Page 1 of Rogue’s Reckoning

ONE

ROGUE

FIVE YEARS AGO

The sight of her hits me like a freight train. I've seen plenty of beautiful women in my time, but this one... she’s different. Soft brown curls frame a delicate face, her eyes wide and innocent as she glances nervously around the bar. She’s clearly out of her element; a fragile flower in a den of wolves.

I knock back the rest of my whiskey, the burn in my throat nothing compared to the heat building in my chest. What the hell is a girl like that doing in a place like this?

"Rogue!" Storm's booming voice cuts through my thoughts. "We’ve got business to discuss, brother."

I tear my gaze away from the girl and nod at my president. "Yeah, I'm coming."

As I stand, I catch her gaze. For a moment, time seems to stand still. Then I watch as she blushes and quickly glances away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

I can't help but smirk as I make my way over to Storm and the rest of the boys. That shy little glance, it's got me more intrigued than I care to admit. But business comes first—always has, always will.

"What's the word, Prez?" I ask, sliding into the booth beside Sniper.

Storm leans in, his voice low. "Got word from our contact in the police department. Looks like the Shadow Hawks are moving in on our territory. They're pushing product on the south side."

A growl rumbles in my chest. The Hawks have been a thorn in our side for years, but this... this is a declaration of war.

"What's the play?" Ghost asks, his fingers drumming restlessly on the tabletop. Ghost has been my best friend since we were kids. Both of us grew up in this world of crime, motorbikes, and loyalty. We know the ins and outs of the club because we learned it from our fathers. Ghost’s old man is the president, and Ghost is now Vice President. When Storm hangs up the gavel, I know Ghost will make a great president, just like his dad and his grandfather before him.

Storm's eyes narrow, a dangerous glint in them. "We send a message. Let 'em know what happens when you fuck with the Saints."

I nod, already feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline. This is what I live for—the thrill, the danger, the brotherhood. But as I listen to Storm lay out the plan, I can't help but let my gaze wander back to the girl at the bar.

She's nursing a fruity cocktail now, her slender fingers wrapped around the glass. There's something about her that calls to me; a softness that's so at odds with my world of violence and chaos.

"Rogue." Storm's sharp tone snaps me back to attention. "You with us, brother?"

I force myself to focus, pushing thoughts of the girl aside. "Yeah, I'm in. Let's show these Shadow Hawk bastards who they're dealing with."

As we finalize the details ready for tomorrow, I can't shake the feeling that something's about to change. Whether it's thisbrewing war with the Hawks or the mysterious girl at the bar, I don't know. But one thing's for sure—life in the Saint's Outlaws MC is never dull.

The meeting wraps up, and I find myself drifting back to the bar, my eyes searching for the girl. But she's gone. Disappointment settles in my gut, heavier than I'd like to admit.

"Another whiskey," I growl at the bartender, trying to shake off this unexpected feeling.

As I wait for my drink, I feel a presence beside me. It's Ghost, and his eyebrow is raised in that knowing way of his.

"What's got you so distracted, brother?" he asks quietly, his voice low enough that only I can hear.

I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. "Just thinking about the Hawks. This could get messy."

Ghost's eyes narrow, he’s not buying it. He's known me too long. "Bullshit. You were eyeing that girl all night. The shy one with the curls."

I don't respond, but I know my silence is answer enough.

Ghost sighs and claps me on the shoulder. "Be careful, Rogue. Girls like that... they don't belong in our world."

I know he's right. Hell, I've lived by that rule my entire life. However, there’s something about her I just can’t shake.

"Yeah, yeah," I mutter, before downing my whiskey in one go. "I know the drill."

Ghost gives me one last look before heading back to the others. I'm about to call it a night, when I spot something on the bar—a small, leather-bound notebook.

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