Page 106 of Claimed By the Bikers
When the timer goes off, he leads me to the shampoo station and rinses out the color. I keep my eyes closed, not wanting to spoil the surprise until everything’s complete.
“Cut next,” he says, toweling my hair dry. “This is going to be dramatic.”
I feel long sections falling away, hear the snip of scissors removing months of growth. When he spins me around to face away from the mirror, continuing to cut and shape from different angles, I realize there’s no going back.
“Styling now. Almost finished.”
He works with a blow dryer and a brush, coaxing my newly short hair into a style that feels completely foreign. When he finally spins my chair to face the mirror, I don’t recognize the woman looking back at me.
My hair is dark auburn now, rich copper tones that make my green eyes look almost emerald. The cut is chin-length with layers that frame my face, making my cheekbones look sharper and my neck appear longer.
“Oh my god,” Rowan breathes from behind me.
“You look amazing,” Evie adds. “Completely different, but still you.”
“Different enough?” Marcelo asks.
I turn my head side to side, studying the stranger in the mirror. Agent Hayes had long brown hair and a forgettable face.This woman has striking features and a presence that demands attention.
“Different enough.”
“Ready for the tattoo?”
“Ready.”
The needle’s vibration becomes rhythmic and hypnotic. Marcelo works steadily, the three interlocking circles taking shape on my shoulder blade with precise black lines.
“Meaning?” he asks as he works.
“Three parts of one whole. Past, present, future. The men who saved me from a life I never wanted.”
“Beautiful sentiment for beautiful work.”
When it’s finished, he applies protective covering and gives me aftercare instructions. The mirror shows a woman I barely recognize—shorter auburn hair, dramatic makeup, fresh ink marking her skin. Ember Bishop-McKenzie-Delacroix looks nothing like the federal agent who disappeared six months ago.
“What do you think?” Evie asks.
“I think I need new clothes to match.”
“That can be arranged.”
We spend another hour selecting outfits from the boutique section of Marcelo’s expanded studio—clothes that fit my new identity rather than my old cover story. Fitted jeans that show my figure instead of hiding it. Tops that emphasize my femininity rather than projecting authority. A leather jacket that makes me look dangerous instead of official.
By the time we return to Black Dog compound, evening shadows stretch across the parking lot. Through the windows, I can see the brothers gathered around the kitchen table with maps and papers spread between them.
“Planning session,” Rowan observes. “Probably discussing the cartel situation.”
“Cartel situation?”
“Los Serpientes. They’ve been making noise about revenge for their dead soldiers. The guys have been working on some kind of negotiated settlement to avoid an all-out war.”
“Negotiation?”
“Neutral ground meeting. Teller’s agreed to mediate, help both sides reach terms that don’t involve mass casualties.” She studies my face. “You didn’t know?”
“They’ve been protecting me from the details.”
“Well, you’re about to be very involved in those details. Your men see you like this, they’re going to want to celebrate before they risk their lives in cartel negotiations.”
