Page 4 of King's Reckoning
Her reckoning.
The metallic rattle of the ancient radiator jerked Rowan awake before dawn. Rolling over on the narrow cot in the prospect's room, she stared at the water-stained ceiling, her father's words from the night before echoing in her mind: "I don't have a daughter."
Her mother's warning came back to haunt her."If you go looking for him, be ready for what you find. Marcus King isn't the man I knew anymore. The MC life changes people, baby. It'll change you too if you let it."
Well, she'd found him alright. Found him and dropped a bomb that had left the mighty Marcus King speechless. But she wasn't here for his approval or his love. She was here for answers—answers about why he'd abandoned them, why he'd never tried to find her, why he'd left her mother to raise a child alone while he built his empire of chrome and leather.
The creak of floorboards in the hallway had her rolling silently to her feet, instinct kicking in automatically. Her mother had drilled situational awareness into her from the time shecould walk."Always know your exits,"Elena would say."Always be ready to move."Rowan had thought it was paranoia at the time. Now she wondered what—or who—her mother had been running from.
As a prospect, she was expected to be up before the patched members, handling the daily grind that kept the clubhouse running. Her mother had taught her everything she needed to know about MC life, preparing her for this moment since she was old enough to understand. Every detail, every tradition, every unwritten rule had been carefully explained until they became second nature.
Rowan pulled on her worn jeans and boots, then shrugged into her prospect cut. The leather still felt stiff and foreign against her shoulders, the bottom rocker conspicuously empty where "SOUTH DAKOTA" would eventually go—if she made it that far. She checked her reflection in the clouded mirror hanging on the back of the door. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, evidence of a mostly sleepless night spent replaying her confrontation with King.
Opening her door, she nearly collided with a wall of muscle. Reed Morrison, the club's Road Captain, filled her doorway like he'd been carved from stone. Even in the dim light, his dark eyes seemed to look straight through her, and Rowan felt her pulse quicken despite herself. He towered over her, but Rowan refused to be intimidated. She'd done her research on every member of theBlind Jacks, and Reed was one of King's most trusted men, which made him potentially her biggest threat.
"Up early, prospect?" His voice was a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through her chest. There was something dangerous about him, something predatory in the way he watched her, like he could smell secrets on her skin.
"Early bird gets the worm." She met his gaze steadily, channeling every ounce of confidence her mother had instilled in her. "Or in this case, gets the coffee made before the brothers wake up cranky."
The corner of his mouth twitched, and something that might have been approval flickered in his eyes. "Smart prospect." He didn't move from the doorway, using his bulk to maintain control of the space. "Word is you made quite an impression on King last night."
Rowan's heart skipped, but she kept her expression neutral. This was the first test. How would the club react to her claim? "Just being honest with the president about who I am."
"Honesty." Reed's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied her face. "That's an interesting policy for someone who showed up out of nowhere." His hand came up to rest on the doorframe, effectively caging her in. "Makes a man wonder what other truths you might be sitting on."
Before she could respond, he stepped back, giving her space to pass. The movement was smooth, calculated—a predator choosing to releaseits prey. "Coffee's not going to make itself. Then you can help me check the grounds. We've had some...disturbances lately."
Rowan slipped past him, acutely aware of his presence at her back as she headed for the stairs. The heat radiating from his body seemed to follow her all the way to the kitchen, along with the weight of his scrutiny. She could practically feel him cataloging every movement, every micro-expression, filing them away for future reference.
The clubhouse kitchen was her first real test. Her mother had described it perfectly—industrial grade appliances, decades of grease built up on the walls, and enough coffeemakers to fuel a small army. The air still held traces of last night's party—stale beer and cigarette smoke layered over the perpetual scent of leather and motor oil that seemed to permeate every MC clubhouse she'd ever been in.
Rowan got to work with practiced efficiency, falling into the rhythm her mother had taught her. Strong coffee was the lifeblood of any MC, and she knew exactly how each brother liked theirs—information carefully gathered during weeks of surveillance.
She started three pots brewing, each a different strength, then pulled ingredients from the industrial refrigerator. Her mother's voice guided her hands as she mixed batter for muffins."The quickest way to a biker's heart is through his stomach, baby.They act tough, but deep down they're all momma's boys who miss home cooking."
She was pulling the first batch of fresh-baked muffins from the oven when boots thundered down the stairs. Members filed in, drawn by the smell of coffee and baked goods. Rowan kept her head down, playing the role of humble prospect as she poured coffee and distributed breakfast.
She felt King's presence before she saw him, an almost electrical charge in the air that had every brother straightening unconsciously.
Her father didn't look at her as he took his coffee—black, no sugar—but she caught him inhaling deeply as she set a plate of muffins in front of him. For just a moment, something like recognition flickered across his face. Did he remember her mother's baking? Did he remember anything about Elena Matthews beyond whatever had made him walk away?
"These ain't half bad, prospect." The gruff compliment came from Knuckles, one of the older members. He was demolishing his third muffin, scattering crumbs through his gray beard. "Almost like my mama used to make."
"My mother's recipe," Rowan said without thinking, then silently cursed herself. Every detail about her past was ammunition that could expose her true purpose here.
"Must've been some woman," Reed commented from his spot by the door. His eyes hadn't left her since he'd come down for coffee. "Toteach you MC kitchen protocol along with her baking secrets."
"She was." Rowan met his gaze, lifting her chin slightly. Let him read what he wanted into that. "Taught me everything I needed to know about life."
She felt King tense almost imperceptibly at her words. Good. Let him wonder what else Elena had taught their daughter.
The kitchen gradually emptied as members headed out to handle club business. Rowan cleaned efficiently, aware of Reed's continued presence by the door. When the last dish was put away, he jerked his head toward the door. "Time for grounds check, prospect. Grab a flashlight."
The pre-dawn air was crisp as they walked the perimeter of the clubhouse property. Reed moved with the fluid grace of a predator, checking gates and sightlines with practiced efficiency. Rowan found herself studying his movements, admiring despite herself the play of muscles under his cut. He handled himself like a soldier, she noticed—constantly scanning, never fully relaxing his guard.
"Eyes on the job, prospect," he said without turning around.
She felt her cheeks heat at being caught staring.
