Diablo

The first time Diablo sees her, the air in the warehouse reeks of sweat, blood, and cheap beer—and yet all he smells is fear on her skin.

Sergeant-at-Arms for the Night Rebels MC, Diablo knows how to keep people at a distance. It’s easy: the cut on his back, the scars on his knuckles, the permanent scowl, the steady drip of whiskey that burns his throat clean. Women line up for the bearded, inked biker, and he brushes them off like cigarette ash. The club, his Harley, the next fight he’s sent to oversee—that’s his whole world. No attachments. No weakness.

Then Fallon Richardson walks into his line of sight, hugging the shadows of her father’s illegal fight ring like they’re the only safe place left. Hazel eyes that never quite meet anyone’s. Shoulders drawn in, as if she can fold herself small enough to disappear. She’s the boss’s daughter, off-limits and untouchable in every way that matters.

Fallon has spent years perfecting the art of not being touched—of flinching before a hand can land, of hiding under oversized hoodies in a room full of hungry men and cruel women. A vanished mother, a ruthless father who parades her at his underground bouts, and a lifetime of knowing that a man’s attention usually comes with a price.

Yet the hulking biker with the devil’s name looks at her like she’s not a prop in her father’s show, but a person. Softness in his eyes, violence in his fists, and a promise she doesn’t dare believe.

When old secrets crawl back into the light and every alliance around Fallon fractures, Diablo is the only shield standing between her and the kind of darkness you don’t come back from. To stand there, he’ll have to put his club, his code, and the walls around his own ruined past on the line—and she’ll have to decide if letting him in is more dangerous than facing hell alone.