Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 40966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
But he’s here.
Across the tent, Colt catches my eye. My brother's lips curl into a half-smile, subtle enough that only I would notice. He raises his champagne flute slightly, a private toast between conspirators.
The gate should have been closed hours ago.
Security was Colt’'s responsibility. He hired ex-military men with earpieces and dark suits to patrol the perimeter. No unexpected guests. No paparazzi. No motorcycles.
But Colt must know me better than I thought. Because I am truly, truly surprised.
He left the gate open for Legion on purpose.
One of the security guards reaches for the radio on his shoulder, face tight with panic as the motorcycles come through the gate. Colt glides over and places a hand on the man's shoulder. He whispers something. The guard hesitates, then nods, stepping back.
My smile reaches my eyes. I love Colt.
The growl of engines builds to a roar. Not one bike. Not five. Dozens. More, I think. There’s too many to count, that’s for sure. So it’s… the entire Badlands MC, I guess. Or somethin’ very close to it. They roll onto Ashby land like a leather-clad army. Pourin’ down the driveway like floodwater breaking a dam. Chrome gleaming under the fairy lights, leather cuts emblazoned with patches, faces hard as a Montana winter. The engines scream defiance against our crystal and silk, against Marcus's political ambitions, against everything this party represents.
"What the fuck?" Marcus hisses beside me, his fingers digging into my elbow.
I don't answer. Can't answer. Don’t care to answer. I just keep smilin’. Oblivious, or maybe just indifferent, to the reactions all around me.
The vibrations rise up from the ground and enter my bones. A second heartbeat inside me, skippin’ and stutterin’ to life after years of hibernation.
The air changes instantly. The scent of expensive perfume and cologne is drowned out by gasoline and leather. The smell of real men, not these political puppets in bespoke suits.
A woman clutches her Birkin bag to her chest like it might protect her. A state senator backs into a waiter, sending a tray of tiny crab cakes crashing to the floor. Nobody stoops to clean it up. All eyes are fixed on the leather invasion drawing closer to the white tent.
Their headlights cut through the darkness like the glowing eyes of a predator.
Searching and hunting.
For me.
The bikes execute a perfect formation around the circular driveway in front of the big house. Wheels churnin’ up gravel that pings against imported cars parked along the edges. Probably leaving little star-burst fractures in their perfect paint jobs.
The bikers go round and round and round. Their ranks in this formation growing, swelling as more, and more bikers flow into the circle. When they are finally all here in front of us, between the house and the tent, they stop, still roaring, revving their engines.
“What do they want?” someone yells.
Marcus growls into my ear, “Yes, Savannah. What do they want?”
I don’t answer him because I’m watching Aunt Ruth, standing frozen by the gift table, as she clutches her pearls so tightly the string snaps. White beads scatter across the wooden parquet floor like expensive hailstones, rolling under boots and heels.
No one moves to help her collect them.
Legion sits on his black Harley, no helmet, just that wild blond hair of his blowin’ around his face like it’s alive. His blue eyes lock with mine as we find each other across the haze of exhaust, the smell of gasoline, and the distance of years.
I don’t even have to try. I could find this man in the pitch black of space.
His lips move, forming words only I can read: You know where to find me.
That’s it. A simple six-word statement from a not-so-simple man.
I study him in a rush. Desperate to memorize everything because I know this is over. He’s gonna leave any second now. So I drink him in, burning the details into my mind. He looks different. Harder, leaner, his jaw shadowed with blond stubble. New tattoos climb up his neck, disappearing beneath his collar. But his eyes—those eyes that have haunted my dreams since I was twelve—remain unchanged. The kind of blue you only find on the shore of a Caribbean beach.
Then, as suddenly as they arrived, they're leaving—a reverse avalanche of thunder and smoke. The motorcycles peel away in formation, leaving gashes in the gravel in front of the house.
The silence afterward feels unnatural, like the moment after a lightning strike before the thunder follows.
A child breaks the silence with delighted applause, quickly hushed by embarrassed parents.
Unexpectedly, I laugh. Applause, indeed.
Glasses clink as trembling hands reach for liquid courage. The string quartet tentatively resumes playing, flustered and out of time.
In the distance, the roar of engines fades like a storm moving across the valley, leaving destruction in its wake.
I exhale slowly, my chest aching with something that feels dangerously like hope.