Princess hated the sound of her car sputtering down the backroads of the Podunk town she was driving through. It was making the kind of coughing sound that meant trouble, the kind that made her stomach sink before the dashboard lights even started to flicker. She pulled over to the side of the road, cursing under her breath as steam curled from under the hood. She wasn’t a mechanic, but she was sure that was a bad sign.
“Of course this is happening,” she muttered to herself. “Because the universe loves to screw with me.” She wasn’t wrong. In the past year alone, she had more troubles than she had had her entire life. Sure, she had lived a pretty pampered life with her father being the head of the largest mob family in Chicago, but that was a life she was trying to forget. It was a life that she was currently running from because going back to her father and his rules wasn’t something she ever wanted to do.
She got out of her car and popped the hood, staring at the mess of metal and wires, and knew instantly she was out of her depth. She could handle a lot—hell, she’d survived worse than a busted engine—but cars weren’t her thing.
Finding a tow truck driver to pick her up from the side of the road at this hour wasn’t an easy task—but hard tasks were her specialty. She had someone out to her location within the hour, and the tow truck driver gave her one option for someone who could repair her car—Butcher’s Body Shop.
Princess almost laughed at the name of the place. It had butcher right in the title, but she had no choice. She was out of options if she wanted her car fixed, so she agreed to let the nice tow truck driver drop both her and her car off at Butcher’s Body Shop.
As soon as she jumped down out of the tow truck, nearly breaking her damn ankle in the heels that she chose to wear for the day, she instantly regretted her decision. The place was lined wall to wall with motorcycles, and that had red flags dancing in her head. She knew bikers were bad news—especially bikers who didn’t belong to a club. At least, that was what her father used to tell her. They were his number one problem around Chicago, and he used to grumble about them daily. They were wild cards, rogue assholes who didn’t give a damn about anyone but themselves. Still, she didn’t have a choice in the matter.
A tall, good-looking man walked out of what she assumed was an office area. His sleeves were rolled up, and grease was streaked across his forearm. He looked like the kind of man who had been carved out of grit and regret. Her father would not have approved of her dealing with a man like him, and that thought had her smiling to herself.
Princess squared her shoulders, refusing to let him see the hesitation crawling under her skin. “My car’s dead,” she said flatly, tossing the keys onto the counter. “Fix it.” She was used to giving orders, but the biker standing in front of her looked like he wasn’t used to receiving them. He stood there, looking between her and the keys that she had tossed to the counter, smirking. Yeah, maybe making demands and giving ordersworked for her in Chicago, but in rural Mississippi, she wasn’t so lucky.
The guy looked over at her, his eyes dark and unreadable. For a moment, she thought he might tell her to get lost. But instead, he picked up the keys, turning them over in his hand like they weighed more than the metal that they were made of.
“Does bossing people around usually work for you, honey?” he drawled.
“My name isn’t honey,” she insisted, “it’s Princess.” She inwardly cringed, knowing that her given name wasn’t much better than the little pet name he had assigned to her. But there was no accounting for her parents’ bad taste in names or the fact that her father thought of her as a fucking princess since the day he found out that she was going to be a girl.
He chuckled to himself, “Well, that’s much better,” he mumbled more to himself than to her.
“Can you work on my car or not?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest. She was too tired to keep playing games with the oversized mechanic.
“Sure, it’s just going to take me some time to get the parts that I’ll need,” he said. She couldn’t help but roll her eyes at him. He didn’t even know what was wrong with her car, yet he was sure that it would take time to get the parts.
“How do you know that the parts will take time to be delivered if you don’t even know what’s wrong with my car?” she asked.
“You don’t trust me,” he said, voice low, almost amused.
Princess crossed her arms. “I don’t trust anyone, so don’t be offended.”
“Okay, no offense taken then. The parts will take some time because getting anything delivered to this town takes forever. I’ve been doing this for ten years now, and I can tell you that it’s going to take a few weeks to get any parts delivered. But fromwhat I’ve noticed so far about your car, you’re going to need a new radiator.”
The tow truck driver had unloaded her poor car and waved back at the guy. “See you later, Butcher,” he drawled. “Good luck with this one.” She wanted to protest and ask him just what he meant by that comment, but he was in his truck and driving down the dirt road before she could even open her mouth.
Princess decided to concentrate all her frustrations on the man standing in front of her. “So, you’re Butcher?” she asked.
He gave a slight nod, “I am,” he said.
“Well, Butcher, how can you tell from just looking at my car that the radiator is busted?” she asked.
“From the steam coming out of the hood,” he said, not even blinking. He was good, she’d give him that, but she still didn’t trust him.
“Fine, how long will it take to get a new radiator in?” she asked.
“A few weeks, just like I said a minute ago. If you want quick and easy, then you’re out of luck. Nothing around here is quick or easy.” He winked at her—actually winked, and she wasn’t sure if she was turned on or repulsed. That would be something for her to sort out later when she was tucked away in a nice little hotel room.
She couldn’t explain why, but she felt a bit off as she stood there looking at the mechanic. For the first time in years, Princess felt the ground shift beneath her, and she hated it. She knew that bikers were bad news. They were always wild cards—rogue assholes who didn’t give a fuck about anyone but themselves. But for some reason, she didn’t sense that in the man staring her down.
“Let’s take a look at your car, and I’ll try to give you a more defined answer,” he offered.
“Fine,” she spat. She watched as he took her keys and walked over to her car. He popped the hood and stuck his head under, giving a small whistle. She was sure that wasn’t a good sign.
Butcher moved around the vehicle with a kind of deliberate patience that made her uneasy. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t flustered—just steady, methodical, like every bolt and wire had its place and he knew exactly where it belonged. His hands were scarred, knuckles roughened by years of work. Grease streaked across his forearms, but beneath the grime she could see the faded lines of old wounds—cuts that had healed jagged, burns that told stories she didn’t want to imagine. She told herself not to stare. But her eyes kept drifting back to him.
The man was a shadow of something dangerous, something untamed, but she already knew that much about him. And yet, there was a quiet discipline in the way he worked, a focus that contradicted everything she thought she knew about men like him.
