Chapter 2

The morning fog still clung to the cracked asphalt of the highway leading into Pine Creek.

A sudden, violent shudder ripped through the chassis of the black Maybach. The engine gave a pathetic metallic grind and died completely.

Pierce slammed his fist against the dashboard. "Dammit! There's zero cell service out here. Nothing."

In the back seat, Graham pushed his door open. He stepped out onto the gravel, his long legs adjusting to the uneven ground. His dark eyes scanned the desolate landscape. His face was a mask of absolute calm.

Pierce scrambled out of the passenger side. He stared at the white smoke pouring from under the hood. "We are going to miss the briefing tonight. In this godforsaken wasteland."

Graham didn't look at him. He raised his right hand, his thumb automatically finding the heavy black ring on his pinky finger. He twisted it once.

"There are fresh tire tracks heading two miles up the road," Graham said, his voice a low, steady rumble. "There's a shop."

They started walking. The loose gravel crunched under their custom-made Italian leather shoes. The dust immediately coated the expensive leather.

They rounded a sharp bend in the road. A dilapidated structure made of corrugated iron came into view. The exterior walls were covered in faded, aggressive graffiti.

Pierce pinched the bridge of his nose. "You've got to be kidding me. You think some backwoods hick in that dump can fix a V12 engine?"

Graham ignored him. He walked straight toward the half-open rolling metal door. The sharp clank of metal hitting metal echoed from inside.

They stepped into the dim, dusty interior. The air smelled like rust and old gasoline.

Graham's eyes adjusted to the shadows. He stopped.

Ten feet away, someone was lying flat on a mechanic's creeper, slid halfway under the chassis of a lifted truck.

The person wore grease-stained cargo pants. A pair of long, incredibly straight legs were bent at the knees, exuding a raw, coiled strength.

The metallic clanking stopped.

With a swift, fluid motion, the creeper rolled out from under the truck. Allison sat up.

She stared at the two men standing in her shop. Her eyes were cold, calculating, and completely devoid of welcome.

Pierce froze. His mouth opened slightly. He hadn't expected to find a girl in a place like this. Let alone a girl with a face that striking, paired with an aura that felt like a loaded gun.

Graham's gaze dropped to her right hand. She was casually gripping a massive, heavy-duty wrench. His eyes narrowed. He could smell it on her. Not just the grease. There was a faint, metallic scent of blood and adrenaline clinging to her.

Pierce recovered his composure. He plastered on his signature playboy smile and took a step forward. "Hey there. Is the boss around?"

Allison didn't even blink. She tossed the heavy wrench onto a metal table. It landed with a loud, jarring crash.

"Get out," she said. One word. Flat and sharp.

Pierce's smile vanished. He choked on his next breath, completely thrown off by the raw hostility. His charm usually worked like magic. Here, it hit a brick wall.

Graham stepped forward, smoothly placing himself in front of Pierce. His presence instantly dominated the cramped space.

"Our car broke down," Graham said. His voice was deep, carrying the undeniable weight of a man used to giving orders. "Name your price."

Allison finally shifted her gaze to Graham.

Their eyes locked. The air in the garage suddenly felt suffocatingly tight.

She took in the perfect, tailored cut of his suit. Her eyes flicked to his left wrist. A limited-edition Patek Philippe.

A walking ATM.

Allison picked up a filthy rag and slowly wiped the grease from her fingers. The corner of her mouth twitched upward in a mocking smirk.

"Five figures. Cash. Upfront," she said, her voice completely devoid of negotiation.

Pierce let out an angry laugh. "Five figures? For a backwoods mechanic?" He reached into his jacket for his black card, ready to shove it in her face.

Graham raised a single hand. Pierce stopped dead.

Graham reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He pulled out a thick stack of crisp, hundred-dollar bills. He walked to the greasy metal table and slammed the cash down.

Allison stared at the money. Her heart rate didn't change, but her mind calculated quickly. She needed untraceable cash to grease the wheels for her return to Aethelgard.

She reached out and swept the stack of bills into her pocket without a word of thanks.

She snapped her fingers. Ricky jumped from the shadows in the corner.

"Take the rig. Go get their car," she ordered.

Ricky scrambled out the door, firing up the rusted tow truck and peeling out of the lot.

Silence fell over the garage.

Graham walked over to a half-assembled motorcycle sitting on a stand. He ran his eyes over the exposed exhaust pipes.

"The welding on this manifold," Graham said casually, not looking at her. "It's professional-grade racing spec. Not something you learn in a small-town shop."

Allison's spine went rigid. The muscles in her arms tightened.

She moved fast, stepping directly between Graham and the bike. Her chest was inches from his arm.

"Don't touch my things," she warned, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "Or I'll break your fingers."

Graham looked down at her. She was glaring at him like a cornered leopard. He didn't feel insulted. Instead, a dark, intense spark of fascination ignited in his chest.

This girl was a puzzle. And he was going to rip it apart piece by piece.