The Biker's Bite

I ride for the Iron Wolves and I've been running from my mate for six years. I met her once, at a bar in Mendocino, and I knew the second I saw her — and I rode out, because the last mate in this club went feral and killed three people. Then the pack hit a problem with a rival charter running synth wolfsbane on our coast road, and the DEA put an agent undercover in their ranks. That agent is Cass. She got made three weeks in. I pulled her out on the back of my bike and we've been running north ever since, outnumbered, outgunned, running out of coast. Somewhere outside Santa Cruz I stopped pretending. I bit her. She didn't die. The bond is real and it's ours. Now there's a coastal standoff and one fog bank and two bikes heading north. Where we go nobody's business.