Page 1 of Ruined By King

CHAPTER 1

KING

The Ironwood Rally is neutral ground, which means I have to act like I don't want to put a bullet in at least three people here.

Four, actually. Just clocked another one near the beer tent.

I take a long pull from my bottle and let my gaze sweep the crowd — casual, easy, like I'm just another biker here to drink, bullshit, and pretend the real world doesn't exist for a weekend. Bikes gleam under the string lights, hundreds of them lined up in rows like soldiers at attention. The music's too loud, some classic rock cover band murdering Lynyrd Skynyrd on the main stage. Everywhere I look, there's leather and chrome and women in too-short shorts and men with patches that would mean war on any other night.

But not tonight. Tonight we're all friends.

What a fucking joke.

My territory ends about forty miles north of here. The Sons of Ruin don't need to be at these rallies — we've got nothing to prove and no alliances to shore up — but showing face matters. Politics. Perception. The game never stops, even when everyone's pretending it does.

"You're doing that thing again." Rogue drops onto the picnic bench beside me, two fresh beers dangling from his fingers. He passes one over without asking if I want it.

I take it. "What thing?"

"That thing where you look like you're calculating how many bodies would fit in the desert."

"Four," I say. "But the ground's too hard this time of year. I'd need a jackhammer, and that's more attention than it's worth."

"See, this is why people think you have no sense of humor." Rogue stretches out his long legs, crossing them at the ankle. "They don't realize you're fucking hilarious. In a terrifying way."

"I'm a delight."

He snorts. "Sure, Prez. You're a goddamn ray of sunshine."

Rogue — Ryan, if anyone's stupid enough to use his government name — has been my VP for four years. Before that, he was just another brother, but he was always the one I trusted to watch my back when things got ugly. He talks too much, flirts with anything that moves, and has a smile that makes women forget they have any sense at all. He's also the smartest man I know and the only one who can give me shit without catching a fist for it.

Lock materializes on my other side, settling onto the bench like a shadow finding its place. He doesn't say anything. He rarely does. Our Sergeant-at-Arms communicates in looks, grunts, and the occasional act of violence. Right now his eyes are tracking the cluster of Road Kings patches near the main bar, cataloging faces and positions with the same calm focus he'd bring to cleaning his guns.

"Six of them," he says. Just that. Just the number.

"I counted seven," I reply.

"One's a prospect. Doesn't count."

Fair enough.

The Road Kings are out of Phoenix. We've got history — none of it good. Nothing active right now, no open beef, but the kind of tension that never really dies. Their president, a piece of shit named Chains, has been pushing at our borders for years, testing, probing, looking for weakness. He hasn't found any. But men like that don't stop looking.

His Sergeant-at-Arms is here tonight. Rocky. Mean old bastard with a temper and a reputation for holding grudges until they rot. He's standing near the beer tent, thick arms crossed over his chest, watching the crowd like he trusts it about as much as I do.

I don't give a shit about Rocky.

I give a shit about who's standing next to him.

Don't look.

I look.

She's right there, maybe fifty feet away, half-hidden in the shadows at the edge of the firelight. Auburn hair spilling over her shoulders, catching bits of gold and copper from the flames. Jeans that hug every curve I'm not supposed to be looking at, a black tank top that's doing nothing to help my self-control, and a mouth I've imagined doing things that would start a war. No patch or insignia — nothing that marks her as club. But everyone here knows whose daughter she is.

Demi.

Rocky's daughter. The Road Kings' princess.