Page 24 of Calypso's Shield
I blink. “For what?”
She shrugs. “He’s letting him prospect.”
Shock jolts through me. “Seriously?”
“Yup.” She walks ahead, leaving me to process what the hell just happened.
At my bike, Farris is leaning against it, arms crossed, looking sexy as sin. He cocks an eyebrow. “You good?”
I grin. “Better than good.”
I slide on my helmet and straddle my bike, waiting for him to climb on behind me.
“Hold on tight,” I say, revving the engine. “Shit’s about to get real.”
He tightens his grip around my waist, and for a second, I let myself enjoy it. But my stomach twists. I still haven’t told him about my ex-husband. Or my medical condition. I know I need to. But not now. Not yet.
For now, I gun the throttle, and we take off into the night.
It’s early the next morning, and the rumble of my Harley vibrates through my chest as I pull up in front of the Royal Bastards MC clubhouse, the scent of oil, leather, and burnt rubber thick in the air. It’s a world Dalton doesn’t belong in yet. Clean-cut detective, all logic and law. But that’s about to change.
Dalton parks his truck and steps out, his stormy blue eyes locking onto mine as I kick down my stand and straddle my bike. He’s got that look, the one that’s equal parts determination and what the fuck am I doing here?
“You sure about this, Detective?” I smirk, resting my hands on my thighs. “Once you step through those doors, there’s no turning back.”
I told him about meeting Capone today, last night, and let’s say his excitement was more than mine, and he showed me his appreciation all night long.
Dalton snorts, rubbing the back of his neck. “Pretty sure I crossed that line the moment I got on the back of your bike.”
My lips twitch. “That’s true. I still have nightmares about it.”
“Bullshit.” He grins and steps closer, his body heat mixing with the warmth of the L.A. sun. “Admit it, you liked having me hold on for dear life.”
I roll my eyes, fighting the smirk threatening to break free. “Get inside, Dalton. Let’s see if you’ve got what it takes.”
He follows me through the doors and down a long corridor into the Clubhouse. The place is alive, music blasting, laughter echoing, and the scent of whiskey blending with the undeniable energy of controlled chaos. A few Royal Bastards turn to look at us, their eyes narrowing on Dalton.
Capone steps forward, his cut worn and patched with years of earned respect. His sharp, knowing gaze flicks between me and Dalton before he speaks.
“So, this is the cop you brought home?”
Dalton squares his shoulders, unbothered by the weight of Capone’s presence. “Was a cop, Farris Dalton. But something tells me that title won’t matter much here.”
Capone huffs out a dry chuckle. “No, it won’t. You want to prospect for the Royal Bastards?”
Dalton nods, standing firm. “I do.”
Capone studies him for a long moment before shifting his gaze to me. “You vouch for him?”
I hold Capone’s stare and nod. “Yeah. He’s solid.”
Capone runs his tongue over his teeth, then nods. “Alright, Detective. You’re a prospect now. Which means you’re at the bottom of the food chain. You take orders, you prove your worth, and you don’t complain.”
Dalton smirks. “Sounds like my first few years on the police force.”
Capone’s lips twitch. “Good. Then you should survive.” He nods toward the yard out back. “Go with Calypso. If you’re gonna be a prospect, you need to ride.”
Dalton turns to me. “Please tell me you didn’t bring me here just to humiliate me on a bike.”
