Page 36 of Claimed By the Bikers (Black Wolves MC #4)

I feel long sections falling away, hear the snip of scissors removing months of growth. When he spins me around to face away from the mirror, continuing to cut and shape from different angles, I realize there’s no going back.

“Styling now. Almost finished.”

He works with a blow dryer and a brush, coaxing my newly short hair into a style that feels completely foreign. When he finally spins my chair to face the mirror, I don’t recognize the woman looking back at me.

My hair is dark auburn now, rich copper tones that make my green eyes look almost emerald. The cut is chin-length with layers that frame my face, making my cheekbones look sharper and my neck appear longer.

“Oh my god,” Rowan breathes from behind me.

“You look amazing,” Evie adds. “Completely different, but still you.”

“Different enough?” Marcelo asks.

I turn my head side to side, studying the stranger in the mirror. Agent Hayes had long brown hair and a forgettable face. This woman has striking features and a presence that demands attention.

“Different enough.”

“Ready for the tattoo?”

“Ready.”

The needle’s vibration becomes rhythmic and hypnotic. Marcelo works steadily, the three interlocking circles taking shape on my shoulder blade with precise black lines.

“Meaning?” he asks as he works.

“Three parts of one whole. Past, present, future. The men who saved me from a life I never wanted.”

“Beautiful sentiment for beautiful work.”

When it’s finished, he applies protective covering and gives me aftercare instructions. The mirror shows a woman I barely recognize—shorter auburn hair, dramatic makeup, fresh ink marking her skin. Ember Bishop-McKenzie-Delacroix looks nothing like the federal agent who disappeared six months ago.

“What do you think?” Evie asks.

“I think I need new clothes to match.”

“That can be arranged.”

We spend another hour selecting outfits from the boutique section of Marcelo’s expanded studio—clothes that fit my new identity rather than my old cover story.

Fitted jeans that show my figure instead of hiding it.

Tops that emphasize my femininity rather than projecting authority.

A leather jacket that makes me look dangerous instead of official.

By the time we return to Black Dog compound, evening shadows stretch across the parking lot. Through the windows, I can see the brothers gathered around the kitchen table with maps and papers spread between them.

“Planning session,” Rowan observes. “Probably discussing the cartel situation.”

“Cartel situation?”

“Los Serpientes. They’ve been making noise about revenge for their dead soldiers. The guys have been working on some kind of negotiated settlement to avoid an all-out war.”

“Negotiation?”

“Neutral ground meeting. Teller’s agreed to mediate, help both sides reach terms that don’t involve mass casualties.” She studies my face. “You didn’t know?”

“They’ve been protecting me from the details.”

“Well, you’re about to be very involved in those details. Your men see you like this, they’re going to want to celebrate before they risk their lives in cartel negotiations.”

The front door opens before I can respond. Atlas appears in the doorway, probably coming to check on my status or coordinate evening plans.

He stops dead when he sees me.

“Ember?”

“Hi.”

His eyes travel from my new hair to my changed clothes to the confident way I’m standing. Behind him, I hear Garrett’s voice asking what’s wrong, followed by footsteps as both he and Silas join Atlas in the doorway.

Complete silence as all three men take in my transformation.

“Mon dieu,” Silas breathes finally.

“You look…” Garrett starts, then stops, apparently speechless.

“Different,” Atlas finishes. “You look completely different.”

“Good different or bad different?”

“Stunning different,” he says, moving toward me with predatory grace. “Absolutely stunning.”

“The hair,” Garrett adds, reaching out to touch the copper strands. “It’s beautiful.”

“Everything’s beautiful,” Silas says, his accent thicker than usual. “You look like you belong here now. Really belong.”

Atlas cups my face in his hands, studying my features like he’s memorizing them all over again. “This is who you really are, isn’t it? Not the federal agent, not the waitress. This is Ember.”

“This is Ember.”

He kisses me then, soft and claiming and full of promise. When we break apart, his eyes are dark with want.

“We need to talk,” he says. “About the cartel meeting, about security arrangements, about keeping you safe while we handle this situation.”

“But first,” Garrett adds, his voice rough with desire, “we need to properly appreciate this transformation.”

“The meeting can wait an hour,” Silas agrees, already leading me upstairs toward a bedroom. “Some celebrations can’t be postponed.”

As three pairs of hands reach for me simultaneously, I realize that becoming Ember Bishop-McKenzie-Delacroix isn’t just about changing my appearance.

It’s about accepting that I’m exactly where I belong.

With the men who love every version of me, even the ones they haven’t met yet.