Page 114 of Kneeling to Candy

Again, Butch is growling. My earlier warning was not enough to bring him to heel. I firmly, yet not aggressively, smack the side of his knee with the back of my hand. “Cool it.”

Obeying my order, Butch quiets yet continues to glare at Piero.

“When it comes to your women, you bikers are too predictable.” Piero’s laughter cuts the tension in the car. He hands the velvet box to Butch. “Here. Do the honors. Can’t say I want any part of this.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What part is that?”

“The tracker part,” Butch grumbles beside me, opening the box to show me an exquisite rose gold pendant necklace. He takes it out and slips it around my neck.

Most people would contest having a tracker put on them. Not me. I’ve lived through two scary incidents in the club where the tracker was the difference between life or death. I haven’t fought my way through life to pitch a fit over something I consider trivial in the grand scheme of things. Some inconveniences are necessary in club life.

I sigh as the weight of the pendant on the chain settles against the notch in my neck, cold against my skin. “At least the crew didn’t implant one in my arm like they did with Atlas or Gauge.”

“Or the rest of us,” Ziggy gripes in a sour tone.

“No way?!” I laugh. “Has it happened? Have all you hounds been micro-chipped?”

Butch, Tank, and Ziggy look put out, muttering a collective, “Yes,” under their breath.

“It’s for their protection,” Piero says nonchalantly, as if wearing a tracker was commonplace. “All my men have one, too.”

“Can’t have enough protection,” I admit, touching the pendant at my neck.

The ride to the auction house is quick—or it could be my anxiety making the trip seem faster. My stomach rolls as the massive stone estate comes into view. Never expected to return to this horrendous place. Though being here to aid others helps counteract my nerves.

Somehow, the auction site looks a little less ominous than it did all those times before. When you have a platoon of retired Navy SEALs, now mercenary bikers, at your back, you have a little more confidence.

Still, the danger is as great as it was all those times before—I need to remember not everything is fail-safe and be ready to defend myself if need be.

The car rolls to the front of the grand house in the circular driveway, coming to a stop at the large, heavy oak doors already open for us to enter.

Checking the time on his watch, Piero nods. “We’ve arrived right on schedule.”

“It sucks they separate all the auctioneers into arriving at different designated times,” Tank grumbles.

“They do it to keep the discretion of their clients safe,” Piero explains.

“Doesn’t help us with apprehending all the perpetrators,” Ziggy adds as he checks the ammo in his Glock. “Even with eyes on the ground, our men can’t always see who’s entering the estate.”

“Nothing about this will be easy,” Atlas says through the comms. “Keep your wits about you and note everything and anyone you see.”

“Roger that,” Ziggy says, holstering his gun underneath his blazer.

Butch takes my hand in his. With his free hand, he tenderly pulls my bottom lip down, releasing my upper teeth’s hold on it. I hadn’t realized I was biting my lip. Nerves have a way of manifesting openly if you’re not too careful. It’s the reality check I need to armor myself before heading into the viper’s den.

My biker’s warm hazel eyes hold mine. A small comfort at this uncertain moment.

“If you want out at any time?—”

“I’ll say, ‘Out,’” I finish, gently squeezing his hand. “I got this, biker boy.”

Like any excellent investigator, he analyzes my face to see if I’m telling the truth. He nods when he finds I’m being honest. “Stick close to Piero, and I’ll stick close to you.”

“Got it.”

“Ready?” Piero asks, eyeing all of us.

We give a collective nod, and Piero’s passenger door is opened. He steps out with a flourish, holding his hand out for me to take. I place my hand in his, carefully stepping out of the car. Knowing all eyes are on us, I straighten my back and lift my chin.

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