Page 1 of Baby for the Bikers

PROLOGUE

My father’skitchen smells like vanilla and blood money.

I pipe the last rosette onto a wedding cake, ignoring the muffled screams from upstairs. Someone failed their initiation tonight. In an hour, they’ll wear my father’s mark—a snake branded into flesh, declaring them Viper property forever.

The cake is perfect. Three tiers of pristine white cake decorated with sugar flowers that took me six hours to craft. The couple getting married tomorrow has no idea their wedding is being catered by one of the most dangerous MCs on the West Coast. They’ll never know their deposit helped move fifty kilos of cocaine last week.

My hands don’t shake anymore when I hear the screaming. Growing up, the Vipers taught me control. As the president’s daughter and future leader of this empire of violence and vanilla extract, I’ve learned to keep creating beauty while men bleed upstairs.

Emma hovers in the kitchen doorway, my baby sister’s eyes too old for eighteen. “Bus leaves in an hour.”

“You’ve got everything?” I keep my voice steady. The kitchen might be clean, but Dad has ears everywhere.

She nods. She has a full ride to Boston University. Dad thinks it’s just college; he doesn’t know it’s freedom.

The screaming stops. Heavy boots descend the stairs—Dad’s enforcer is coming to raid my first aid supplies again. I point him toward the cabinet without looking up from my work. Some nights, I patch them up myself. Not tonight. Tonight, I’m just the chef, preparing for tomorrow’s “legitimate business.”

Dad chose me as his successor when I was twelve. The first time I covered a drug drop with a perfectly timed cake delivery, he declared I had the “family instinct.” By sixteen, I was running the entire catering operation. At twenty, he started bringing me to leadership meetings. Now, at twenty-four, I’m supposed to take over next month.

My father sees it as destiny. The first female MC president on the West Coast, his legacy secured through his eldest daughter. He doesn’t understand that every perfect pastry, every flawless cake, has been my quiet rebellion. In my dreams, I’m not hiding heroin in honey glazes. I’m running a real bakery, creating beauty that doesn’t mask darkness.

The kitchen timer dings. Not for baking—nothing’s in the oven. That’s my signal. Emma’s bus leaves in forty-five minutes. By the time Dad realizes his heir isn’t coming back, she’ll be safely across the country.

I finish the cake’s final details. Every flower has to be perfect. The Vipers’ reputation as a “legitimate” business depends on my work. Dad’s image of control extends to every detail—fromthe way his men dress to how his daughters behave. The snake brand is just the most visible sign of his ownership.

The kitchen door swings open. Dad fills the frame, his presence making the room smaller. The snake tattoo curling up his neck seems to move in the fluorescent light.

“Beautiful work, princess.” He inspects the cake, pride and possession in his voice. “Just like I taught you.”

But he didn’t teach me. Mom did, before the accident. She showed me how to make beauty from simple ingredients. Dad just taught me how to hide ugly things inside that beauty.

“Tomorrow’s meeting,” he continues. “Time you start learning the real business. Can’t run an MC on cake alone.”

I hum acknowledgment, adding another tiny leaf to a sugar flower. Next month’s leadership ceremony looms like a prison sentence. The crown princess of cocaine and violence, ascending her bloody throne.

“Your mother would be proud.” He touches my shoulder. “She always said you had magic in your hands.”

Mom wouldn’t be proud. She wanted me to study at Le Cordon Bleu, not Le Cartel. She died before she could save us from this life. I won’t let Emma suffer the same fate.

The kitchen clock hits nine. Emma’s bus leaves in thirty minutes. My car’s packed, hidden at the grocery store lot. Three months’ salary saved from legitimate catering jobs. A new identity courtesy of the only friend I trust. A small apartment waiting in a town I chose purely because it’s not on any MC’s radar.

“Night, Dad.” I kiss his cheek, breathing in familiar leather and gunpowder. “Big day tomorrow.”

He has no idea. Tomorrow the princess abdicates her bloody throne. Tomorrow I stop hiding drugs in desserts. Tomorrow I choose whisks over weapons.

The wedding cake sits perfect and pristine, my last creation for the Vipers. I take one final look at my father’s kitchen, at twelve years of mixed memories—learning to pipe roses while men plotted violence, perfecting pastry while prospects screamed, creating beauty while surrounded by brutality.

I’ve timed this perfectly. Emma’s bus first, then I disappear. No stealing, no betrayal beyond refusing my inheritance of violence. Just a woman choosing flour over power, freedom over fear.

My hands don’t shake as I leave. The princess of the Vipers has perfect control.

Right up until she runs.

1

ROWAN

I hatehow pathetic my Honda—bought for cash from a dealer who didn’t ask questions—sounds limping into Wolf Pike like it’s one pothole away from giving up completely. The sun’s still up, painting everything gold-pink, making this tiny mountain town look like something out of a movie. Too pretty to be real. Too perfect to be safe.

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