Page 4 of Midnight Rebel

As we hash out details, more Riders filter in. The air fills with laughter and bullshit. I try to lose myself in it, but my mind keeps drifting back to the estate, to Garrett’s request, to this mysterious Autumn Clarke.

“Earth to Ghost.” Hawk waves a hand in front of my face. “You still with us, brother?”

I blink, realizing I’ve been staring into space. “Yeah, just... thinking.”

Phoenix gives me a knowing look. “About The Manor? Or something else?”

I shake my head. “It’s nothing. Got a lot on my plate.”

“Well, whatever it is,” Hawk says, raising his beer, “we’ve got your back. To family.”

“To family,” the others echo.

I join in, letting their unwavering support wash over me.

As the night wears on, I settle into the familiar rhythm of MC life. But even as I laugh and joke with my brothers, a part of me remains distracted. Mom, the estate, now this journalist.

It’s what I do—protect people, solve problems. But taking on the The Manor full-time? That’s coming, but I’m not ready to be tied down yet.

Tomorrow’s problems can wait. Tonight, I’m sharing beers and bullshit with my brothers in the MC. Whatever happens, I’ve got these men at my back.

But as Hawk spins another wild tale, my mind wanders. Who is Autumn Clarke? And why is she already under my skin?

Chapter 2

Autumn

The cold nightair tightens around me, biting into my skin despite the heavy velvet of my gown. The Manor looms in the distance, its gothic spires casting jagged shadows.

Windows gleam like watchful eyes while fog creeps in from the surrounding forest, swirling around my legs.

I adjust the raven-black mask covering my eyes, cursing under my breath. If I get caught, it’s over.

Worse, I’d face the humiliation of security dragging me out of Midnight Falls’ most exclusive Halloween event.

I’m not here for the spooky ambiance—I’m after the real story behind all the “accidents” plaguing the estate.

A chandelier taking a swan dive during a wedding? Fires popping up like whack-a-mole? Please. If this place is haunted, I’ll eat my press badge.

Colt Montgomery—the heir, my only interview lead—and his ice queen mother, Margaret, have shut me out for weeks. If I don’t dig up something substantial soon, I’m back to writing fluff pieces about pancake breakfasts.

So here I am, skulking around their Halloween bash like some budget cat burglar.

This is my shot to prove I’m more than the small-town girl with “potential.” The one chance to show my editor—and myself—that starting journalism school in my twenties was the right choice. That leaving Midnight Falls behind was worth it.

I pull out my camera, ready to snap evidence of... well, anything at this point.

I skirt around a hedge, pausing at a dry stone fountain, its basin filled with dead leaves. A cracked stone angel looms above, its hollow eyes cold and judgmental.

I uncap my camera lens and take a few shots, zeroing in on the fractures spreading across the weathered stone.

The temperature drops suddenly. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I shake off the eerie sensation and focus on my next target: the crumbling structure near the east wing. Time is ticking; I need to circle the estate before anyone sees me.

I pick up my pace, weaving through the sculpted hedges. My camera’s autofocus whirs as I snap more shots of the stonework. This place. Damn. It breathes secrets.

A sound. Footsteps.

Slowly, I turn, bracing myself for an angry security guard or one of the Midnight Riders. But I see nothing in the darkness. Only the wind stirring the bare trees.

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