Page 25 of Property of the Hellfire Riders

7

IZZY

I’ve made mistakes before.

Put myself in harm’s way hundreds of times with work. I mean, sneaking into the crime scene and almost completely losing my job was not nearly stupid as this…

What the hell was I thinking? I can’t infiltrate the Hellfire Riders.

Maybe last night gave me some false hope.

When I showed back up, it was just like last night. I danced with Tank and Vance had a few drinks, but I never expected to be standing in front of a half-naked Hawk.

The realization of my blunder hits me hard. The guy’s only wearing a towel, for crying out loud. He’s cold and calculated like the blue in his eyes is layered with ice.

My stomach tightens and if it tightens anymore, I think that might be the end for me.

His black hair is still damp from the shower, giving him a slightly wild look that doesn’t quite mask the danger lurking in sapphire eyes. He’s dissecting me.

I can feel it, and not like the others.

He takes another hit of the joint. The black ink of his many tattoos stretches and pulls with the motion. And then there arehis hands—craftsman's hands, rough and etched with the fine scars, still and controlled.

My dad would tell me to run. Now.

But I can’t move. Because running would only solidify any doubts he has about me.

“Look, I know it must be strange that I showed up here on my own,” I say, hoping the weakness in my voice isn’t breaking, isn’t so damn obvious.

“Strange, princess?” Hawk puts the joint out in the ashtray.

His expression doesn’t change. “Strange is an understatement.” He leans forward, his bare chest within reach.

“You’re shaking,” he says, and I realize I am.

“I’m cold.” Terrible lie.

The words come out shaky, and I’m angry at myself for it. He doesn’t buy it either—I can tell by the way his mouth twitches, like he’s struggling not to smile.

“You don’t belong here. You must know that.”

No shit, Sherlock.

I swallow and will myself to meet his gaze.

He reads the fear in my eyes, in my stuttered words. Fuck. I need to get a handle on myself. Now. This man, he has to believe me or I’m as good as dead. So I pull out the cover story I’d come up with.

“The truth is…I need help from the club.”

His expression morphs into a smirk that makes my heart stutter.

“And why would we help you?”

The tension in the room thickens. I press on, threading my trembling fingers together in my lap.

“Because…because I have an ex from the Dead Demons, and he’s…”

I pause, watching his reaction closely, noting the slight tightening around his eyes. “I used to date someone from there.But things got… complicated. Dangerous, even. When it ended, it wasn’t clean. There were threats.” I let the words hang, the implication clear. My real fears only add to the believability of my story.

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