POV: Silas

Evelyn chose the motorcycle before Silas offered it.

"No van," she said from the bakery's upstairs room. "No ambulance. No vehicle Grant can order one officer to stop."

Rain had cleared, leaving afternoon light across the floorboards. Sophie slept beneath a quilt on Elsie's narrow bed, one red shoe beside her and one purple-socked foot sticking out.

Evelyn stood near the window in borrowed jeans and Silas's black sweatshirt. The fabric swallowed her wrists. His scent covered her.

Her scent covered it in return.

His wolf nearly drove him to his knees.

Mate. Take her. Hold her. Home.

Silas curled his hands at his sides.

"A motorcycle exposes you," he said.

"It also gives Grant too many motorcycles to stop."

Below the window, Main Street had filled with riders.

The Reapers had called no one officially. They did not need to. The empty-ambulance clip had spread through every motorcycle club in three counties. Riders arrived alone and in groups—veterans, mechanics, nurses, grandparents, weekend accountants wearing leather over office shirts.

One hundred and eighty-seven motorcycles waited outside the bakery.

Ronan counted twice because the first total included a delivery scooter.

"It has two wheels and unresolved anger," he argued. "It counts."

The scooter rider raised one gloved fist.

Evelyn watched from the window. "Can police stop all of them?"

"They can try," Silas said. "They would need individual cause for each vehicle."

"And they won't know which one I'm on if everyone wears the same helmet and jacket."

Maeve held up the armored vest Evelyn had worn beneath the hospital scrubs. "You still need this."

Evelyn accepted it without argument.

Progress could be measured in strange ways.

Silas helped fasten only the rear strap she could not reach. His knuckles brushed her side.

Her breath changed.

So did his.

He wanted to slide both hands around her waist. He wanted to pull her back against him and bury his face where her neck met the stolen sweatshirt. His wolf showed him an image of carrying her away from every badge, every judge, every locked room and keeping her somewhere no one else could smell her fear.

The desire was not gentle.

His choice was.

He stepped back when the buckle closed.

Evelyn turned. "You keep doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Looking as if you want to touch me, then moving away."

Silas did not lie. "I do want to touch you."

The room went very still.

Maeve found a sudden reason to check Sophie's blanket. Ronan left so quickly he collided with the doorframe.

Evelyn's gaze remained on Silas.

"How much?"

His wolf answered first with a surge that turned his eyes gold.

"Enough that distance requires effort."

She glanced at his eyes but did not retreat. "Because I'm your mate?"

"Yes. And because you're you."

"What's the difference?"

"The bond makes my wolf want to claim you. You make me want to deserve being invited closer."

Her lips parted.

Silas could hear her pulse.

"We have one hundred and eighty-seven motorcycles waiting," Maeve said without turning around.

"One hundred and eighty-eight," Ronan called from the hall. "The scooter has been recognized."

Evelyn laughed softly.

The tension bent instead of breaking.

They woke Sophie. Maeve would carry her in a covered sidecar driven by Bishop, secured in a child harness Miriam had somehow obtained within an hour. Sophie inspected the arrangement and demanded purple goggles.

"We have black," Bishop said.

"Purple goes faster."

Ronan nodded. "Established science."

Elsie produced purple swim goggles from the bakery basement. No one asked why she owned them.

At three twenty, the riders started their engines.

The sound rose between the buildings like controlled thunder. Pedestrians lined the sidewalks. Phones appeared in every hand. The convoy was too public to disappear and too large to quietly abuse.

Silas mounted his Harley.

Evelyn stood beside it wearing a plain black helmet. Her hand rested on his shoulder.

"Tell me what to do."

"Left foot on the peg. Swing over. Keep your body with mine in turns."

She climbed on behind him.

For one breath, she did not touch him.

Silas felt every inch of empty air.

Then her arms circled his waist.

Her chest settled against his back. Her thighs framed his hips. Her helmet rested between his shoulder blades.

His wolf struck the inside of him with enough force to blur his vision.

Mine.

The word was hunger, shelter, possession, and worship twisted together.

Silas gripped the handlebars until the silver star Sophie had placed on his knuckle creased.

Evelyn's fingers tightened over his stomach.

"Too close?" she asked through the helmet connection.

He almost laughed at the cruelty of the question.

"No."

"You sound angry."

"I'm trying not to turn around."

"Why?"

Because he wanted to lift her off the motorcycle, press her against the bakery wall, and prove with his mouth that she was alive. Because her scent beneath his own made his wolf believe she had already chosen their den. Because one invitation to hold her had awakened thirty-five years of empty instinct.