The night tasted like gasoline and bad decisions.

Axel Horcoff leaned against a concrete pillar, arms crossed, watching Hayden orbit the Harley like it might draw blood. Matte black, chrome accents, custom exhaust that snarled pure sin. Not Axel’s usual—he lived for the precision of GP bikes—but Hayden paid in cash and never asked where the parts came from.

Clients like that stayed useful.

“She’s gorgeous,” Hayden said, fingertips grazing the leather seat. “That turbo won’t tear her apart?”

Axel lit a cigarette, ember flaring across sharp cheekbones and two-day stubble. “Tuned her myself. Respect her and she’ll worship you. Redline in first and you’ll be chewing pavement.”

Hayden laughed—one of those rich-boy hyena sounds that only money and adrenaline could breed. “You’re a wizard, Horcoff.”

“I’m a mechanic,” Axel muttered through smoke. “Wizards don’t stain their hands.”

His hands told the story anyway—grease in the creases, scars across knuckles, nails permanently black half-moons. He’d scrubbed twice before coming and still looked like he strangled engines for a living.

Which wasn’t entirely wrong.

The warehouse pulsed. Girls in barely-there outfits waved checkered flags, heels snapping on concrete. Phones flashed QR codes, cash changed hands. Burnt rubber and cheap beer mixed with too-expensive cologne—the perfume of illegal racing.

Axel had gone from spectator at nineteen to racer to the guy everyone paid to make their machines dangerously fast. Paid better than fixing tech bros’ vintage Porsches—and was a hell of a lot more fun.

Ronan appeared beside him, neck tattoos catching the light. “You racing tonight?”

“Nah. Morning shift. Tibby’s waiting.”

“Your cat?” Ronan grinned. “Soft.”

“Finish that sentence and your bike won’t pass inspection.”

They watched Hayden fire up the Harley. The sound was perfect—deep, predatory. A symphony Axel built bolt by bolt.

“Your brother coming?” Ronan asked, too casual.

Axel’s jaw ticked. “Asher doesn’t do this.”

“Somebody’s gotta be the family disappointment.”

“Somebody’s gotta be interesting.”

He loved Asher—would still bleed for him—but little bro got Stanford, clean records, and polite applause. Axel got a rap sheet and a throne in places polite society pretended didn’t exist.

Balanced out.

Until the lights hit.

Red and blue split the dark.

“COPS!”

Chaos detonated. Engines screamed. People sprinted. Champagne bottles rolled under tires.

Axel didn’t run. Running screamed guilt. He walked—fast, calm—toward his blacked-out F-150.

He was ten feet away when the passenger door flew open and someone dove inside.

“DRIVE. NOW.”

Axel froze.

Not one of the usual girls. No glitter, no micro-skirt. Just jeans, a Stanford hoodie, dark hair escaping a ponytail, eyes wide with panic.

“Please,” she gasped. “My dad’s here—if he sees me I’m dead. Please.”

His brain ran the math in a blink. Patrol distracted. Exit open. Taking a stranger = stupid. Leaving the commissioner’s daughter = catastrophic.

Fuck it.

He slid into the driver’s seat, fired the engine, rolled out smooth—not a burnout, not a scene—just another truck leaving an industrial lot at midnight.

“Get down.”

“What—”

“Down.” No shout. Just that voice—the one grown men didn’t argue with.

She folded up small.

Axel threaded through fleeing cars like muscle memory. Mirrors clean. No tail. Five minutes later: gone.

“You can sit up.”

She peeked over the dash, then stared at him—really stared—taking in leather, tattoos, jawline sharpened by bad choices. The poster boy for her father’s nightmares.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry—”

“Yeah, we’ll get to that.” His tone turned blade-sharp. “What the hell was Commissioner Davis’s daughter doing at an illegal street race?”

Her face drained.

“How did you—”

“Three units. Only one brings Daddy himself to a nothing bust.” His gaze cut sideways. “And you? You’re terrible at lying, princess.”