Evelyn's dream of securing a scholarship to America's top ballet school shattered when her mother was brutally murdered during her teenage years. Determined to make a difference, she became a detective, ready to take on the world. Assigned to invest...
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The sun poured through the kitchen windows, painting Jeremiah's space in warm gold. He stood at the stove, flipping eggs for breakfast, the soft hiss of butter and the gentle pop of sizzling fat filling the air. The kitchen had been his sanctuary for years, and though he had plans to tweak it, the budget never stretched far enough. He let the imperfections remain, a quiet reminder of limits and of patience.
Today was Evelyn's free day, and he knew she had been up early, slipping quietly out of the clubhouse, finding her way into the morning. The memory of her weaving around the kitchen, chatting lightly as she moved, tugged at something inside him, a mixture of delight and unease.
"Morning." The voice was dark, smooth, carrying weight. Jeremiah turned to see Ice standing there, spine straight, eyes sharp and calculating. Every movement Ice made seemed measured, every glance intentional.
"Morning, Ice. Had a good night?" Jeremiah asked, turning back to his stove for a moment. Ice's presence had always unsettled the less confident bikers.
"Always. How about you?" Ice replied. There was something in his expression that tugged at Jeremiah, a flicker of amusement that barely touches the corner of Ice's mouth.
"I slept well," Jeremiah said carefully, narrowing his eyes, caught off guard by the sight. Ice took a step closer. Each movement was precise, commanding, a rhythm of quiet dominance. Jeremiah couldn't help picturing a panther, sleek and unyielding.
"Zeus spoke to me this morning-" Ice began, reaching for a strip of bacon from a plate.
"He asked me to tell you he want to speak, and that breakfast should be brought to him." The words were clipped, professional, as though Ice had detached them from any trace of emotion. Jeremiah's mind raced.
"In his office or room?" Jeremiah asked, striving to mask the flutter of nerves that the thought of confrontation stirred. He had noticed the strange looks the bikers were giving him and Evelyn lately. Gossip lingered in the corners of the clubhouse, unspoken yet undeniable.
"Office." Ice's fingers collided with the ladle in Jeremiah's hand. A sharp groan of irritation left him as the man withdrew his hand. Jeremiah returned to the stove, plating breakfast for the president of the club. He added a little extra for himself, knowing that once the questioning started, he would need it to anchor himself. Each plate carried both food and a quiet shield. When all was ready, he carried the plates down the corridor. The walls were lined with portraits, each one a window into the club's history. The most recent caught his eye, a photo of Athena at her welcome party, and despite the knot in his stomach, a small smile lifted his lips.
Three knocks later, and a deep voice called a welcome. Jeremiah stepped into the office. The room was shadowed, except for a pool of light over the wooden desk, illuminating scattered papers and a glowing computer screen. Jax sat behind it, phone in hand, his posture a fortress of calm authority.
