Daphne POV: "Cough—stop that!" I threw my arm up to shield my eyes as two high-pressure jets of disinfectant sprayed straight into my face. The chemical mist hissed against my denim cuff, eating bleached white spots into the fabric. My skin prickled with a sharp, fiery sting. It was diluted silver water. Silver is the only metal on earth lethal to our kind; it burns werewolf flesh like acid and kills our healing, which is why it is strictly banned inside any territory. Standing on the porch of the Sexton estate was a burly maid named Rhonda, sneering as she lowered the brass sprayer. Behind me, the cross-country bus roared away into the California desert heat, leaving a cloud of burnt diesel. I adjusted my wide-brimmed cowboy hat and pressed the herbal sachet sewn inside my vest. The bitter weeds masked my true scent—pine needles and snow—leaving me smelling like nothing at all. To every nose in this compound, I was a wolfless, a defective outcast born without an inner beast, unable to shift or link minds. In this outlaw world, a motorcycle club isn't just a gang; it's a werewolf Pack on two wheels, where bloodline dictates rank. My grandfather, Cornelius of the hidden pureblood White Wolf Winters Pack, had made a three-month pact with his old war brother Boone Gilliam, the founder of the Iron Claw MC. I had to hide my identity, wear a trial Property Patch—a leather tag stitched over the heart that marks a woman as claimed by the club's leader—and audit the club's bleeding Club Fund before the monthly full-moon Tribute was due to the Lycan Emperor, the single immortal ruler who taxes every Pack on the continent. If no true Mate-bond formed between me and the current President in ninety days, the contract died and I walked free. Inside the main hall, a woman in velvet sat on a heavy leather sofa, puffing a thin cigarette. That was Debbie Mcfarland, an Old Lady—the recognized wife of a deceased senior officer. Beside her lounged Eunice Craig, a spoiled Club Princess coasting on family status, filing her blood-red nails. "Stray dogs from the dirt towns get sprayed for fleas before they cross our threshold." Debbie blew a stream of acrid smoke at me. "Don't bring your poverty into our Clubhouse." "I'm here on Original Boone Gilliam's signed writ." I lowered my arm, holding up the stamped leather scroll, my voice flat. "He ordered me housed." Debbie's eyes narrowed at the founder's seal. "A scentless defect without an ounce of wolf blood thinks she can wear the Prez's patch? Wait until Church—the full-moon council where the Pack votes on life, death, and tribute. They'll tear it right off you." "Mother, why waste breath on this country bumpkin?" Eunice stood up, her lips curving into a nasty smile. "The servants' quarters downstairs are full. Take the suite at the very end of the second-floor hall. It gets great light." Beside the door, Rhonda sucked in a sharp breath and quickly dropped her gaze to her boots. I picked up my faded canvas bag and walked up the stairs. At the end of the second-floor corridor, a heavy oak door radiated the suffocating scent of crushed cedar and hot iron. Every territorial wolf marks his den with his scent, and only a purebred Alpha has the physical strength and Dominion to ride at the front as President—or Prez. This was Darrell Sexton's private bedroom. Eunice was counting on his territorial instincts to rip an intruder's throat out. I pushed the door open anyway. Shotgun barrels and a scarred leather vest hung on the wall. Exhausted from the ride, I sat on the edge of the leather bench in the dark, slipping three tempered copper needles between my knuckles just in case. At midnight, a massive V-twin engine thundered into the courtyard below, followed by raw, feral howls. Heavy boots pounded up the stairs. The oak door flew open with a splintering crash. A wave of bourbon and scorching Alpha heat flooded the room. Darrell Sexton—road name Havoc—stumbled inside, his broad shoulders blocking the hall light. His black vest hung open over a bronze chest raked with old claw scars, his pupils glowing blood-red with pre-moon rage. "Get out..." he growled, lunging straight for my throat. I stood up, copper needles poised at his neck. Just as his calloused fingers grazed my collar, his nostrils flared. He caught the faint trace of cold pine beneath my desert herbs. The raging beast froze. The blood-red madness in his eyes flickered, then dimmed. His massive frame collapsed forward, pinning me between the bench and the mattress. Iron-hard arms locked around my waist, burying his burning face into the crook of my neck. "Don't move... that scent..." he rasped against my skin, his violent trembling subsiding into deep, even breaths. My heart skipped a beat; his furnace-like heat felt identical to the dying boy I had dragged out of Eagle Cliff ten years ago. Outside the door, Eunice's muffled, triumphant giggle faded down the hall.

