve got to text Talon and Nina. Hang on.” He quickly types a message and sends it. “We don’t know how or when they’ll strike, so we have to be ready for anything.”

“Do you think they’ll come after Max?”

“They might, but they could also attack anyone in Underground Vengeance or anyone associated with the club. We need to be on alert until the FBI realizes the sheriff is behind the murder.” He clicks off the television and grabs his jacket off the back of a chair. “Let’s go.”

“We’re speculating it was the sheriff, but what if it wasn’t? What if it was someone else?” I ask as I follow him out to the row of bikes.

“He’s the most likely suspect, given his past. Claudine seemed sure it was him.” He hands me a helmet, then secures his own.

“She can’t be sure it was,” I say as I strap mine on tightly. He’s going to ride like the devil himself is on our tail. I’m both terrified and excited.

“True, but until we have other evidence, my money’s on him.” He gets on the bike. I slide on behind him. We fit as if we belong together. The fleeting thought vanishes as the bike roars to life.

“The grieving father act will only get him so far. Eventually, they’ll find evidence of his involvement,” I yell above the rumble.

“Until they do, we can’t take any chances. Hold on tight.”

He doesn’t have to ask me twice. I wrap my arms around his waist and press my body against all that muscle. I shouldn’t be thinking about how he feels between my thighs, but I can’t help it. All I want is to be back in his bed where life feels safer and less complicated. I can’t believe I’m thinking about how good he felt inside me while we’re in the middle of a crisis, but I can’t help it. He’s pure magic, dark magic, to be sure, but still, I feel a strange connection with him. A part of me wonders if we’re fated to be together. I hate that we met under these circumstances, but I’m grateful we met at all.

I’m lost in thought, oblivious to everything except the warmth of his body and the wind whipping through my hair, when suddenly, the bike swerves hard to the right. I scream and clutch Scar’s waist. He yells something I can’t hear.

Something whizzes by my ear. I glance over my shoulder. Another motorcycle roars up behind us. The guy riding it points something at us. Sunlight glints off metal a second before he shoots.

“Gun!” I frantically scream, hoping I’m loud enough for Scar to hear me. He does, swerving side to side to avoid additional bullets. One slams into the asphalt below my foot. I yelp and jerk my legs up, then wrap them around his waist.