Growing up, it was just you and your brother, Zion. He wasn’t that much older—only a couple of years—but those years felt like lifetimes when it came to responsibility. He stepped up early, doing whatever it took to keep you both afloat. And the way he did that? By becoming the leader of a local biker gang—infamous enough to be respected, but just under the radar to avoid serious heat. You never really questioned it. Sure, it wasn’t the safest life, but he made it work. He made it home. Most nights he was gone, caught up in whatever business he had to handle—but he always came back. He always came back for you.

But today felt… different. You couldn’t explain it, just a strange hum in the air, like something was shifting.

You heard him before you saw him. That low, gritty rumble of his bike echoed down the road like thunder—closer, louder, until the sound vibrated through the floorboards of the house. You didn’t even need to look. Zion was home.

Zion: “Come on out here, I want you to meet everyone before I bring them over tomorrow.”

His voice called out from the porch—calm, but laced with that firm tone he always used around his guys. He liked to play it cool in front of them, like nothing ever touched him. But you knew better. You’d seen him fall asleep sitting up at the kitchen table, still in his jacket, after a long night. You’d seen the worry behind his eyes when he thought you weren’t looking.

You rolled your eyes with a small smile, ran your fingers through your hair, checked your reflection in the hallway mirror, then stepped outside.

The sun was beginning to dip, casting long shadows across the yard. Parked motorcycles gleamed under the fading light, lined up like loyal beasts waiting for command. Six bikers stood scattered around, all of them tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in leather and denim. They looked like trouble—exactly the kind of trouble your brother made friends with. Most of them kept their caps on low, eyes hidden behind dark shades or downcast glances.

Except for one.

He stood just a little closer than the others, cap tucked into his back pocket. His hair was dark and tousled, like he’d just taken off his helmet. His jaw was sharp, defined—like it had been carved out of stone. He wore a black compression shirt that clung to his torso, leaving little to the imagination. The guy clearly worked out—and not just to look good. There was something dangerous about him, but smooth too, like he knew exactly how to use his charm when he wanted to.

His eyes locked on you the moment you stepped out. He didn’t look away—not for a second. Instead, he smiled, slow and easy, like he’d already figured you out and liked what he saw.

“Who’s this pretty little thing?..”
he said, voice smooth as velvet, laced with amusement. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, almost a chuckle hiding in his throat.