Maverick Rylan stared at the flower-draped casket and hoped this was the last funeral he and his brothers had to attend for a long damn time. This loss hit him and everyone in the Raven Riders Motorcycle Club particularly hard—because it had happened on their own turf. Inside their own clubhouse. And the victim—prospective member Jeb Fowler—had been too young and too good to get taken out in cold blood.
The proof of Jeb’s goodness was sitting right beside Maverick. Bunny McKeon, Maverick’s mother, whose face still bore the bruises and scratches from where she’d been struck and her mouth duct taped. But she was alive because Jeb had taken the bullet intended for her when a group of lowlife criminals had broken into the clubhouse looking for something—or someone—that wasn’t theirs.
Mav’s gaze slid over to his right, where the club’s president, Dare Kenyon, sat with his girlfriend, Haven Randall. Three days out of the hospital, Dare’s face was pale and dark circles ringed his eyes. He’d been shot twice in the same attack that had hurt Bunny and killed Jeb. An attack meant to force Haven back under her abusive father’s control by whatever means necessary. An attack that had ultimately failed, despite the losses the Ravens had sustained.
It all could’ve been so much worse. Which was true even though Maverick felt like shit thinking that while sitting there in front of Jeb’s coffin. Especially since Jeb had sacrificed himself for Bunny.
The service concluded and people around Maverick rose to their feet. The June air hung humid and gray. Almost oppressive. The weight of it was fitting. It was as if their collective grief had taken on a physical form.
Maverick held out his hand to Bunny. With her white-blond hair and dark blue eyes, she was still as pretty as she’d ever been. And every bit as feisty. Well, usually.
Accepting his help, she gave him a sad smile and rose. Her husband, Rodeo McKeon, steadied her from her other side.
“Thanks, Maverick,” she said, stepping toward the casket. She pulled a long-stemmed red rose out of the arrangement and brought it to her nose. A moment later, she laid it on top of the lid by itself, her hand resting there for a moment.
When she turned away, her lips trembled, and when she made eye contact with Maverick, her whole expression crumpled.
Maverick pulled her into his arms, her tears like ice in his veins. “It’s gonna be okay, Mom,” he said, using a name for her he hadn’t used regularly in years. Everybody called his mother Bunny, and somewhere along the way it had stuck for him, too.
From behind her, Rodeo rubbed her back. Mav met the older man’s gaze and saw reflected at him the same pain and regret Maverick felt. Normally, Bunny was the youngest sixty-something you’d ever meet, but the attack and Jeb’s death had left her fragile. And Maverick fucking hated it. Not because he thought her shakiness wasn’t warranted, but because it reminded him of another time: When Bunny’s first husband—Maverick’s father—had beaten her so badly she ended up in the hospital for days.
That had been seventeen years ago, but not a day had gone by when Maverick hadn’t blamed himself for not realizing what was going on, not being there, not protecting her.
Maverick’s gaze slid over Rodeo’s shoulder to the casket. I wish there was something I could do to repay you, Jeb. But you can believe I’ll never forget.
“I’m okay,” Bunny said, wiping at her cheeks. She patted his chest. “Thanks, hon.”
Rodeo gave Mav a nod that said he had her, and Maverick didn’t doubt it. Not only was Rodeo one of his brothers in the Raven Riders, he was also the best thing to ever happen to Bunny.
“Are you coming to the clubhouse?” Maverick asked. Bunny hadn’t been back since the attack five days ago, which was totally unlike her. Normally, she spent part of every day there, often cooking one or more meals for whichever Raven happened to be around or drop by.
“Yeah,” she said. “We’ll see you there.”
“Okay,” he said. With a last look at Jeb’s casket, Maverick turned for the drive that wound through the rolling hills of the cemetery. Motorcycles formed an unbroken wall of steel and chrome almost forty deep. The whole club had turned out to pay their respects. As it should be when a brother took his last ride.
As vice president, Maverick’s bike was at the front. Normally, he’d be riding second position behind Dare, but the gunshots to Dare’s side and arm meant he’d be driving only four-wheel vehicles for the immediate future. So Maverick was riding point. Still standing, he brought the bike to life on a low rumble. And then he waited for Road Captain Phoenix Creed’s command.
Like the black bands they wore on their arms—made of thin strips torn from a couple of Jeb’s Harley T-shirts—they had traditions they honored when one of their own died.
A few years younger than Maverick’s almost thirty-five, Phoenix normally wore a mischievous, good-humored expression. Not today. Not when they were burying one of Phoenix’s closest friends not a month after Phoenix had buried his cousin. Their road captain had taken a beating the past few weeks, and it showed in Phoenix’s unusual frown and his lack of joking around.
When everyone else started their engines, Phoenix finally started his own. Then he turned his throttle and revved his engine until it roared.
Every biker except one joined in.
Roar, roar, roar, roar, roar.
