I freeze, staring at him, my mouth half-open.
Locke looks at me, his eyes searching my face with a quiet, unbending authority that feels like a wall rising between us.
"You're asking questions you know you aren't supposed to ask," Locke says, every word measured and deliberate. "You were born into this club, Zara, and your Dad raised you in the clubhouse. Your brother wears the patch. You’ve grown up around this iron your entire life. You know how this works for women in the MC. You’ve always known."
The words hit me right in the chest, sharp and cold, like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head.
"I'm not just any woman in the club, Locke," I protest. "I'm the President's daughter, the VP’s sister. And I'm with you."
"Which is exactly why you need to get your head straight right no
