prologue
Morgan
I still remember the first time I saw them. The memory has never faded.
I'm sixteen, awkward in my own skin, standing at my locker. The hallway smells of floor cleaner and cheap body spray. I'm fumbling with my combination when the energy in the corridor shifts. Like someone's cut the oxygen.
They shouldn't have been here. None of the MC kids go here. After elementary school, my world had shrunk to the quiet streets around my house. Theirs had expanded into the orbit of the motorcycle club on the other side of town. Different schools, different lives. Until now.
They walk in together. Always together. Two shadows cutting through the fluorescent haze of high school mediocrity.
Trenton, over six feet of coiled tension and sharp edges. Dark eyes that miss nothing. Shoulders already broad enough to carry the weight of whatever demons chase him. A jawline that could cut glass.
Matthew, leaner but no less lethal. Sandy hair falling over one eye. The hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth like he knows something you don't. And he probably does.
I drop my biology textbook. The sound echoes dramatically.
They both look at me. The silence lands like a hand pressed flat against my chest.
"You okay?" Matthew asks, and his voice is deeper than I expected. He bends down and picks up my book. Our fingers brush when he hands it back.
"I'm fine," I manage, but I'm not. I'm anything but fine.
Trenton doesn't say anything. Just watches. Studies. His gaze trails over me slowly, like he's memorizing every detail.
"Morgan, right?" Matthew says. "You're in Brenner's English class."
I nod, shocked he knows my name.
"See you around," Trenton finally speaks, and it's a promise, not a pleasantry.
They walk away, leaving me trembling against my locker.
The next day, they're waiting for me at my locker. I blink, certain I'm imagining things, but they're still there when I open my eyes.
"Morning, Morgan," Matthew says, casual as anything.
I mumble something that might be "Hi" while fumbling with my books. Trenton leans against the locker next to mine, silent but present, his dark eyes scanning the hallway like he's on patrol.
"We're heading to the diner after school," Matthew continues. "You should come."
It's not a question. Not really.
"I— Okay," I stammer.
Chelsea Miller spots us in the cafeteria that afternoon. She doesn't say anything at first. Her gaze flicks from me to Matthew and back again, like we're a math problem that isn't adding up. Then she turns to her friends and whispers behind her hand.
I shrink into my seat, but Matthew's hand finds my knee under the table. Trenton's eyes narrow.
"Problem?" Trenton asks, his voice carrying enough for Chelsea to hear. She pales, turns away.
The whispers are a constant static. Then, one afternoon, Jason Cooper turns up the volume. He corners me by the gym, smelling like sour sweat and malice. "What's the secret, Morgan?" He braces a hand on the locker beside my head. "What do you do for them that's so special?"
Before I can even think of a reply, a hand shoots past me, grabbing Jason's collar. Trenton doesn't just pull him back, he lifts him, sneakers scraping against the wall. The hallway noise dies.
"Apologize," Trenton says. The words are quiet, but they cut through everything.
"Jesus, man, I was just?—"
