Page 2 of King’s Reckoning (Blind Jacks MC #5)

The metallic rattle of the ancient radiator jerked Rowan awake before dawn. Rolling over on the narrow cot in the prospect's room, she stared at the water-stained ceiling, her father's words from the night before echoing in her mind.

"I don't have a daughter."

Her mother's warning came back to haunt her.

"If you go looking for him, be ready for what you find. Marcus King isn't the man I knew anymore. The MC life changes people, baby. It'll change you too if you let it."

Well, she'd found him alright. Found him and dropped a bomb that had left the mighty Marcus King speechless. But she wasn't here for his approval or his love. She was here for answers—answers about why he'd abandoned them, why he'd never tried to find her, why he'd left her mother to raise a child alone while he built his empire of chrome and leather.

The creak of floorboards in the hallway had her rolling silently to her feet, instinct kicking in automatically. Her mother had drilled situational awareness into her from the time she could walk.

"Always know your exits,"

Elena would say.

"Always be ready to move."

Rowan had thought it was paranoia at the time. Now she wondered what—or who—her mother had been running from.

As a prospect, she was expected to be up before the patched members, handling the daily grind that kept the clubhouse running.

Her mother had taught her everything she needed to know about MC life, preparing her for this moment since she was old enough to understand.

Every detail, every tradition, every unwritten rule had been carefully explained until they became second nature.

Rowan pulled on her worn jeans and boots, then shrugged into her prospect cut. The leather still felt stiff and foreign against her shoulders, the bottom rocker conspicuously empty wher.

"SOUTH DAKOTA"

would eventually go—if she made it that far. She checked her reflection in the clouded mirror hanging on the back of the door. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, evidence of a mostly sleepless night spent replaying her confrontation with King.

Opening her door, she nearly collided with a wall of muscle.

Reed Morrison, the club's Road Captain, filled her doorway like he'd been carved from stone.

Even in the dim light, his dark eyes seemed to look straight through her, and Rowan felt her pulse quicken despite herself.

He towered over her, but Rowan refused to be intimidated.

She'd done her research on every member of the Blind Jacks, and Reed was one of King's most trusted men, which made him potentially her biggest threat.

"Up early, prospect?"

His voice was a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through her chest. There was something dangerous about him, something predatory in the way he watched her, like he could smell secrets on her skin.

"Early bird gets the worm."

She met his gaze steadily, channeling every ounce of confidence her mother had instilled in her.

"Or in this case, gets the coffee made before the brothers wake up cranky."

The corner of his mouth twitched, and something that might have been approval flickered in his eyes.

"Smart prospect."

He didn't move from the doorway, using his bulk to maintain control of the space.

"Word is you made quite an impression on King last night."

Rowan's heart skipped, but she kept her expression neutral. This was the first test. How would the club react to her claim.

"Just being honest with the president about who I am."

"Honesty."

Reed's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied her face.

"That's an interesting policy for someone who showed up out of nowhere."

His hand came up to rest on the doorframe, effectively caging her in.

"Makes a man wonder what other truths you might be sitting on."

Before she could respond, he stepped back, giving her space to pass. The movement was smooth, calculated—a predator choosing to release its prey.

"Coffee's not going to make itself. Then you can help me check the grounds. We've had some...disturbances lately."

Rowan slipped past him, acutely aware of his presence at her back as she headed for the stairs.

The heat radiating from his body seemed to follow her all the way to the kitchen, along with the weight of his scrutiny.

She could practically feel him cataloging every movement, every micro-expression, filing them away for future reference.

The clubhouse kitchen was her first real test.

Her mother had described it perfectly—industrial grade appliances, decades of grease built up on the walls, and enough coffeemakers to fuel a small army.

The air still held traces of last night's party—stale beer and cigarette smoke layered over the perpetual scent of leather and motor oil that seemed to permeate every MC clubhouse she'd ever been in.

Rowan got to work with practiced efficiency, falling into the rhythm her mother had taught her.

Strong coffee was the lifeblood of any MC, and she knew exactly how each brother liked theirs—information carefully gathered during weeks of surveillance.

She started three pots brewing, each a different strength, then pulled ingredients from the industrial refrigerator.

Her mother's voice guided her hands as she mixed batter for muffins.

