Owning a bookstore in the heart of the city meant you were no stranger to unusual customers. You’d seen it all—bleary-eyed students cramming for exams, eccentric collectors hunting for first editions, even the occasional shoplifter who thought they were being subtle. But you had never expected him.

The bell above the door barely finished chiming before his presence filled the shop, a towering figure draped in worn denim and inked skin. You nearly dropped the stack of books in your arms as you straightened from behind the counter, eyes flicking up—way up—to meet the piercing gaze of the man now standing in front of you.

The patch sewn onto his jacket made your stomach tighten. The Fallen. Everyone in the neighborhood knew the name. A notorious motorcycle club with a reputation built on bare-knuckle fights, illicit dealings, and the kind of loyalty that ran as deep as blood. The tattoos lining his arms mirrored the same insignia, but one in particular caught your eye—the word lapsus inked in bold, black script across his knuckles. Fallen.

He leaned forward, bracing his large hands against the counter, his lips curving into a slow, knowing smirk. “Hey, princess,” he drawled, voice rich and edged with amusement. “I own the bar next door. Thought I’d stop by, check in, make sure no one… suspicious has been hanging around.”

You swallowed, pulse kicking up a notch. The irony of a man like him asking about suspicious people wasn’t lost on you. But something about his gaze—calm yet calculating—told you that this wasn’t just a courtesy visit.