Daphne POV: Morning sunlight sliced through the black velvet curtains. The heavy arm banded across my waist tightened, and a rough chin rubbed against the back of my neck with a low, contented groan. Then the man behind me went dead still. In a blink, Darrell wrenched his arm back, clamped a hand around my nape, and slammed me face-first against the padded headboard. "Who gave you permission to climb into my bed?" Darrell snarled, looming over me like a coiled predator, his eyes cold as gunmetal. My forehead stung where it hit the leather, and my spine scraped against his heavy belt buckle. I didn't flinch. I pushed myself up and smoothed my crumpled collar. "Check your own locks before throwing accusations, Mr. Sexton," I said, meeting his glare without blinking. "You were the one clinging to me like a rabid dog begging for a sedative last night. Thanks, but no thanks." Darrell's gaze dropped to the red pressure marks on my collarbone where his stubbled jaw had rested all night. He pinched the bridge of his nose, a flicker of shock crossing his face. For ten years, the days before a full moon brought him blinding migraines and insomnia, yet his head was crystal clear this morning. He grabbed his leather vest—the Cut, stitched with the three-piece patches that proved a biker's rank and brotherhood—and shrugged it over his scarred back. "Whatever game you're playing, drop it." he tugged his collar loose. "Three months. Once the clock runs out, you pack your bag and get out of California." "Keep your word, and we'll get along fine." I slung my canvas bag over my shoulder and walked out the door. Downstairs, the smell of fried bacon and cigars drifted from the dining room. Debbie and Eunice sat at the long redwood table, slicing into rare steaks with heavy steel knives. "Rhonda, fetch a black body bag for the upstairs hall and call the clean-up crew—" Eunice's laugh died in her throat as my worn canvas shoes clicked down the spiral staircase. Her jaw dropped, the fork clattering from her fingers. "You... how are you still breathing?" "Sorry to disappoint you, Miss Craig. The Prez's mattress is very comfortable." I walked to the head of the table and pulled out the empty leather chair to the right of the master seat—the spot reserved for the Luna, the President's woman, the only position at the table that outranked bloodline. Debbie slammed her steel knife onto her porcelain plate. "Insolent trash! A wolfless nobody doesn't sit at the main table! You belong in the yard with the help!" Heavy boots echoed on the stairs. Darrell strode in, buckling his gun belt, and dropped into the head chair. In a Pack, nobody touches their food until the Alpha lifts his fork, and Debbie immediately pasted on a aggrieved frown. "Darrell, this country girl broke into your suite on her first night." Debbie pulled an unlabelled black-and-gold debit card from her purse and tossed it across the wood toward my plate. "There's five thousand dollars on that card. Sign the waiver giving up the trial patch and take the next bus back to the wasteland." Eunice sneered, crossing her arms. "Five grand is a fortune for a desert rat. Thank Mother and get out." Darrell lifted his black espresso, watching me over the rim to see how fast I would grab the money. I looked at the plastic card. Five thousand dollars wouldn't cover a single second of interest on my offshore Winters trust. I picked the card up between two fingers and flicked my wrist. Splash! The card landed dead center in Debbie's steaming teacup, spraying scalding brown tea across her face and velvet shawl. "Argh!" Debbie shrieked, jumping back as she clawed at her blistered cheek. "Your math is terrible, Mrs. Mcfarland. Five grand won't even buy exhaust gaskets for the front bikes." I wiped my fingertips with a napkin. "Use it to buy yourself some cooling herbs before you stroke out." "You little bitch!" Eunice lunged up, her fingernails lengthening into half-shifted claws. "Enough!" Darrell slammed his ceramic cup down, unleashing a guttural roar that rattled the crystal chandelier. It was the Alpha's Command, a biological pressure that forced lower bloodlines to submit before their brains could even object. Both Debbie and Eunice froze, their spines bowing as they instinctively dropped their eyes and tilted their necks to expose their throats—the wolf posture of submission. Darrell turned his dark eyes on me, his knuckles tapping the wood. "Sharp tongue. Since you want to earn your keep by Boone's rules, report to Iron Claw Freight at nine. If you don't last three days in the shop, I'll rip that trial vest off you myself."

