Page 104 of Claimed By the Bikers

“Building!” James announces proudly.

“I can see that. Very impressive work.”

Evie settles into the chair across from me with James on her lap and a steaming mug in her free hand. “How are you doing, honey? Adjusting to the dead life okay?”

“Still working on it.”

“Takes time. When I first came to Wolf Pike, I spent weeks jumping at every shadow, thinking my past was going to catch up with me.” She sips her coffee, studying my face. “Course, I had the advantage of looking completely different from my old life.”

“Different how?”

“Hair, clothes, attitude. Everything that made me Elena Delgado disappeared the day I became Evie Cross.” She sets down her mug, excitement building in her voice. “You know what you need?”

“What?”

“A complete transformation. Inside and out.”

Rowan sits up straighter. “That’s brilliant. Marcelo, the new guy at your salon, still does the full transformation work, right?”

“Everything. Hair design, style consultation, body modification, wardrobe overhaul. He could make you look like a completely different person.”

“I don’t know?—”

“Come on,” Evie interrupts, standing up with renewed energy while James slides down from her lap. “When’s the last time you did anything purely for yourself? Something fun, impulsive, totally unnecessary?”

I try to remember. Before Wolf Pike, before the FBI, before my mother got sick. College, maybe? Spring break trip where I got slightly drunk and bought a sundress I never wore.

“It’s been a while.”

“Exactly. You’ve spent months being careful, being strategic, being someone else’s version of who you should be.” Evie moves toward her bag. “Time to figure out who Ember really is.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Everything. Hair color, cut, style. Clothes that actually fit your personality instead of your cover story. Maybe some ink to mark the occasion.”

“Ink?”

“Tattoos. Chase expanded Cross Brothers’ Ink Gallery into a full transformation studio. People travel from across three states just to get work done by our talented staff.”

The idea sends a thrill through me that surprises with its intensity. Tattoos. Physical transformation. Permanent marks that declare I’m not the same person who walked into that compound six months ago.

“I’ve never had a tattoo.”

“Even better. First one’s special.”

Rowan nods encouragingly.

“What would I even get?”

“That’s between you and the artist. But I guarantee he’ll come up with the right design.”

I look around the room—at James’s pillow fort, at the family photos covering every surface, at two women who’ve found happiness in complicated relationships with dangerous men. They’re both watching me with expectant faces, waiting for me to make a choice.

“When?”

“Right now,” Evie says, grabbing her keys. “Studio’s closed today, which means Marcelo has time for a private consultation.”

“What about—” I gesture toward James.