Ajax drove fast, like he thought he could outrun it.

They moved through the lowlands, brown here and lush there, gnarled old trees and sullen waterways. They crossed the great, muddy expanse of the Mississippi River on the far side of Baton Rouge before he turned off the interstate and headed into the swamps. Sophie rested her head against her window and let the magic of a bayou sunset wash over her, purples and oranges and plump clouds woven in and out of the sunken trees like minor benedictions. And Ajax sat beside her, big and tough and strong enough to make the whole world and even that grief gnawing at her insides feel small in comparison, and even more, let her imagine that she wasn’t completely alone in the world now.

He let her mourn in peace and she held that close, like the imprint of his tough hand with those heavy rings against her cheek.

She saw the lights of the building before they came to it, glimmering at the end of a long stretch of the only flat road etched into miles of swampland in all directions. Sophie had never been to this place before, but she recognized it for exactly what it was on sight. She knew it by the Harleys lined up in front, each one of them gleaming and in pristine condition as the car’s headlights bounced over the long row of them, in marked contrast to the dilapidated-looking warehouse that rose up behind them. There were no particular markings anywhere that she could see, nothing announcing what this place was to the untrained eye, but that didn’t matter.

Sophie knew a biker clubhouse when she saw one.

And had all those clues failed to register, she certainly would have recognized the men who sauntered up to the car as Ajax parked it. She didn’t know them personally, she didn’t think, but again, that wasn’t necessary. She knew that low, dangerous walk. She knew the hard gazes that tracked the car and the people inside it. She knew those leather vests they all wore over their T-shirts and sweatshirts, covered in the patches that laid out the stories of who they were. She knew the tattoos that covered their arms and necks and hands. She knew the rings they wore that looked a lot like Ajax’s, and probably for the same purpose: of kicking that much ass, that much harder. She recognized the loose pants riding low on their hips that could conceal the weapons they almost certainly had tucked away, even now.

And she’d have known exactly what they were without all those signs, she thought. Wolves who masqueraded as men were still wolves in khaki shorts and polo shirts, with or without tattoos. This life was imprinted on their faces, their bodies, the way they moved through the world and surrounded the car. And it was imprinted in her brain, too.

Ajax didn’t speak as he turned off the engine. Sophie didn’t question him. He slid that cool blue look her way, and she imagined she felt it like another touch of his big, battered hands, and then he climbed out of the car. She heard the low rumbles of male voices that she identified in an instant as friendly, and then she watched the complicated rituals of masculinity performed before her in a series of intricate handshakes and shoulder bumps, man to man.

Sophie followed him more slowly, feeling the sultry bayou air slide over her skin like a caress as she got out and shut her door. She waited there, content to lean a hip against the car and watch the men from a safe distance. Because this wasn’t the Priory, where being Priest’s daughter had given her a certain amount of insulation in any given situation. And she didn’t see any other women around, which could mean any number of things either way. Better to hang back and wait and potentially be thought shy than rush in, cause some insult or misunderstanding, and then have to worry about unpleasant consequences.

The last hint of light was disappearing into the inky black bayou sky and she thought that meant something, as she watched it go. One whole day had passed without her father in the world. The first in all her life. She felt the loss of him hard, deep in that empty hollow she thought she was going to have to find a way to get used to, vibrating there in her gut. Raw and electric.

Grief, she thought. It felt like the weight of the whole southern sky, pressing her down into the rich and fertile earth below. She wanted to lie down under it. She wanted to let it win.

She heard her father’s name, like a kind of whisper on the night’s scant breeze, but she didn’t look around until she heard Ajax say hers.

“This is his daughter,” he told the men standing around him, jerking his chin toward her. “Sophie.”

Sophie nodded a greeting, still on her side of the car. The men started toward the building, but she waited until Ajax, in conversation with the one she’d picked out at a glance as a club officer—young to be president, she thought, though it was probably only a matter of time if he wasn’t already—beckoned her over to him with a seemingly casual curl of his fingers.

Ajax didn’t look at her as she obeyed. He held his arm out and headed toward the building as if he planned to shepherd her through the door. He was still involved in his conversation and she thought he’d drop his arm when she drew close. He did, but not at his side. Ajax draped his big arm loosely around her shoulders instead, anchoring her close beside him.

And there was absolutely no need for a wild, bubbly joy to burst open inside of her at that, searing through her limbs and pooling hot and low in her belly.

Sophie knew that this was, at best, an indication of those inconsistent southern manners Ajax had mentioned earlier. Maybe a show of respect to her father. It could certainly mean nothing to him that she was wrapped up in him then, the heavy weight of that sculpted arm hot and heavy over her shoulders and the rest of him sleek and solid, almost too close to bear. That she could smell him again, and this time, that clean male scent brought back those moments in the Priory, Ajax rocking hard between her thighs and the whole world disappearing into that rough magic he’d woven so easily around her.

This was biker politics, nothing more. She knew it, told herself she hated it even if she understood it, but there it was.

Unattached, unclaimed women who wandered into rough and tumble biker clubhouses like this one, way out here with nothing but swamp in all directions, could expect a significantly earthier sort of welcome than one who walked in tangled up with Ajax. Sophie said nothing, because that was the smart move, and there was nothing to be gained by acting dumb in a place like this. Only a whole hell of a lot to lose.

She walked with him, telling herself she didn’t notice how easy it was to match his pace, as if they were tuned in to each other when she knew it was really a matter of biology and stride, not fate. You dumbass. She took in the club logo she thought she vaguely recognized on the back of the man in front of her that read DEVIL’S KEEPERS. She let Ajax usher her inside as if he spent a lot of time walking around with her snuggled up next to him like one of his bitches.

Sophie ruthlessly stamped out the little spark of temper that ignited deep inside of her, and shoved her hands in her pockets. This wasn’t the place to get into all her complicated feelings. About bikers and their clubs and their stupid fucking rules. About this particular biker next to her, who buzzed with a particular kind of power that even all these hard, dangerous men recognized. Ajax was lit up with it. They were all scary and threatening but he was something more than that, and it was obvious.

Ajax is the High King of Threats, a little voice whispered inside of her, like a taunt. And how many daddy issues do you have that you think that’s hot?

There was nothing in Sophie that wanted to answer that. She concentrated on what was happening around her instead.