Daphne POV: At nine sharp, I got off the transit van outside Iron Claw Freight, the legitimate trucking and custom-bike front that funded the club's weapons and monthly Tribute. The air reeked of high-octane gasoline and scorched rubber. My encrypted phone buzzed in my pocket. A message from Grandfather Cornelius flashed on the screen: "Fifty million wired to your black card. Starline fleets are on standby. Find out who's bleeding the Iron Claw ledger to rival Packs, Frost, then tear up the marriage writ." I slid the limitless card back into my pocket and pushed open the dispatch office door. Chewing pink bubble gum behind the counter was Hatti Mejia, the floor manager and a veteran Sweetbutt—one of the club girls who poured drinks and warmed beds without ever earning a permanent claim or a line in the family registry. She wore a cropped vest with a rhinestone supporter sticker, reeking of cheap musk perfume. "Well, look at the Prez's little wolfless sparrow." Hatti popped her gum and slammed a stack of greasy clipboards onto the metal desk. "Surviving one night at the house doesn't mean you're patched in. Around here, dead weight scrubs the latrines." "What's my assignment?" I asked, ignoring the bait. Hatti's eyes glinted with malice. She pulled a dispatch sheet stamped with a red skull and slapped it against my chest. "Bay Two. You're prepping and signing off on Emmanuel Hurley's custom chopper for the state run today." By the coffee machine, three Prospects—probationary rookies wearing only a half-patch on their vests who had to stand against the wall and speak only when spoken to—sucked in collective breaths. One whispered that Emmanuel was a hot-headed Patched Member, a sworn war-wolf with full voting rights who had broken the wrists of three mechanics last month just for touching his handlebars. Up on the second floor, behind the tinted one-way glass of the VIP observation deck, I caught the faint scent of cedar and whiskey. Darrell was standing up there in the shadows, waiting to watch me run out crying. I took the red-skull sheet, walked across the grease-stained concrete, and shoved open the heavy iron door to Bay Two. Heavy metal music blasted from the speakers. In the center of the hot bay sat a custom Harley painted with silver-white flames. A muscular young man covered in ink stood shirtless beside the lift, violently smashing a heavy torque wrench into a tray of spare parts. "I told you idiots to stay out! The next moron who touches my carburetor gets his neck snapped!" Emmanuel roared, spinning around with bloodshot eyes. As I stepped through the rising steam of motor oil into the light, the heavy wrench slipped from his fingers and clanged onto the concrete. The feral rage in his eyes vanished, replaced by sheer shock. Three years ago on the Oregon border, a rival Pack's ambush had left him with shattered ribs and a punctured lung. I had stitched him up and rebuilt his wrecked engine under my underground alias, Leo. Even without my scent, he knew my grey-blue eyes and the way I held my hands. "B-Boss L—" Emmanuel's throat bobbed, his knees bending as if to drop. I raised one finger to my lips and spoke over the music. "Mr. Hurley, I'm the new dispatch assistant assigned to clear your bike. Behave yourself and let me work." Emmanuel snapped his spine straight like a drilled recruit, his chest heaving. "Yes, ma'am! Whatever you need!" I pulled on a pair of leather work gloves, leaned over the frame, and stripped the intake manifold in ninety seconds flat. The high-speed engine resonance that had stumped the club's mechanics was coming from an uneven valve seat. I ground a brass shim down by half a millimeter on the lathe, fitted it in, and hit the ignition. The twin cylinders roared to life with a smooth, thunderous purr. Up behind the second-floor glass, the shadow holding the whiskey glass went rigid. Down on the floor, the club's most violent star rider was trotting behind me like an eager golden retriever, wiping wrenches with a rag before handing them to me. "Your dispatch sheet is ready." I tossed the gloves onto the bench. "Try not to blow the head gasket tonight, Mr. Hurley." Emmanuel grinned, scrawled his signature across the bottom, and shouted loud enough for the whole shop to hear, "Miss Daphne, you're riding with me to the victory dinner tonight! Nobody else touches your door!"