"The quickest way to a biker's heart is through his stomach, baby.

They act tough, but deep down they're all momma's boys who miss home cooking."

She was pulling the first batch of fresh-baked muffins from the oven when boots thundered down the stairs.

Members filed in, drawn by the smell of coffee and baked goods.

Rowan kept her head down, playing the role of humble prospect as she poured coffee and distributed breakfast.

She felt King's presence before she saw him, an almost electrical charge in the air that had every brother straightening unconsciously.

Her father didn't look at her as he took his coffee—black, no sugar—but she caught him inhaling deeply as she set a plate of muffins in front of him.

For just a moment, something like recognition flickered across his face.

Did he remember her mother's baking? Did he remember anything about Elena Matthews beyond whatever had made him walk away?

"These ain't half bad, prospect."

The gruff compliment came from Knuckles, one of the older members. He was demolishing his third muffin, scattering crumbs through his gray beard.

"Almost like my mama used to make."

"My mother's recipe,"

Rowan said without thinking, then silently cursed herself. Every detail about her past was ammunition that could expose her true purpose here.

"Must've been some woman,"

Reed commented from his spot by the door. His eyes hadn't left her since he'd come down for coffee.

"To teach you MC kitchen protocol along with her baking secrets."

"She was."

Rowan met his gaze, lifting her chin slightly. Let him read what he wanted into that.

"Taught me everything I needed to know about life."

She felt King tense almost imperceptibly at her words. Good. Let him wonder what else Elena had taught their daughter.

The kitchen gradually emptied as members headed out to handle club business. Rowan cleaned efficiently, aware of Reed's continued presence by the door. When the last dish was put away, he jerked his head toward the door.

"Time for grounds check, prospect. Grab a flashlight."

The pre-dawn air was crisp as they walked the perimeter of the clubhouse property.

Reed moved with the fluid grace of a predator, checking gates and sightlines with practiced efficiency.

Rowan found herself studying his movements, admiring despite herself the play of muscles under his cut.

He handled himself like a soldier, she noticed—constantly scanning, never fully relaxing his guard.

"Eyes on the job, prospect,"

he said without turning around.

She felt her cheeks heat at being caught staring.

"Just studying technique,"

she recovered smoothly.

"Learning from the best and all that."

He snorted.

"Somehow, I doubt you need lessons in surveillance."

At her sharp look, he added.

"You've got training written all over you. The way you move, the way you check corners. Someone taught you well."

Rowan filed that away. Reed was more observant than she'd given him credit for.

"A girl's got to know how to take care of herself."

"That what brought you to the Blind Jacks? Looking for someone to take care of you?"

"I take care of myself,"

Rowan said coldly.

"Have since I was old enough to understand nobody else was going to."

They reached the small graveyard that occupied the far corner of the property.

Every MC had one—a final resting place for fallen brothers.

Rowan knew from her research that several of the graves belonged to members killed in the war with the Seven Devils MC five years ago.

The morning mist clung to the headstones, giving the scene an otherworldly quality.

Reed's flashlight beam swept across the rows of markers, then stopped. "Shit."

Rowan followed his light.

One of the graves had been disturbed, the earth churned up and the headstone pushed askew.

As they got closer, she could see that something had been digging at the plot.

Or someone. The disruption was too methodical for animal activity.

"Third one this month,"

Reed said grimly.

"Someone's got a real interest in our dead brothers."

His voice hardened.

"And they're going to regret it."

They documented the damage, Reed taking photos while Rowan helped straighten the headstone. As she brushed dirt from the engraved name, she recognized it—Michael "Flash"

Thompson, one of the brothers killed in the Seven Devils war. Her research had turned up newspaper articles about the conflict, but they'd been frustratingly light on details.

"He was one of our most loyal brothers,"

Reed said quietly.

"Close friend to both Darkness and King. Died saving others during the Devils' ambush. They took it hard, especially King. The whole club changed after that."

Rowan's throat tightened. Another piece of the puzzle that was Marcus King, another hint at what had shaped him into the man who could walk away from his family without a backward glance.

"What's different about this grave?"

she asked, noting Reed's particular interest in this disturbance.

His eyes narrowed.

"What makes you think there's anything different about it?"

