Page 1 of The Biker’s Single Mom (Fox Ridge MC #5)

I smell the smoke from my engine before I see it, acrid and chemical, seeping through the car's ancient vents.

"Mommy, are we there yet?" Violet chirps from her booster seat, oblivious to our predicament.

"Not quite, sweetheart." I force cheer into my voice while mentally calculating how much is left in my emergency fund. Not enough. Never enough.

The temperature gauge on my dashboard has crept into the red zone, and white steam now billows from under the hood. I manage to coast onto the gravel before the engine gives a final, shuddering cough and dies completely.

"Shoot," I mutter, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white.

We're on the outskirts of Fox Ridge, having just passed the weather-beaten welcome sign. The late afternoon sun bakes the pavement, heat waves shimmering above the blacktop while cicadas drone from the pines lining the road.

I let my forehead rest against the steering wheel for exactly three seconds before straightening my shoulders. Through the windshield, I spot a sprawling garage about fifty yards ahead. Large bay doors stand open, and several motorcycles gleam in the summer sun.

My stomach tightens. I know those colors, that insignia. The Fox Ridge Riders MC.

"Is our car sick?" Violet asks, her small face scrunched with concern.

"Very sick," I confirm, unbuckling my seatbelt. "But I see a car doctor up ahead."

She nods with the solemn wisdom of a five-year-old. "Can I bring Mr. Wheels? He's sick too."

I glance at the small toy motorcycle in her hand, its wheel hanging by a thread. "Of course, baby. Maybe they can fix him too."

We climb out into the blistering August heat. I gather my purse, Violet's backpack, and her hand, then begin the walk toward the garage. Sweat immediately beads at my temples and between my breasts, making my dress cling uncomfortably.

"Stay close," I murmur to Violet as we approach. Music thumps with heavy bass that I feel in my chest. The smell of motor oil, cigarettes, and gasoline grows stronger.

I hesitate at the entrance, taking in the scene. The garage is cavernous, three motorcycles are hoisted on lifts, their gleaming engines exposed. Tools line the walls in perfect order, and a half-dozen leather-clad men move with purpose through the space.

But it's the man at the center who captures my full attention.

He's bent over the engine of an old motorcycle, his massive shoulders stretching the fabric of a black t-shirt that's seen better days.

Dark hair pulled back in a low bun reveals the tattooed column of his neck.

His beard is full and neatly trimmed, framing a mouth set in concentration.

When he straightens to reach for a tool, I have to tilt my head back to track his movement.

He must be six-four, maybe more, all hard muscle and controlled power.

The Fox Ridge Riders' patch on his leather vest reads "Road Captain" and below it, "Steel."

Appropriate. Everything about him looks forged from the metal itself.

I clear my throat. "Excuse me?"

Steel glances up, and I'm pinned by dark brown eyes that narrow with instant irritation. His gaze flicks from me to Violet, then back, assessing and dismissing in seconds. The raw masculinity rolling off him makes my skin prickle.

"We're closed for custom work," he says, voice like gravel against silk. "Shop's full."

I lift my chin, ignoring the flutter in my stomach. "My car broke down just up the road. I was hoping someone could take a look."

"AAA," he replies flatly, returning to his work. "Or Mitch's Garage on Main."

The dismissal stings, but I've survived worse than a rude mechanic. Before I can respond, Violet steps forward, fearless in the way only children can be.

"Are you a doctor for motorcycles?" she asks, clutching her broken toy.

Steel freezes. Surprise flickers across his face at being directly addressed by a tiny human with pigtails and glittery sneakers.

"Something like that," he finally answers, his voice marginally softer.

Violet holds up her toy. "Mr. Wheels is sick too. His wheel fell off." She steps closer, her little shoulders squared with determination. "Can you fix him, Mr. Fix-It?"

A snort of laughter comes from another biker, a tall man with a shaved head who's watching the exchange with undisguised amusement.

"Yeah, Mr. Fix-It ," the man echoes, "can you help the little lady?"

Steel shoots him a glare that could strip paint, but when he looks back at Violet, something in his expression shifts. It's subtle, a softening around the eyes, a barely perceptible exhale.

"Let me see him," he says, wiping his hands on a rag before crouching down to Violet's level.

The sight of this mountain of a tattooed, dangerous-looking man, taking a broken toy from my daughter's tiny hands with unexpected gentleness creates a strange pressure in my chest.

"Wheel's not broken," he assesses, turning the toy over in his large hands. "Just came loose. Needs the right tool."

Violet watches, transfixed, as he walks to a workbench, selects a tiny screwdriver, and tightens something on the toy motorcycle. He tests the wheel with his thumb before returning to my daughter.

"Good as new," he says, handing it back. "Keep it out of dirt."

Violet beams at him like he's performed actual magic. "Thank you, Mr. Fix-It!"

He nods once, then rises to his full height, towering over us again. When his gaze locks on mine, a sharp and sudden spark shoots through me. It isn’t the heavy heat of summer that makes my pulse jump.

"Your car," he says, all business again. "What happened?"

"Overheated. Started smoking from under the hood," I explain. "It's about fifty yards up the road."

He sighs like I've personally inconvenienced him. "I'll take a look. Wait here."

"I can come with you—"

"Wait. Here." The command in his voice leaves no room for argument.

