Page 3 of Heat (The Royal HArlots MC, Quebec City-Canada #1)

Chapter Two

Teller

Teller set the phone aside, staring at it as if willing it to ring again.

The conversation lingered in his mind; the words replaying like a haunting refrain.

He hadn’t asked for information on the Harlots…

not yet. He’d been informed by Jameson about the Bastards aligning themselves with the Harlots.

Quebec City Chapter was the closest, so they were the Montreal’s Chapter’s sisters.

Drumming his fingers on the desk, his thoughts churned in rhythm with the faint, hollow taps of his knuckles against the wood.

He could feel the frustration bubbling under his skin, the gnawing itch of needing answers.

Sherlock could give him what he wanted—what he needed. The tech always came through.

With a sharp exhale, Teller shoved his chair back, the legs scraping against the floor with a grating screech. He stood, rolling his shoulders, and cast a glance around the empty room. The hall felt too quiet, too still, the type of quiet that sank into your bones and made you restless.

He moved toward the back of the hall, his boots thudding softly against the floor.

The air grew cooler as he approached the little room tucked away like a secret.

Inside, the faint hum of machines and the faint glow of monitors spilled into the hallway, pulsing with the quiet energy of someone hard at work.

Teller stepped into the tech room without knocking.

It was a space as cluttered as Sherlock’s mind—half-empty coffee cups stacked precariously on the desk, wires snaking across every available surface, and screens flickering with streams of data.

The room smelled faintly of burned plastic and old energy drinks.

Sherlock didn’t even look up. His fingers danced over the keyboard, the clatter echoing in the cramped space. “What’s up, T? Or should I guess?” His tone was casual, but Teller knew better. The man didn’t ask unless he already knew the answer—or most of it.

Teller leaned against the doorway; arms crossed. “I need you to dig into something for me. The Harlots.”

At that, Sherlock finally paused, swiveling his chair to face Teller. His brows lifted, a glint of curiosity lighting his eyes. “Harlots? That’s not small-time.”

“No,” Teller said flatly. “It’s not.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “Alright. You want just the basics, or do I go deep?”

“Go deep,” Teller said, his voice low, steady. “And don’t make it obvious.”

Sherlock smirked, spinning back to his screens. “When am I ever obvious?”

Teller stayed a moment longer, watching as the tech’s fingers resumed their frenetic dance across the keyboard.

Sherlock always worked like a man possessed, lost in a world of ones and zeroes.

Teller didn’t understand half of what he did, but he didn’t need to.

All that mattered was the man delivered.

With a nod to himself, Teller pushed off the doorframe and left the room. Answers would come. They always did. The real question was whether he’d like what he found when they did.

Teller’s boots scraped softly against the floor as he turned, making his way back toward his office.

The cold buzz of his thoughts filled the quiet space, but it didn’t quite cut through the stillness like it usually did.

The question gnawed at him—how much did the Harlots know about them?

And why, of all things, had the Duchess chosen this moment to throw them into the Bastards’ orbit? All questions for Jameson.

He glanced down at the phone on his desk, the screen still dark, still silent.

Sherlock was working, no doubt already digging into the Harlots with that strange intensity he always had when he was on a job.

Teller didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know Sherlock was already on it—the brother lived for these kinds of puzzles.

But it was what wasn’t being said that was eating at him.

The silence in the hall, the way the air seemed to settle deeper every time he thought about the Royal Bastards.

The Harlots weren’t a minor concern—he had known that for some time—but there was something else here. Something he couldn’t yet see.

Teller’s thoughts circled back to the conversation he had with his National P.

He’d handed him the information, dropped it on him with the same casual detachment he always had.

But this was more than just a political move.

This was power. And it had consequences.

Bringing an entire one percent club under their banner was nothing simple.

He slid into the chair behind his desk, eyes locked on the empty space across from him. Focusing on the chapter’s books, he patiently waited for information from the chapter’s local hacker.

Hours passed; Teller’s fingers hovered over the phone. Then, slowly, he picked it up.

“Sherlock,” he said quietly. His voice was steady, but something in it was different now. There was an edge, like he was already prepared for the answers he didn’t want. “Do you have anything?”

Sherlock’s voice came through clearly, but with that amused tone he always wore when he was up to something.

“Harlots aren’t just a chapter, Teller. They’re tied into something much bigger.

I’m looking at the network now—there’s more going on under the surface.

But we’re not the only ones interested.”

Teller felt the weight of the words, the subtle chill creeping up his spine. “Who else is interested?”

Sherlock didn’t answer right away, the silence stretching between them.

Teller could almost hear the quiet hum of the tech’s machines in the background, the rapid tapping of keys, the data he was pulling together.

When Sherlock spoke again, the casualness was gone, “I’m not sure yet. But I’m digging deeper.”

The call ended, and the hum of the room seemed to grow louder in the silence. Teller stared at the screen in his hand, his mind racing with half-formed thoughts. He didn’t know what Sherlock had uncovered, but it was clear the situation was much more complicated than he’d first thought.

He leaned back in his chair, the cool air from the vent brushing against his neck, but he didn’t feel the relief of the temperature. The unease lingered. And whatever Sherlock found, whatever was waiting out there, would only raise the stakes. Teller knew it.

He just didn’t know how far down the rabbit hole they were about to fall.