"The way you're looking at it. The fact that you came straight here instead of checking the other graves first. This one matters more."

Reed was silent for a long moment.

"Flash was carrying something when he died. Something important. It was buried with him—club tradition."

His eyes locked onto hers.

"Someone knows that. Someone's been talking."

The sun was breaking over the horizon when they finished documenting the scene. Reed's phone buzzed with a message.

"Garage needs help with a repo. Think you can handle a wrench, prospect?"

Rowan allowed herself a small smile. This, at least, was familiar territory.

"I might know my way around an engine."

The garage was already busy when they arrived, the air thick with the smell of oil and hot metal. Darkness was supervising as two prospects struggled with a stubborn transmission. The club president had been instrumental in building the garage into a legitimate business for the club. His reputation as a mechanic was one of the reasons she'd chosen this chapter to infiltrate.

"Reed."

Darkness nodded to his Road Captain.

"Brought me some fresh help?"

"Prospect says she knows her way around an engine."

Reed's tone was neutral, but Rowan caught the undercurrent of challenge.

Darkness's eyes narrowed as he studied her. She could almost see him putting pieces together—her arrival, her claim about King, her mechanical knowledge. But he simply pointed to a Harley up on blocks.

"Primary drive's shot. Show me what you can do."

Rowan tied her hair back and got to work, letting muscle memory take over. Her mother had made sure she could handle any mechanical challenge an MC might throw at her. Elena Matthews might have left the life, but she'd never stopped preparing her daughter to return to it.

She was elbow-deep in the Harley's guts when she felt someone watching her. Looking up, she found Darkness studying her technique with unconcealed interest.

"Your mom teach you that too?"

he asked quietly.

Rowan's hands stilled for a fraction of a second.

"What makes you think that?"

"The way you handle tools. That's old school technique, stuff they don't teach anymore. Stuff I learned from guys who aren't around these days."

His eyes met hers.

"Guys like King, back when he was just a prospect."

Before she could respond, the garage's radio crackled.

"Trouble at the gate. Unknown vehicles, multiple occupants."

Reed was already moving.

"With me, prospect. Time to earn your place."

They jogged to the main gate where three black SUVs were trying to push their way past the prospect on guard duty. Rowan counted at least eight men, all wearing patches she didn't recognize. Their cuts were new, she noticed. Too new. This wasn't an established club looking to make trouble.

"This is private property,"

Reed called out, his hand resting casually on his sidearm.

"State your business."

The leader, a heavily tattooed man with a scraggly beard, sneered.

"Just passing through. Heard the Blind Jacks were letting anyone prospect these days."

His eyes locked onto Rowan.

"Even sweet little things like this. What's King thinking, letting bitches into his club?"

Rowan felt Reed tense beside her, but she stepped forward before he could respond. Her mother's voice guided her. “Sometimes the best defense is making them underestimate you.”

"Nothing sweet about me,"

she said with a cold smile.

"But if you're looking for trouble, I'm happy to accommodate you."

Her hand drifted to the small of her back where her weapon was concealed.

"Though I should warn you, I've got a nasty habit of ruining men's days."

The man's expression darkened. He took a step toward her, then froze as the distinctive sound of multiple guns being cocked echoed across the yard. Rowan hadn't even seen the other brothers emerge from the shadows, but now they had the visitors surrounded.

"Like the lady said."

Reed's voice was deadly quiet.

"We're happy to accommodate you. Your choice how this goes."

His own weapon was drawn now, held low against his leg.

"But I should warn you, she's not the only one with nasty habits."

A tense moment passed before the leader raised his hands in mock surrender.

"No trouble today. Just wanted to see if the rumors about King getting soft were true."

His eyes lingered on Rowan.

"Interesting times at the Blind Jacks. Tell King the Devils send their regards."

They watched the SUVs retreat, maintaining their defensive positions until the vehicles disappeared around the bend. Only then did Reed turn to Rowan.

"Quick thinking back there. Most prospects would've either backed down or started swinging."

"Sometimes, the smarter play is letting them think they have the upper hand,"

Rowan said, forcing her hands not to shake.

Devils. The same MC that had nearly destroyed the club five years ago. The same conflict that had changed her father.

Reed studied her for a long moment.

