Chapter 3
The Iron Vultures clubhouse squatted like a fortress at the end of a gravel road. Black bikes lined the parking lot like metal vultures waiting to feed. Aria's Honda looked pathetic next to them.
She'd driven here three times in the past week, never making it past the parking lot. Today was different. Today she was four months pregnant and running out of time to make decisions.
The bass from inside rattled her chest as she walked toward the door. A guy in a leather vest stepped out, cigarette hanging from his lips.
"You lost, princess?"
"I'm looking for someone. He has a patch that says VP."
The guy's eyes raked over her, taking in her jeans and sweater. Clean. Innocent. Everything this place wasn't.
"Ridge don't take walk-ins."
Ridge. Finally, a name to go with those storm-blue eyes.
"Tell him it's about Murphy's Tavern. Three months ago."
Something shifted in the guy's expression. He flicked his cigarette away and jerked his head toward the door. "Wait here."
The clubhouse was exactly what she'd expected and worse. Pool tables, neon beer signs, and women in barely-there outfits draped over leather- clad men. The air reeked of cigarettes, beer, and motor oil.
Conversations died as she walked in. Twenty pairs of eyes tracked her movement like predators sizing up prey.
"Well, well. What do we have here?"
A massive man with a gray beard and "PRESIDENT" across his chest stepped forward. His smile didn't reach his eyes.
"I'm looking for Ridge," Aria said, proud that her voice didn't shake.
"Ridge!" the President bellowed. "Got a visitor!" A door at the back opened. Aria's breath caught as the stranger from that night walked out—except he wasn't a stranger anymore. He was Ridge, Vice President of the Iron Vultures, and he looked like he'd been carved from steel and sin.
Their eyes met across the room. Recognition hit him like a physical blow. He went perfectly still, his hand tightening on the beer bottle he held.
"Holy shit," someone muttered.
Ridge's gaze traveled over her face, down to her still-hidden belly, then back up. Those storm-blue eyes blazed with something between fury and hunger.
"Everyone out," he said quietly.
Nobody moved.
"OUT!" he roared.
The room emptied faster than a fire drill. Even the President raised his hands and backed toward the door.
"Your clubhouse, your rules, brother. But if you need backup—"
"I don't."
When they were alone, Ridge set down his beer and walked toward her with predatory grace. Aria's heart hammered against her ribs.
"Three months," he said. "Three fucking months and now you show up."
"I didn't know where to find you."
"Bullshit. You knew exactly where to find me. You just didn't want to."
He was right. She'd convinced herself that leaving was the right choice, that one night of passion didn't mean anything. But looking at him now, feeling that same electric pull, she knew she'd been lying to herself.
"I'm pregnant."
The words hung between them like a bomb waiting to explode. Ridge's face went blank, unreadable.
"Mine?"
"Yes."
He stepped closer. Close enough that she could smell his scent—leather and danger and that something purely Ridge that had haunted her dreams.
"You sure?"
"I haven't been with anyone else since that night." His eyes flashed. "Since that night? What about before?"
Heat flooded her cheeks. "There was someone before, but we broke up and I hadn't... it's been over a year since we..." She stopped, mortified. Ridge's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "So you came to my bed untouched."
"That's not what I said—"
"Close enough."
He reached out and placed his hand on her still- flat stomach. The touch sent electricity through her entire body.
"How far along?"
"Sixteen weeks."
"Why now? Why tell me now?"
Because I tried to forget you and couldn't. Because every man I look at seems pale and boring compared to you. Because I've been throwing up every morning thinking about you.
"Because you have a right to know."
"Damn right I do."
The door burst open. The President walked back in with three other bikers, all of them armed with the kind of casual violence that made Aria's blood run cold.
"Ridge, we got a problem. Blood Reapers are—" He stopped when he saw Ridge's hand on Aria's stomach. "Well, fuck me."
"Not now, Hawk."
"Brother, if she's carrying your kid, that changes things. Blood Reapers been sniffing around, asking about your girl."
"What girl?" Ridge's voice turned deadly.
"Brunette. Pretty. Drives a little Honda." Hawk's eyes found Aria. "That girl."
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. Ridge's hand tightened protectively over her belly.
"How the fuck do they know about her?"
"Same way we know about everything. Someone's been watching. Someone's been talking."
Ridge turned to face his brothers, and when he spoke, his voice carried the authority of a man used to being obeyed.
"That's my baby." His hand stayed possessive on her stomach. "That makes her mine."
Aria's mouth fell open. "Excuse me?"
Ridge looked at her with eyes like winter storms.
"You walked into my world, princess. Into my clubhouse. With my child in your belly." He stepped closer, crowding her space. "That makes you property of the Iron Vultures."
"I'm not anyone's property—"
"You are now."
The words hit her like a slap. This wasn't how she'd imagined this going. She'd thought she'd tell him about the baby, maybe work out some kind of arrangement. She hadn't expected to be claimed like territory.
"You can't just—"
"Watch me."
He turned back to his brothers. "Double the security. No one gets near her without going through me. And find out who's been running their mouth to the Reapers."
"Ridge, wait—"
But he was already moving, already planning, already treating her like she belonged to him.
Hawk didn't move. He was still looking at Aria, and there was something careful in his face now. Something close to pity.
"Say it," Ridge told him. "All of it."
Hawk pulled a folded scrap of paper from his vest and read off it the way a man reads a sentence. "Aria Mitchell. Twenty-six. Third year at St. Bridget's, surgical rotation, off shift Tuesdays and Thursdays. Apartment 4B. Sleeps with the bedroom window cracked two inches."
The floor tilted under her.
"That's not club intel," Ridge said quietly. "Nobody gets that off a license plate."
"No." Hawk folded the paper small and put it away. "That's somebody who's been standing close enough to hear her breathe."