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They don’t understand—I made that choice a long time ago.

The day I started my list.

Death comes for everyone.

Moscow’s just the beginning of the end.

45

Luna

Morning lightfloods through the large window, making the timber-and-glass room feel too empty without Cade. Through the mist, bikes lined up like soldiers in the yard below.

Home, something whispers inside me. This could be home.

Already missing Cade, I swing my legs off the bed, drawn to his closet. The neat rows of T-shirts and leather cuts hit me with his scent—leather and that citrus scent that never fails to make my belly tighten. I choose a white one, worn cotton soft against my skin.

My fingers find the tungsten beads on my wrist. His mark. His claim. For a moment I consider taking them off, but they feel solid and grounding. Like the rune hanging around my neck.

The scent of coffee pulls me downstairs to find a transformed clubhouse. Last night’s chaos has settled into morning-after peace:leather cuts sprawl over chairs, bottles lined up like trophies, and distant laughter still echoing in the air.

In the industrial kitchen, a woman—the redhead who declared she’d orgasmed from my product description alone—works a chrome espresso machine. Her flame-red hair falls in chunky braids to her tailbone, setting off the leather vest with its “Property of Grease” patch.

“Morning Luna!” She greets with a warm smile, then her eyebrows wag suggestively. “Rough night?”

Knowing I’ve more than earned her teasing with last night’s antics, I smile back, feeling surprisingly comfortable in this strange new world.

“A little. I could ask you the same, um . . .”

“Diamond,” she supplies, hands moving over the machine with practiced ease. “And honey, thanks to you, all sixteen rooms werebuzzingwith energy.”

“Oh really?” I chuckle, a surge of pride warming my chest. “Well, I’m glad to be of service. But I thought bikers didn’t sleep at the clubhouse?”

“Most don’t. But when it’s Cade’s return party? Nobody wants to leave.” She turns back to me. “Coffee?”

“God, yes. Flat white, if you can manage it.”

“I can make anything this beast can dream up.” Diamond nods at the machine. “Running this place means mastering all kinds of skills.”

“You run the place?” I ask.

She winks, pulling eggs from a restaurant-sized fridge. “For this morning, yes. I’m on breakfast duty. Someone has to keep those post-orgasmic party animals fed and watered. Now how do you like your eggs?”

Before I can respond, a child’s excited scream from the yard outside shatters our bubble. “Mama,ZioCade’s back!”

I move to the porch just in time to see Cade high-fiving Victoria, and then his gaze swings toward the door, instantly landing on mine. His smile remains, but his eyes are clouded with something heavy.

Then I see the swollen bruise darkening his jaw and fresh bloodstains blooming across his white shirt—mercifully not near his healing side. But it’s enough to make my stomach plummet.

He’s been in a fight.

“Get a coat, baby.” Cade jerks his head toward the clubhouse, and my heart skips with the gut feeling that something is wrong.

I grab one of the coats off the rack in the common room and head out, hardly feeling the cool air as I follow Cade. He strides toward the row of bikes in the yard, his steps sharp and jerky, and only stops when we’re out of earshot. He has his back to me, hands flexing at his sides like he’s trying to contain something volatile.

I wait, suspended in dread of what he’s about to say. “Cade. Is everything okay?” I ask.

He doesn’t respond right away, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep cadence. When he turns around, the look in his eyes steals my breath.