Page 28 of Calypso's Shield
It’s a test. A final line in the sand.
“Amanda.” I don’t rush. I don’t push. I let my fingers linger, waiting for her to make the call.
Slowly, Calypso leans in. Her lips brush against mine, a hesitant, testing kiss. It isn’t explosive, it isn’t rushed. It isn’t our first kiss, but something changes between us. Something real.
I groan low in my throat, and my grip tightens at Calypso’s waist as I deepen the kiss, letting her know exactly where I stand.
Calypso’s hands curl into my shirt, fisting the fabric like she’s anchoring herself to me. Maybe she is, and maybe I’m anchoring myself to her.
When Calypso finally pulls back, she stays close, resting her forehead against mine. “I don’t know how to do this,” she admits, her voice barely a whisper.
I exhale, running my thumb over her hip. “Then let’s figure it out.” I don’t hesitate. I don’t push. I just let her see it, the truth in my eyes, the promise in my touch.
It’s something deeper.
It’s trust.
Calypso’s breath shudders against my lips, and just like that, I know.
She isn’t the only one falling.
11
CALYPSO
Afew weeks later, I’m sitting on the pier. The ocean air is thick with the scent of salt and motor oil, a mix that settles into my bones like home. I straddle my Harley, fingers curling around the grips as the deep rumble of engines surrounds me, setting my blood on fire. The Royal Harlots are lined up beside me, a wall of leather, chrome, and fierce determination.
Allura, our president, sits at the front like a damn queen, her stance commanding respect without needing to say a word. Our road captain, Iris, checks the formation, ensuring we’re ready to roll out without a hitch.
This ride, The Freedom Ride, is more than just a show of horsepower and dominance on the road. It’s for the ones who never made it home, for the ones who did but lost themselves along the way. POWs, MIAs, and homeless vets, this ride is for them. And for me, it’s personal.
I adjust my cut, the weight of my Enforcer patch grounding me. My eyes drift across the crowd of bikers gathered at Santa Monica Pier, scanning faces and patches. The Royal BastardsMC is here in full force, their presence impossible to ignore. Capone and Danyella are at the front, standing beside Blayze and Monica. I spot Torch with Daisy, Derange, Jezebelle, and a handful of others, all geared up for the ride. Even the prospects, Seth, Knight, and Jax with his Ol’ Lady, Rose, look fired up, eager to prove their worth.
And then, there’s him.
Farris. Law Dog.
He leans against his bike, arms crossed over his cut, watching me like he can read every damn thought in my head. The bastard probably can. His sharp blue eyes, hidden behind dark aviators, track my every move. My stomach tightens. Heat licks low in my belly before I shove that shit down where it belongs. I don’t do distractions, especially not ones that wore a badge at one point, and know how to piss me off just right.
I throw my leg over my bike and kick the stand up. Iris signals the lineup, and the roar of engines drowns out the world as we prepare to roll. The streets are ours today. No cages, no bullshit, just open road and a two-hour ride straight down to Oceanside City Beach.
Law Dog falls in beside me as we start to move.
“Try to keep up, cop,” I smirk, revving my engine.
He just grins, that damn cocky smirk that gets under my skin, and rolls his throttle. “You’re adorable when you think you’re faster than me, baby.”
I flip him off before twisting the throttle and shooting forward.
The procession stretches for miles, a thunderous display of power and purpose as we ride down the Pacific Coast Highway. Flags wave from the backs of bikes, black, red, and blue patches blending together for something bigger than just clubs. It’s about respect. Brotherhood. Sisterhood. The ones who gave everything.
We own the road today, and for once, the world watches us with reverence instead of fear.
By the time we pull into Oceanside City Beach, the party’s already in full swing. Live music, food stands, and beer flow freely. The air buzzes with the high of the ride, the kind that sticks to your skin long after the engines are cut.
I slide off my bike, stretching out the stiffness in my shoulders, and Law Dog is right there, close enough that his heat seeps into my space.
“You know,” he drawls, pulling off his aviators, “I like watching you ride.”
