Page 3 of Hunter

I shook my head, picturing a gang of rough-looking bikers like something out of the movies. “Are they dangerous?”

Marcy shrugged. “Depends on who you ask. If you’re causing trouble around here? Very. For a cute girl like you who’s just baking cookies and minding your business? Nah.”

“Oh good.”

Marcy bumped my shoulder lightly. “Unless one of them falls for you. Then they’re the very best kind of trouble.”

I scoffed at the thought of attracting the attention of a man like she had just described. “I don’t see that happening.”

“You’d be very lucky if it did. Behind the leather and tattoos, those men turn into big teddy bears when they claim their old lady.” She fanned herself with her hand. “And if any of them brings one of the babies in, your ovaries are sure to explode.”

2

HUNTER

“Hunter.”

Halfway past Fox’s office, I heard him call my name. He was the president of my club, the Iron Rogues, so I pivoted and stepped inside. Stone, our captain and club lawyer, was kicked back in a chair beside Fox’s desk, flipping through a packet of papers.

Fox sat behind a desk you’d expect to see in a Wall Street exec’s office—big, modern, and spotless. He was a neat freak to the core, though only Maverick, our VP and his best friend, had the balls to tease him about it. The rest of us valued breathing too much.

The prez was wicked smart, had a head for numbers, and a gift for strategy. A complete nerd. But he’d also been schooled in martial arts and weapons from a young age and was deadlier and more fucking ruthless than most of the guys in the club.

Yeah, his road name was spot on. Intelligent, cunning, and lethal.

Before patching into the club, he’d earned a degree in finance from an Ivy League university. Then he’d spent a few years cleaning up on Wall Street. After making a few million, he got bored and came home. Despite being the son of one of the founders—and the president at the time—Fox had prospected like the rest of us, earning fear and respect as he worked his way to the top.

Now? He was the reason we owned most of Old Bridge—and a nice chunk of the next few towns over.

Fox was talking with Maverick, who was leaning against the desk, arms crossed. Deviant, and Racer—two of our enforcers—were camped out at the round table in the corner. So was Savage, a patch who managed the club’s bar, The Midnight Rebel.

The room was built to accommodate large gatherings. Oversized, with a bar and a couple of battered sofas, plus a side door leading into Mav’s office.

“Need something?” I grunted.

Fox paused, pinning me with his steady, sharp gaze. “Need you to make a stop on your way out.”

I nodded.

Viper and I had a quick run to make—delivering a sensitive package to a customer—and then I planned to take a few extra days for a ride-out. It had been almost a year since I’d taken time off. Being an enforcer, especially one with my…skill set, kept me tied up more often than not. Fox gave me shit about burnout every so often, but he wasn’t the type to hold my hand. Which I appreciated because after fifteen years split between the military and the FBI, I didn’t need anyone telling me when to eat, sleep, or shit.

When I’d mentioned taking a break, he just grunted, “’Bout fucking time.”

Stone unfolded from his chair and held out the packet of papers, so I crossed the room and took them.

One glance had my brows pulling together. “A rental agreement?”

Sniper rifles, tracking ghosts, interrogation—those were my wheelhouse. I was a fucking trained killer who was one of the best shots in the country. Legal paperwork? Not so much.

“Just have it with you,” Stone said as though it made perfect sense. “In case there’s any questions.”

I scanned the document again. “Country Crust,” I muttered, then shot Fox a look. “The new bakery?”

He nodded. “When the owner signed the lease, we slipped in a clause allowing background checks on new hires.”

Savage whistled low. “She actually agreed to that?”

Stone shrugged. “Don’t think she noticed. Her lawyer didn’t object. Wasn’t my job to point it out.”

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