Page 69 of Baby for the Bikers

Mine. The thought comes unbidden, possessive and dark.

That’s when I see him. One of the racers, a big guy with a leather cut I don’t recognize, sidling up to her. His hand slides down, grabbing her ass like he has the right. Like it belongs to him.

I’m already moving, fury building in my chest, when something unexpected happens.

Before I can take three steps, Rowan has the guy on his back. Her movements are a blur of practiced precision—a twist of his wrist, a sweep of his leg, and suddenly he’s on the ground with a small blade pressed against his throat. The entire crowd goes silent.

“Touch me again,” she says, voice deadly calm, “and you’ll need a lot more than water.”

The blade presses just enough to draw a thin line of blood before she releases him, stepping back with the knife already hidden away somewhere on her person. The guy scrambles to his feet, rage and humiliation warring on his face, but one look at the gathered crowd—and at me, now standing just behind Rowan—has him backing away.

“Crazy bitch,” he mutters, but there’s fear in his eyes now.

Rowan turns, catching sight of me. For a split second, I see something in her expression—a coldness, a calculation that doesn’t belong on the face of a small-town baker. Then it’s gone, replaced by the warm smile I’m used to seeing at the diner.

“Sorry about that,” she says, like she didn’t just take down a man twice her size without breaking a sweat.

“Don’t be,” I reply, studying her with new interest. “He deserved worse.”

The races continue, but my mind keeps returning to what I witnessed. The way she moved. The placement of the blade. The complete lack of hesitation.

That wasn’t self-defense learned in some women’s safety class. That was professional. Practiced. The kind of fighting that comes from years of specialized training.

Later that night, after the races finish and the crowd disperses, I find myself unable to sleep. The image of Rowan with that knife keeps playing in my mind. There was something familiar about it—the grip, the angle, the precise placement against the carotid.

Then it hits me. I’ve seen that technique before. Years ago, at a West Coast MC summit. The Vipers are known for training not just their men but also their women in particular fighting styles. Defensive skills taught to the club’s most valuable assets.

The realization makes my blood run cold. If Rowan has connections to the Vipers, it would explain a lot—her combat skills, her wariness, that strange calculation I sometimes catch in her eyes.

But it also raises a host of questions I’m not sure I want answered. The Vipers aren’t just any MC. They’re deep in trafficking, drugs, and violence that makes most other clubs look like church groups.

A Viper in Wolf Pike would be more than just a complication.

I pour myself a drink, staring out the window at the dark forest surrounding our house. My brothers are somewhere in this building, but they might as well be miles away for how distant we’ve become in the past two days.

All because of her. Rowan. The baker with deadly skills and a body made for sin. The woman all three of us have had, though they don’t know about my encounter with her. Not yet.

I down the whiskey in one burning swallow. Whatever her connection to the Vipers, whatever game she might be playing, one thing is certain—nothing between the Kane brothers will ever be quite the same again.

And despite what I told her in the heat of the moment, I’m not sure I’m ready to share.

28

ROWAN

“Chain’s getting loose,”I mutter, crouching beside my bike in the diner’s back lot. It still feels surreal that they gave me this—customized it for me, even—when I’m the one who destroyed their rides in the first place.

“I can take a look at it after closing,” Ryder says from behind me, his voice making me jump. I hadn’t heard him approach, but that’s typical Ryder—silent until he chooses not to be.

I stand, trying not to wince at the lingering soreness between my legs—particularly the deeper, more intimate ache that reminds me exactly what Brick did to me two nights ago. The memory makes heat flush through me despite the discomfort.

“It’s not urgent. Still rides fine,” I say, brushing dust from my jeans.

“For now.” His eyes drift over the bike with a professional assessment. “But neglect it, and you’ll be stranded somewhere.”

The double meaning isn’t lost on me. There are a lot of things I’ve been neglecting lately.

“Follow me to the garage after your shift,” he says. It’s not quite a question, not quite an order. “I’ll tighten it up for you.”

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