Page 35 of Claimed By the Bikers

This is what I came here for—concrete evidence of their operations.

But as I stack plates and force myself to keep moving normally, I realize I don’t want to know what they’re moving. Don’t want to confirm that the men I’m falling for are the criminals the FBI believes they are.

Two weeks of domesticity hasn’t just blurred the lines between my cover and reality. It’s made me hope that maybe, somehow, I was wrong about them from the beginning.

Which makes what I’m about to do the ultimate betrayal of everyone involved.

I finish clearing the table and head to the kitchen, mind racing. I need to report this.

It’s my job, my duty, the reason I’m here. Ben has been silent for two weeks, no check-ins, no contact, and I’ve told myself it’s because he trusts me to handle things. Plus, the brothers destroyed all the means for Ben to reach me. But tonight’s shipment changes everything.

“Finn,” I call out, sticking my head through the kitchen door. “I’m taking my break. Need some air.”

“Sure thing. Take a half hour.”

I grab my jacket from the staff area and slip out the back door, mind already calculating distances and timing. The racetrack is a twenty-minute walk from here, but fifteen if I hurry. I can retrieve the phone I hid there, send a quick message about tonight’s shipment, and be back before anyone notices I’m gone.

The walk to the track feels longer than usual, every step weighted with the knowledge that I’m about to cross a line I can’t uncross.

For two weeks, I’ve been living in a fantasy where maybe this situation could work, where maybe I could have both my job and these men who’ve somehow captured pieces of my heart.

But fantasy ends when duty calls.

The racetrack is empty this time of day, just dusty ground and tire marks under the afternoon sun. I make my way to the large oak tree on the far side, the one with the distinctive split trunk that I memorized during my first visit here. My fingers find the small hollow I carved out that first day, after I’d met Evie and started to understand just how complicated this assignment was going to become.

The burner phone is exactly where I left it, wrapped in plastic and tucked deep enough to avoid weather damage. My hands are steady as I unwrap it, muscle memory from countless similar operations warring with the guilt that sits heavy in my stomach.

I power on the phone and wait for it to connect to the network. One message. That’s all I need to send. Intel about tonight’s shipment, location, timing. Let Ben and his team handle the rest while I figure out how to extract myself from this mess before anyone gets hurt.

Before I hurt the men I’m supposed to be investigating.

The phone finally connects, and I open a new message to Ben’s emergency number. My fingers hover over the keypad, and for a moment I can’t make them move. Sending this message means confirming that everything I’ve felt these past two weeks was a lie. That the life I’ve been building here was just another cover story.

That I’m exactly the kind of person who destroys the people stupid enough to trust her.

“Having second thoughts?”

I spin around so fast I drop the phone. Atlas stands twenty feet away, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable in the afternoon light.

Shit.

11

ATLAS

The phone slipsfrom her fingers and hits the dirt as she spins around, green eyes wide with shock and something that might be guilt.

She’s beautiful standing there in the afternoon sun, hair catching the light, wearing the Wolf’s Den T-shirt that marks her as ours. Beautiful and caught red-handed trying to betray us.

“Atlas.” My name comes out breathless, like I’ve knocked the air from her lungs just by existing. “I was just?—”

“Just what?” I step closer, noting how she doesn’t back away despite the obvious fear in her eyes. Two weeks of living with us has trained her not to run, even when every instinct probably screams at her to bolt. “Taking a walk? Getting some fresh air?”

She opens her mouth, then closes it, apparently realizing that any lie she tells will only make this worse.

I bend down and pick up the phone, noting the message screen still open, a number saved as “Ben” displayed at the top. Rico mentioned this person—her handler.

My jaw clenches as I scan the empty text box. She hadn’t sent anything yet, but the intent was clear.