"You're not like most prospects we get."

"Is that a problem?"

"That depends."

He stepped closer, his voice dropping.

"On whether you're really here to earn your place, or if you're playing a longer game."

Rowan met his gaze.

"Why can't it be both?"

A ghost of a smile crossed his face.

"I'll be watching you, Rowan Matthews."

The way he said her name made it clear he'd been doing his homework too.

"The question is, will I like what I see?"

He turned and walked away, leaving Rowan to contemplate the double meaning in his words. Her first day as a prospect had barely begun, and already the stakes were rising. But she hadn't come this far to back down now.

In his office, Marcus King watched the security feed, his expression unreadable as Reed gave his report.

"She handled herself well,"

Reed concluded.

"Better than most prospects with ten times her experience."

"Almost like she was trained for it,"

King said quietly. He rewound the footage, studying his daughter's stance, her movements—movements that echoed Elena's with haunting precision.

"Almost exactly like that."

Reed hesitated.

"You want me to dig deeper? Find out what else she might be hiding?"

King was silent for a long moment, staring at the freeze-frame of Rowan facing down the Devils' crew. Twenty-five years of questions stared back at him from the screen.

"No. Keep watching her. Let's see what other surprises Elena's daughter has in store for us."

Reed nodded and left the office. Through the window, he could see Rowan helping the prospects clean up after the morning's excitement. She moved with the easy confidence of someone born to MC life, whether she knew it yet or not. Blood would tell. And Rowan Matthews had King's blood running through her veins, for better or worse.

"Make sure everyone's armed,"

King's voice cut through Reed's thoughts. He turned to find the sergeant at arms standing in his office doorway.

"Devils don't make social calls."

"Already on it,"

Reed confirmed.

"Doubled the guards, put eyes on all approaches."

King's gaze drifted to where Rowan was working.

"What's your read on her?"

"She's good. Too good."

Reed chose his words carefully.

"Everything she does is textbook MC. But old school, like someone taught her exactly how things used to be done."

"Elena,"

King said softly, almost to himself. Then his expression hardened.

"Keep her close. If the Devils are sniffing around, I want to know exactly what game they're playing."

"And if she's part of it?"

King's eyes were cold.

"Then she's not my daughter after all."

The rest of the day passed in a blur of prospect duties—cleaning, running errands, learning the rhythms of clubhouse life. Rowan felt eyes on her constantly, brothers watching to see if she'd slip up, reveal her true nature. She caught whispers, caught brothers studying her face and comparing it to old photos of King that hung on the walls.

It was near sunset when she finally got a break, collapsing onto a barstool as the night shift prospects took over. Her muscles ached from hours of physical labor, but she felt accomplished. She'd proven she could handle the work.

"Drink?"

She looked up to find Reed sliding a beer across the bar. He'd shed his cut in the summer heat, and his T-shirt clung to broad shoulders. Rowan forced herself to focus on the bottle instead of the way the fabric stretched across his chest.

"Prospects don't drink on duty,"

she quoted the rule her mother had taught her.

"Your shift's over."

He leaned on the bar, studying her with those intense dark eyes.

"You've earned it."

Rowan took the bottle but didn't drink.

"Why are you being nice to me?"

"Who says I'm being nice?"

His smile held no warmth.

"Maybe I just want you to let your guard down."

"Is that what King ordered? Keep the mysterious daughter close, figure out her angle?"

"King doesn't order me to do anything."

Reed's voice was quiet.

"I make my own choices about who to trust."

"And do you trust me?"

"Not even a little."

He straightened up.

"But I'm starting to think you might be worth the risk of getting to know."

Before Rowan could respond, an engine roared in the lot—multiple engines, getting closer. Reed was moving before the first shout went up.

"Devils! Coming in hot!"

Rowan was on her feet as gunfire erupted outside. Reed tossed her a shotgun from behind the bar.

"Time to prove yourself, prospect. You ready?"

She checked the action with practiced ease.

"Born ready."

His eyes met hers for a charged moment. Then they were moving, taking positions as more Devils poured into the lot. Rowan felt adrenaline surge through her veins as she sighted down the barrel. This wasn't how she'd planned to earn her place in the club, but she'd take what she could get.

After all, she was King's daughter. And blood would tell.