The five thunderous revs lodged a knot in Maverick’s throat. Because the Last Rev was meant to alert heaven that a biker was on his way home.
And then all the bikes quieted to a low idle—except one. The one that had remained silent before now roared out. Ike Young, the Tail Gunner of the procession, revved his engine five times, as if Jeb was answering the club’s call and saying his good-byes. One last time.
When the Last Rev ended, everyone mounted their bikes and the procession got underway.
Quietly and slowly, they made their way home—back to the Raven’s compound on the outskirts of Frederick, Maryland. Maverick knew he had to at least make an appearance at the reception, though his gut had him wanting to go somewhere else—to the home of Alexa Harmon.
The first and only woman he’d ever loved. A woman who’d chosen another man over him five years before. A woman who’d shown up at the Ravens’ clubhouse a week ago with a bruised and bloodied face, but ultimately wouldn’t tell him what had happened.
Her brief reappearance into his life had triggered every one of his protective instincts.
And as if Maverick hadn’t already been climbing out of his skin with worry over Alexa—whether she wanted him worrying about her or not—Bunny’s attack whipped up all the old guilt inside him and made him must know that Alexa was okay.
Or, if need be, ensure that she would be okay. Whatever that took.
Because he’d failed a woman he could’ve helped once, and that failure ate at him a little bit every day, like a slow dripping leak of acid deep inside his veins. Even all these years later.
Then, Maverick had been young and naïve and weak. He hadn’t realized all the kinds of evil that lurked in the world. But that wasn’t him anymore. And he refused to ever make that same mistake again.
ALEXA HARMON TORE out of her car and ran into the house, her high heels clicking against the concrete of the three-car garage and then the travertine tiles of the hallway and kitchen. She was late getting home from work, and that meant she was going to be hard-pressed to get dinner on the table on time.
She bee-lined for the bedroom, already working at the buttons on her silk blouse. Despite being under the gun, she took the time to hang up her work clothes and put everything away in the walk-in closet that was nearly as big as her childhood bedroom had been.
Cole didn’t like mess or clutter.
Slipping into a pretty blue blouse, jeans, and her ballet flats, Alexa’s gaze cut to the alarm clock on her nightstand. She had twenty-five minutes. Twenty-five minutes to make sure her lateness didn’t ruin their whole evening.
Damnit, Alexa. You should’ve kept your eyes on the time better.
It was true. She’d just been elbows deep in materials arriving for the model home in Cole’s newest development. This was the first time he was letting her take the lead on the interior design of a model, rather than hiring their usual outside contractor, and she wanted it to be perfect.
She wanted to be perfect. For Cole.
Cole really liked perfection.
Alexa got it. Cole’s perfectionist tendencies went a long way to explaining how he’d built Cole Slater Enterprises, the biggest real estate development and management company in western Maryland. Hell, Frederick was almost a company town, at least where real estate was concerned. There were more developments in the area with the words Cole or Slater in their names than she could count. Their own neighborhood was a prime example—Slater Estates.
Running back out to the kitchen, a low pleading meow caught Alexa’s attention.
“Come on, Lucy. Come with Mama,” Alexa called, heading straight for the cat’s bowl. She poured dry food into the dish, spilling a little in her haste. The hairless sphynx brushed against her leg in a show of affection. Alexa gave Lucy’s mostly blue-gray body a quick pet as she scooped up stray morsels of food with her other hand.
The clock on the microwave told her she now had twenty-two minutes.
She grabbed the package of two filet mignons from the fridge, along with a bag of fresh asparagus. Moving as fast as she could, she found the grill pan for the meat and the sauté pan for the asparagus, and got that much going. The baked potatoes she’d planned weren’t going to be possible with this little time, and trying to boil water for corn on the cob would be pushing it. Her stomach knotted as her pulse raced. She buttered thick slices of Italian bread and seasoned them with garlic, then slid them into the warming oven to brown.
As soon as she turned the filets, she was back in the fridge. When her gaze settled on the container of chickpea salad from the weekend, relief flooded through her. She’d forgotten they had that. Finally, she threw together a green salad with chunky fresh vegetables.
Keeping a close eye on the time, she set the dining room table—Cole always preferred to eat in the formal dining room. And then she was pouring the wine and plating the food with two minutes to spare.
Alexa might’ve fist-pumped if she wasn’t so anxious about almost having been late. Her stomach was in so many knots she wasn’t even sure she’d be able to eat, though it was her own damn fault.
Six-thirty came and went. Six thirty-five. Six-forty. Sitting alone at the dining room table, Alexa frowned. Finally, her phone buzzed an incoming text message from Cole.
I’ve got a dinner meeting tonight. Don’t wait up.
Alexa stared at the screen for a long moment, then found herself blinking away threatening tears.
She let herself wallow for several minutes, then shook her head. “Stop it, Al,” she said out loud. God, she really was over-emotional lately, just like Cole said she was.
