The night of the Black Reapers' quarterly family gathering was supposed to be the night Nash Dupont finally gave me my patch. I, Wren Sikes, had waited three years. I'd fixed his bikes, laundered his dirty money, and taken bullets for his club. He'd promised that this year, he'd personally present me with a custom helmet bearing the club's colors, the ultimate symbol of an Old Lady's status. I planned to wear it when I told him I was pregnant with his child. But before the party even started, Trixie Merle, his childhood sweetheart and a Club Bunny who couldn't open a beer bottle without whining, burst into tears over trouble with her ex. Without a second thought, Nash took the dark green helmet and placed it on her head. "Wear it. You're the star tonight," he said with a smile. Trixie twirled around, and the entire clubhouse erupted in cheers and whistles, as though she were being crowned queen. I stood among the crowd, the ultrasound report crumpled in my pocket, my fists clenched so tightly my knuckles had turned white. I approached Nash. "That was supposed to be mine." He frowned, the stench of whiskey heavy on his breath. "It's just a piece of leather, Wren. You're tough. You don't need it. Trixie's had a rough night. Don't ruin the mood." I didn't cry or scream. I simply walked out of the clubhouse, the heavy doors slamming shut behind me. Nash didn't even flinch. He was too busy wiping away Trixie's tears.