Page 22 of Claimed By the Bikers
“You’re one of us now,” Atlas says simply, words carrying weight in the still air. “That’s what we do for our own.”
“Goodnight, lass,” Garrett murmurs, Scottish accent thick with something that might be regret.
“Bonne nuit, beautiful,” Silas adds softly.
They wait until I’m safely inside before their boots crunch back across the gravel. From my window, I watch three silhouettes mount their bikes, engines roaring to life again. Headlights sweep across the parking lot as they pull away, leaving me alone with the scent of leather and gasoline clinging to my clothes and the memory of Silas’s solid warmth against my chest.
I sit on the edge of the bed, replaying the evening in my mind. Nothing inappropriate happened. Nothing that couldn’t be explained as normal employer-employee interaction, mixed with small-town friendliness.
But I felt claimed tonight. Marked as belonging to them in ways that have nothing to do with my job at the restaurant and everything to do with something deeper and more dangerous.
For the first time since arriving in Wolf Pike, I realize I might be in serious trouble. Not from whatever criminal operation brought me here, but from something much more personal.
I’m falling for them. And based on tonight’s subtle possessiveness, the feeling might be mutual.
7
ATLAS
Rico slidesinto the booth across from me at Mel’s Diner, two towns over from Wolf Pike. Early morning crowd means truckers and shift workers, nobody who knows us or cares about our business. Perfect for the kind of conversation that can’t happen at Wolf’s Den.
“You look like hell,” he observes, signaling the waitress for coffee.
“Didn’t sleep much.” I push the manila envelope across the table. “Tell me you found something concrete.”
He opens the envelope, scanning the photographs of fingerprints I lifted from Ember’s water glass last week. His expression grows grim as he reads the report clipped to the back.
“Agent Natalie Hayes, FBI. Twenty-four years old, three years with the bureau. Undercover specialist with a perfect record.” He looks up. “Atlas, this woman is the real deal. She’s taken down three major operations in the last two years.”
“What kind of operations?”
“Human trafficking ring in Miami. Money laundering network in Seattle. Arms dealing operation in Phoenix.” Rico’s voice drops lower. “She’s not some rookie they sent to play waitress. She’s their best.”
I take a long sip of coffee, processing this. “Any idea what brought her to us?”
“Financial crimes unit has been building cases against motorcycle clubs for the past year. Word is they’re targeting smaller operations first, using them to get to the bigger fish.”
“And we’re a smaller operation.”
“Compared to the Hells Angels or the Mongols? Yeah. But we’re also cleaner, more organized. Harder to infiltrate.” Rico leans back in his booth. “Question is, what are you going to do about it?”
“I’m going to give her exactly what she wants.”
“Come again?”
“Agent Hayes is here to gather evidence on our operations. So I’m going to make sure she has access to some very interesting files.” I finish my coffee and drop money on the table. “Sometimes the best way to catch a hunter is to let them think they’ve found the perfect prey.”
Back at Wolf’s Den, I watch Ember work the lunch shift with new eyes. Every movement is calculated, professional. The way she remembers orders without writing them down, how she navigates between tables with military precision, thecasual questions she asks customers about their lives and work. Intelligence gathering disguised as friendly conversation.
She’s good. I’ll give her that.
“Atlas?” She appears at my elbow, order pad in hand. “Table six is asking about the daily special. Something about whether the fish is local?”
“Mountain trout from Clear Creek, about twenty miles north. Tell them it was caught this morning.”
“Perfect. Thanks.”
She starts to turn away, then pauses. “Oh, and your office phone has been ringing. Sounds important.”
