“Air.” The word came out half-growl. Wolf saliva pooled under my tongue, coppery and hot. Across the room, Juliet threw her head back, laughing at something Snake’s latest fling whispered in her ear. The sound punched through my solar plexus. “Mine.” The beast gnawed at my ribs, all primal hunger and single-minded possession.
Rook scrambled backward, colliding with a waitress carrying a tray of Jäger bombs. Glass shattered. No one looked.
Juliet’s hips found the rhythm of “Sweet Home Alabama,” her movements liquid grace underscored by tequila courage. Three guitar chords later, Gunner’s newest prospect—kid couldn’t be older than twenty-two with his baby-faced swagger—slid up behind her. His palms settled on her waist.
My vision tunneled.
The song warped into a distorted whine. Every follicle on my arms stood rigid. The prospect’s fingers flexed, thumbs brushingthe underside of her ribs. Juliet stiffened, a fractional hitch in her breathing that would’ve been imperceptible to human ears.
I was moving before conscious thought kicked in. Bodies parted like wheat before a combine. Somewhere to my right, Maddie’s whiskey-cured laugh cut off mid-cackle. The prospect’s grip tightened as he leaned in, lips grazing the shell of Juliet’s ear.
Her hands came up to push at his wrists. Too slow. Too polite.
Mine weren’t.
“Hands.” I locked the kid’s thumb in a pressure hold, peeling him off her like a sweaty t-shirt. His yelp harmonized with the static of the speakers. “You’re fond of these?”
“Bronc, Jesus—” Juliet stumbled sideways, pupils blown wide. Tequila and adrenaline soured her sweat.
The prospect wheezed, knees buckling. “Didn’t mean no—”
“Disrespect?” I completed his sentence through gritted teeth. “You’re fluent in it.”
Scar materialized from the mob, silver earrings catching the strobe lights. “Got him, Prez.” Her hand closed around the kid’s collar.
I didn’t wait to see the fallout. Juliet’s pulse thrummed against my palm where I’d grabbed her wrist—rabbit-quick and fluttering. She tried to dig in her heels near the women’s bathroom, but I shouldered through the fire exit into the service corridor. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, bleaching the scuffed linoleum.
“Let go.” She twisted, nails scoring my forearm. “You don’t get to—”
I caged her against cinderblock walls painted industrial green. Her chest heaved, blonde bangs sticking to damp temples. My wolf preened at having her trapped, at the way her pupils dilated despite the anger tightening her mouth.
“You want to play at being brave?” My voice came out gravel-rough. “Fine. But you don’t get to dance with danger in my house.”
Her chin jerked up. “Your house? Last Ichecked—”
“My rules.” I crowded closer, knee slotting between her thighs. She caught her breath. “You stroll in here smelling like sunshine after a decade of thunderstorms and expect—”
“Sunshine doesn’t have a scent.”
“It does on you.” My nose skimmed her hairline. Vanilla. Salt. Faintest hint of jasmine shampoo. “Like crushed ginger and sugar.”
She trembled. Or I did. The distinction blurred.
“Why does it matter?” Her whisper ghosted over my lips. “I’m just another—”
“Lie.” My thumb found the frantic leap of her carotid. “You’re champagne in a beer can, Juliet.”
She froze. The name hung between us—an indictment and a plea.
I watched the realization crash through her, shoulders tensing, throat working, right hand twitching toward the exit sign. Her tells were textbook; upper-class training warring with feral survival instincts.
“Don’t.” I bracketed her hips. “Running’s what got you here.”
Her laugh cracked like thin ice. “And where’s here exactly? Some backwoods purgatory where bikers play white knight?”
“Purgatory’s got a pool table and bottomless pretzels.” I traced the shell of her ear, delighting in her shiver. “Stay. Fight.”
“For what?”
