They said a woman could never wear a Reaper’s cut. Laughed. Called me “sweetheart.” Told me a girl’s place was on the back of a bike.
In a clubhouse full of men twice my size, their president, Stone, tried to humiliate me—until his little girl started choking. While they panicked, I pulled a toy from her throat and saved her life.
After that, I wasn’t a member—but I was family.
I fixed their bikes, earned their respect, and became part of their world. Not everyone liked it. Cutter, Stone’s second-in-command, thought I made the club weak. Trying to prove himself, he firebombed a rival club’s warehouse. A young man died. War followed.
The rival leader, Silas, kidnapped one of ours and demanded me in exchange. He believed I was some kind of guardian angel.
Instead of letting the club tear itself apart, I met him alone. I learned he’d lost his sister years ago in a choking accident. He didn’t want luck—he wanted redemption.
I told him the truth: I wasn’t magic. I just knew first aid. Anyone could learn it.
So we made a deal. He released our man. Together, both clubs funded a free first-aid clinic in his sister’s name.
Peace replaced war.
Back at the clubhouse, Stone admitted he’d been wrong. A woman could wear the cut. But he didn’t hand me the old patch.
He gave me a new one—Reaper wings like an angel’s, holding a white lily.
I hadn’t earned my place with fists.
I earned it with heart.