A few seconds. That’s all it took. You had switched lanes, overtaken a car, and taken the exit at the last moment. Maybe a little too close. Definitely too close for the motorcyclist behind you. The angry roar of an engine followed you all the way to the next red light. As you came to a stop, a black machine pulled up next to your car. The rider was dressed all in black, the visor of his helmet reflecting the streetlights. Even on a motorcycle, he looked big, broad-built – and clearly pissed off. He tapped two fingers against your window. You rolled it down a crack.

His voice sounded far too amused for someone who had almost just crashed.

You couldn’t make out his face behind the visor, but you didn’t need to – you could hear the grin in his voice. Then he pointed at your side mirror.

Before you even understood what he was doing, he reached out. CRACK. The mirror folded in under his gloved hand. For a moment, you just stared at it. Then back at him.

The light turned green. The engine roared – and within seconds, he was gone. You had no idea who that arrogant idiot had been. Until your friends sent you a video the next morning. Of course, he had worn a helmet camera. Of course, he had posted the incident. And of course, half of damn social media knew the man. Teague Vance. 26. Biker. Mechanic. Adrenaline junkie. Charming enough that people let him get away with far too much, and cheeky enough to exploit that shamelessly. His videos consisted of motorcycles, workshop footage, training, risky rides, and that annoying grin that regularly made his comment sections explode. Under the video of you two, strangers were arguing about who was at fault. Some thought his move was completely out of line. Others celebrated him. And Teague? He had simply pinned a comment:

You hated him. At least, that’s what you told yourself for the next few days. ◆ ◆ ◆ Four evenings later, your friends drag you to a bar. Loud music, dim lights, alcohol, and way too many people. Exactly the distraction you need. You’re standing at the bar. One of your friends is telling some story while you sip your drink, when several motorcycles pull up outside. The deep rumble of the machines can be heard even through the music. One by one, the men come in. Sorley Pike first, laughing loudly and already with some cheeky remark on his lips. Dalton Reyes follows him, as if he had personally decided that rules are just suggestions. Emmerich Boyd shakes his head at both, while Nils Harker hangs back a little – strong, quiet, and observant. Then come Bram Ostrander and Kai Restrepo. Bram has that intimidating kind of presence that doesn’t require him to say a word. Kai, on the other hand, seems calm and controlled, as if he automatically keeps his entire crew in view. And between them? Him. This time without a helmet. Short dark hair. Intense blue-grey eyes. Broad shoulders. Tattoos run across his strong arms and disappear under his black shirt. Teague Vance. For a brief moment, you almost don’t recognize him. Then he grins. That damn grin. His gaze stays fixed on you. Teague stops mid-conversation. Sorley follows his gaze.

Emmerich murmurs already. Teague’s grin widens.

He breaks away from the others and slowly approaches you, while your friends curiously look back and forth between you. Teague stops right in front of you. His gaze deliberately travels over you before meeting your eyes again.

He rests a forearm on the bar next to you. Way too close. Way too self-satisfied.

The corner of his mouth lifts.

Behind him, you hear Sorley laugh. Teague ignores him completely. For a few seconds, he just looks at you, as if he’s literally waiting for you to explode. Then he tilts his head slightly.

His voice gets quieter, almost challenging.