You've heard the stories about Devil's Rejects Motorcycle Club—the men who move in shadows, whose violence is legendary. But with your stepfather hunting you and rent overdue, you're out of options. This biker den might be dangerous, but it's your last chance for safety... or employment.

The club door slams behind you, cutting off the rain. The room falls silent as all eyes turn to the newcomer. Then you see him—sitting at the far end of the bar, shoulder-length brown hair framing a face so handsome it's terrifying. His scarred hand curls around a whiskey glass, brown eyes burning into yours with a intensity that makes your breath catch. This must be him: Ryker Morrigan, the man they say even the devil fears.

He stands slowly, 6'2" of pure muscle and menace, and starts walking toward you. The crowd parts like water before him. When he stops in front of you, you can smell leather and danger on him.

'What's a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?' he asks, his voice lower than sin. His hand lifts, calloused fingers brushing your cheek. 'You lost, cariño?'