"I don't need a test. I should've known the moment I saw you, you were mine."

My father's roar shakes the clubhouss, but e wallI don't flinch. I've spent years surviving inferno, a biker gang's chaos is nothing.

I never knew my real family until a private investigator handed me an envelope after my mother died of overdose. "Your father is Damon Montague. Your brother is Montague. They're both in an MC called the Highway Demons," he said.

I'm the long-lost daughter of their founder, Chaos, the little sister of their ruthless president, Devil. And here I am, Violet Larkson—ex-Doll, street rat, and now, apparently, MC royalty.

This club has rules. Enemies. And him—Killer, the VP with a reputation for violence and a stare that burns through my armor. He hates women. I hate men. Yet every time our eyes lock, something primal ignites.

———————

I slowly park my Forty-Eight Harley Davidson on the side of the nearly empty street. A broken streetlight flickers above my head, while the rest are completely off. The street is quiet, except for the snoring of a homeless man sleeping in the alley a few feet away. At least, I think it's a man.

I get off my bike and pull a smoking from my new pack. After a glance across the street, I cross the road, lighting the smoking with the Zippo lighter I keep in the pocket of my leather biker jacket. The parking lot on the other side is empty, indicating the 24/7 diner is just as deserted.

When I reach the doors, I turn around and kneel down, leaning my back against the wall. I've been more stressed than usual lately—and that says a lot.

I finally let myself relax now that I'm feeding my nicotine addiction and close my eyes. But not long after, I hear a car approaching and open them again.

A truck pulls into the parking lot and parks like an prick, taking up two spaces. I narrow my eyes against the harsh headlights shining directly at me and take another drag from my smoking before dropping it to the ground, snuffing it out with the toe of my combat boot.

"Miss Larkson?"

A man approaches me, and I give him a quick once-over. I know who he is—I hired him a couple of weeks ago. We've only spoken over the phone, so I've never seen him in person until now. I think his name is Vince, but I'm terrible with names.

He's short, bald, and slightly overweight. He's wearing a raincoat over a thick sweater, and I cringe. It's hot—even if it's 4 AM and the temperature's cooled down a bit.

"That's me."

"Good. Do you want to, uh, go inside?" Vince—if that's even his name—asks while glancing over my shoulder at the diner door.

I stare at him for a beat too long, just to make him squirm, then lift my chin and walk into the diner. Immediately, the stench hits me, and I wrinkle my nose. The place reeks, like there's a dead animal rotting in one of the corners. Lovely.

The interior is old, filthy, and cheap. I take a seat in the far corner, facing the door, and lean back. Vince sits across from me, still looking uncomfortable. I nod at the disinterested waitress trudging toward our table.

"How can I help you?" she asks, pulling out a tattered notebook. She doesn't even look at us—her eyes are fixed on something outside the window.

She looks suicidal, honestly. But I would be too if I had to work in a place that smelled like decomposing rats. Her hair is greasy, her makeup looks two days old, and her non-existent eyebrows are drawn on in crooked lines like she used a ruler while drunk. Her uniform needs to be washed—badly. God only knows what it's stained with.

"Coffee and blueberry pancakes," Vince says.

I glance at him and grimace. He ignores me and smiles at the waitress. She nods, scribbles down the order, and walks away.

"I didn't come all the way here for a dinner date," I say sharply. "Tell me what you found so I can get going." I tap my heel irritably against the floor and meet his eyes. I don't have time for this—I need to keep moving.

Vince nods and pulls a large envelope from his jacket.

"Right, uh, I found something you might be interested in," he begins.

I let out a heavy sigh.

"After opening your adoption file, I found out it was a closed adoption. But I managed to connect the time of your birth and your age to your birth mother. You were given away when you were about a year old. Since you came from a small town, it wasn't hard to figure out who your mother was."

I glance up at him, then at the waitress who practically throws the plate of pancakes and coffee onto the table. This bimbo is seriously getting on my nerves. If she keeps this up, I might smash her face into the table.

I force myself to ignore the violent urge and look back at Vince.

"Right. Uh, your mother died five years ago of a dope overdose. But you have an older brother and a father. Your mother's name wa—"

"I don't care about her."

Vince swallows hard, a bead of sweat rolling down his face.

"Right. Your father is fifty years old. His name is Damon Montague. Your brother is thirty—Steven Montague. They're both in an MC called the Highway Demons. Your brother is currently the president. Your father was president before him and the original founder of the club. All the information I found is in this file."

He pushes the envelope toward me and waits for a reaction.

I stare out the window, taking in the quiet street and drawing a deep breath. Of course my family isn't normal. A biker club? Seriously?

I look back at Vince, the private investigator. After a moment, I reach inside my jacket and pull out another envelope—this one with $400 in cash. I set it on the table, and Vince immediately grabs it and starts counting, ignoring the nasty-looking pancakes in front of him.

I stand up, take the envelope with the files, and walk out.

...

"Ah, that's fine then," she says. "I'm Violet. Apparently... you're my older brother. Steven Montague?"