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Emily Torres has every reason to keep her distance from ""Ryder"" I see her every damn morning behind that espresso machine, doe-eyed and on her guard. My club's painted on my back and I'm the last guy she should be eyeballing-but hell, her quiet steel calls me in every time. She's running The Nest fundraiser today, corralling tents and vendors like she owns the place, and I'm shadowing her steps, arms folded, engine rumbling in the lot. Every jerk who gets too close winds up tasting my knuckles. Her laugh cuts through the roar of my engine like a blade-one minute I'm scanning the crowd, the next I'm watching her steady a panicking kid at the face-paint booth with nothing but a soft word and a steady hand. She doesn't flinch at chaos; she corrals it, tames it, and makes it look easy. And fuck, that's the kind of power I can't walk away from. Em's past is a locked box, but I've got the key if she'll let me. Secrets or no, I'm here to guard her through hellfire and high water. This ride is mine-and I'm not letting her slip away again.

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