Between her job, designing the model home, her classes, getting used to living with Cole, and their upcoming wedding, there was just so much going on. She felt like she should be juggling it all with more grace and enthusiasm. Instead, what she really felt scared her. Scared her bad.
Dread. Skin-crawling, stomach-dropping, run-while-you-can dread.
It was ridiculous.
Alexa was on the cusp of having everything she’d ever dreamed about. A beautiful home she could be proud of, a secure job that she loved, a man who worshipped her, and more money than she’d ever be able to spend. She wasn’t greedy; that wasn’t where her interest in money and a nice house came from. Instead, it grew out of the way she’d grown up. How little she’d had as a kid, how terrible the conditions she’d endured had been—against all of that, it was amazing to think about how much she had now.
She was grateful beyond imagination. Grateful to be safe and secure. Grateful to be able to help her mom, who needed all the help Alexa could give her. Grateful to Cole for making it all possible.
Which made the dread seriously ridiculous.
It was just wedding jitters. Totally normal.
Right.
Sighing, she dried her eyes and surveyed the beautiful dinner she’d managed to throw together. Given how scarce food had been when she was younger, Alexa absolutely hated to waste anything. Problem was, her appetite had been all over the place lately. Either she couldn’t stomach the thought of eating or she was binge-eating a bag of potato chips while Cole was at work.
Knock, knock.
The quick raps on the front door pulled Alexa from her thoughts. She crossed the dining room to the wide oval foyer framed by a grand curving staircase. A glittering chandelier hung from the ceiling, casting colorful prisms here and there from where it caught the late-day sun through the large picture window above the door. Out on the front porch, Alexa found a stack of packages. She gave a wave to the UPS driver as he pulled out of the end of their driveway.
With only two weeks until the wedding, presents from the registry had been pouring in every day. Cole had so many friends and work colleagues that she’d never met, Alexa didn’t know who most of the gifts were from.
She carried in two smaller ones, then two medium ones, and then found herself struggling to move the large square box on the bottom. It was too deep to get her arms around and not easily pushed. What the heck could it be? She crouched behind it to try to gain leverage to push, and was just about to give up when a strong breeze blew her hair across her face and she heard a soft click.
Her gaze cut to the front door.
“Oh, shit,” she said. Knowing what she was going to find, she tried the knob anyway. Locked.
She was locked out and Cole was away until who knew what time. And she couldn’t easily go anywhere because her purse, car keys, and phone were all inside.
“Shit, shit, shit.”
She sat heavily on the stupid box and dropped her head into her hands. And burst into tears.
Not because of being locked out. But because of being . . . trapped with no easy way out of the situation? Suddenly, that felt like a crazy, accurate metaphor for her life.
If she was being honest with herself.
Which she really, really didn’t want to be.
“Stop it, Al,” she said in a rasping voice. “You’re not trapped. Stop thinking that.” Except, just then, she leaned her left cheek too heavily against her hand and sucked in a breath at the smarting of the healing bruise there.
The one from the fight she and Cole had last week. The fight that had started with Alexa leaving a big mess in the foyer from where she’d been unboxing another delivery of packages and escalated into Cole saying Alexa was just like her mother—something Cole knew cut her deep. The fight had ended when Alexa told him he was being mean and he’d kicked a box at her—when she’d tried to duck out of the way, she tripped over another box on the floor and fell, hitting her head against the leg of a console table in the foyer, giving her some nasty bruises.
Alexa had been totally and absolutely stunned, especially when Cole hadn’t stayed to help her. Instead, he’d said her tripping had just proven his point and stormed out. She’d fled. To her past.
A past she’d left behind for a whole lot of very good, logical, and well-thought-out reasons.
When she’d finally returned home, Cole had apologized so profusely he’d gotten down on his knees and cried with his head in her lap. Never in the nearly five years they’d been together had he ever hurt her. At least, not physically. He could be short with her when he was stressed and occasionally his criticism bordered on the mean side. But the truth was Alexa could be messy and she could be disorganized and she could be forgetful, all things that drove him crazy. And Cole could also be generous and sweet and he’d done so much for her and her mother. Their lives were better because of Cole Slater.
“Alexa?” came a deep voice.
Prickles ran up her spine as she lifted her head—and found herself staring at her past, into the dark blue eyes of Maverick Rylan.
Alexa swiped at the wetness on her face and nearly jumped up off the box, her heart suddenly in her throat.
With his longish sandy blond hair, square jaw, ruthlessly masculine features, and Raven Riders cut-off jacket hanging on those broad shoulders, Maverick was the sexiest man she’d ever known. Had been when they were together, still was even now. No, he was hotter now. More muscular. More rugged somehow. More self-possessed. Utterly desirable.
Snap out of it, Al!
Releasing a shaky breath, Alexa met his gaze head-on. “Maverick, what are you doing here?”