I bristle at his tone, tilting my head. "Listen, I appreciate the help, but I don't need to be ordered around." I smile to soften it, but keep my eyes steady on his.

He studies me, something calculating in his gaze. A muscle jumps in his jaw. “You always this stubborn when you’re stranded?”

"Only when motorcycle doctors talk to me like I'm an inconvenience," I counter, my smile never wavering.

He shakes his head once, like he’s amused despite himself.

“Fair enough.” He nods toward a small waiting area with worn leather couches. “There’s water in the fridge. Hawk will keep an eye on you.”

The shaved-head biker grins and gives a mock salute. "Yes, sir."

Steel ignores him, grabbing a toolbox before striding out into the heat. I watch him go, aware of how his presence seemed to fill the entire garage, and how different the space feels without him in it.

"Your man doesn't waste words, does he?" I say to Hawk, attempting to diffuse the nervous energy humming through me.

"Steel?" Hawk laughs. "He speaks when there's something worth saying. You got more out of him in five minutes than most people get in a week."

I guide Violet to the waiting area, keeping my eye on her as she immediately starts driving Mr. Wheels along the arm of the couch. "I'm Daisy, by the way. And this is Violet."

"Figured that wasn't your first rodeo with rough men," Hawk remarks, leaning against a workbench.

Something in his tone makes me tense. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He shrugs. "Just that you didn't flinch. Most people see Steel and take a step back. You stepped forward."

Before I can respond, the rumble of an approaching vehicle draws our attention. A black SUV with tinted windows pulls up outside the garage, moving slow.

The atmosphere in the garage shifts instantly. Hawk straightens, his easy manner vanishing. Two other bikers move to either side of the bay doors, their postures alert.

The SUV stops. The driver's door opens, and a man in an expensive suit steps out, followed by another from the passenger side. I recognize them immediately, and ice water floods my veins.

Tony and Vincent.

My throat closes as the phantom sting of Carlo's backhand flashes across my cheek, the last time I'd defied him, the night I finally ran with Violet. The sound of his voice echoes in my memory: You're mine until I say otherwise.

"Violet," I say quietly, "come here, baby."

She looks up, confused by my tone, but obediently comes to my side. I pull her against me as the men approach the garage.

"Mrs. Ricci," Tony calls, his voice pleasant, his eyes cold. "Your husband's been looking for you."

"It's Ms. Scott now," I correct, fighting to keep my voice steady. "And he's my ex-husband. The divorce was finalized months ago."

Vincent smiles, all teeth. "He doesn't recognize that paperwork. And neither do the Serpents. He wants you and the kid to come home."

I feel Violet trembling against my leg. She doesn't remember these men clearly, but her body recognizes danger.

"That's not happening," I say, clutching my daughter's shoulder. "Please leave."

Tony takes another step forward. "Don't make this difficult, Daisy. We have orders to bring you back. Both of you."

My throat tightens with fear. I've spent two years running, hiding, building a new life away from Carlo Ricci and his "business associates." I thought I'd finally escaped.

"The lady asked you to leave."

Steel's voice cuts through the garage like a blade. He stands in the bay entrance, blocking most of the light, his massive frame silhouetted against the sunlight. Something metal glints in his right hand, a wrench, I realize, though he holds it like a weapon.

Tony smirks. "This doesn't concern you, friend."

"I'm not your friend." Steel doesn't move, doesn't raise his voice, but something in his tone makes the hair on my arms stand up. "And anything that happens in my garage concerns me."

As if summoned by some silent signal, Hawk and the other Riders move to flank him. A united front of leather, muscle, and unmistakable threat.

"She's not going anywhere," Steel continues, his voice lethal in its quietness. "Neither is the kid."

Vincent steps forward, hand moving toward his jacket. "You don't want to get involved in this, biker. You don't know who you're dealing with."

Steel's laugh is cold and without humor. "No, you don't know who you're dealing with. This is Riders' territory. You've got five seconds to get in your overpriced SUV and disappear."

The tension stretches, electric and dangerous. I pull Violet closer, ready to shield her with my body if necessary.

Then Tony holds up his hands in mock surrender. "We'll go. For now." His eyes find mine over Steel's shoulder. "But Mr. Ricci doesn't give up what belongs to him. We'll be seeing you real soon, Daisy."

They back away slowly, climbing into their SUV. The engine roars to life, and they pull away with deliberate slowness.

The moment they're out of sight, my legs nearly buckle. I grip the back of the couch to steady myself.

Steel turns, his dark eyes finding mine. He crosses the garage in four long strides, stopping just short of my personal space.

"Who were they?" he demands.

"My ex-husband's men," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "He's... connected."

"Mob," Steel translates flatly. It's not a question.

I nod, not trusting my voice. Violet presses her face against my hip, and I stroke her hair, trying to project a calm I don't feel.

Steel studies us for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he looks at Hawk and the others. "Call Blade. Tell him we've got a situation."

Hawk nods and steps away, pulling out a phone.

Steel turns back to me, his eyes catching on my trembling hands before locking with mine. "Your car's not going anywhere today. Neither are you." His eyes flick to Violet, then back to my face. "You and the kid stay with me tonight."

It's not a request. Not an offer of help. It's a command, delivered with the absolute certainty of a man who expects to be obeyed.

And despite everything in me that rejects being told what to do, despite years of fighting for independence and freedom from controlling men… I feel a terrifying wave of relief wash over me.