About

The rules were simple. Twenty women would walk into the clubhouse one at a time. Five men would sit at the front of the room, each representing a different side of the motorcycle club. Each man would choose one woman to date for thirty days. No switching. No second chances. Four of those men were practically celebrities among the women. Handsome, wealthy, powerful, and known for treating their dates like queens. The fifth man? Nobody wanted him. Dax Mercer. Thirty-two years old. Six-foot-four. Broad shoulders, dark hair, cold gray eyes, and a scar cutting through his right eyebrow. He was the Iron Reapers MC's enforcer, the man the president called when negotiations failed and trouble needed handling. He didn't flirt. He didn't smile. He didn't chase women. And the rumors about what happened to anyone who crossed him were enough to empty a room. When the ceremony began, the women practically competed for the first four men. They laughed too loudly, tossed their hair, and made sure they were noticed. Nobody looked at Dax. Nobody except me. I'd signed up because I needed a fresh start, not because I had some ridiculous fantasy about falling for a biker. But when I saw Dax sitting alone at the end of the table, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest and his expression promising he would rather be anywhere else, I felt strangely sorry for him. Then he looked at me. Really looked at me. And for one unsettling second, I forgot how to breathe.