I told myself it was just a threat display. Standard shifter intimidation tactic. But the more I replayed it, the less I believed that.
I was still at the desk when the desire hit. It wasn’t sudden, like a knife; it seeped in, slow and venomous, starting as a spark in my belly and then spreading, rotting away the rest of my good intentions. I’d always been a control freak, always kept my sex life in neat boxes. I liked toys and solo missions because they did what I wanted, when I wanted, and there were never any messy expectations.
But the image of him—impossible, unreal—set something inside me on fire.
I tried to ignore it. I even made it to my feet, crossed my house to the kitchen and started another cup of coffee. But every step was heavier, and by the time I called Rocket and reached my bedroom, I was already undoing my hoodie, peeling it off like it was soaked in sweat.
I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the far wall. My hands shook as I slid my leggings down, careful not to let the fabric snag on my skin. Even in the stillness, the memory of the masked stranger pressed against me, hot and electric, as real as the bed beneath me. Rocket lay in his plush bed in the corner of the room, snoring away.
I grabbed the new vibrator from the drawer—a last-minute present to myself, still in its little pouch. It was charged and ready. The buzz was soft, almost shy. I laughed at myself, a dry, broken sound.
I leaned back, legs spread, and let the toy rest against my underwear. At first, I pretended I was just taking the edge off. But the fantasy came in hard: he was on the deck, watching. He slipped inside, moving with that bear grace, leaning over me, mask in place.
I pictured his hands, big enough to palm my face. The smell of him, oaky and alive, flooded my senses until I could barely breathe. In my head, he wasn’t gentle. He pressed me down, held my wrists, made me openfor him.
I moaned, surprised at how loud it was in the empty room. I didn’t care. I pushed the toy under my underwear, wetness slicking the silicone. I imagined him kneeling over me, one hand gripping my thigh, the other teasing me until I begged.
I went faster, pulse staccato in my neck. My other hand snaked up under my sports bra, pinching my nipple hard, the way I never let anyone else do. The pressure built fast and mean.
Right as I came, I bit my lip to keep from screaming. The orgasm was sharp, blinding, but faded quickly, leaving a raw ache in its place.
After, I lay there, panting; the toy buzzing quietly in my fist. The mask was still there in my mind’s eye, but now it was smiling for a different reason.
I tossed the vibrator onto the bed and rolled to my side, arms wrapped around my chest. I wanted to cry, or maybe just sleep forever. A tear escaped, and I quickly wiped it away. There was nothing left to do. My life was a disaster: my twin betrayed me, my stalker kink had become a reality, and I had no hope of a future. And the packs would come for me sooner or later. But for tonight, I’d found peace where I could. And I’d survived another day.
Chapter 2
Wrecker
At seven sharp I slid into the war room—second floor, right off the kitchen, because Bronc liked to keep his enemies and his caffeine close. The walls were hung with yellowed maps and an old Texas flag, cracked along the blue field from a century of neglect. The table in the center was a plank of oak, maybe the only original thing left in the compound, its surface carved with a thousand knife scratches and at least two bullet holes.
Bronc was already there, elbows on the wood, palms steepled. Arsenal and Doc flanked him, both in full leathers, neither looking like they’d slept. Gunner, the new enforcer, loitered near the window, his hands jammed in his pockets, eyes fixed on the horizon. Big Papa was there, carrying peace with him, a black coffee steaming in his huge mitt, the other hand flipping through a Bible as if there’d be an answer in the margins.
No one talked. Even the house had gone quiet, the overnight crowd either gone or passed out in a corner.
Bronc nodded at me. “Wrecker,” he said, “you gotsomething?”
I slid into the chair opposite him; the vinyl creaking under my weight. I let the silence build, then set the thumb drive on the table and nudged it across.
“They got the best to fuck us over, that’s for sure,” I said. “They’re bouncing signals off a dozen nodes, some I didn’t even know existed. Took a minute to get a bead, and when I did…” I thumbed the drive. “I don’t understand why, but the one doing it used to be one of us—Parker Reid.”
Arsenal’s eyebrows flicked up, but he didn’t say a word.
Doc scratched his jaw. “Axel’s little sister?”
“Twin,” I said. “She’s got a degree in comp sci, apparently used to run black hat ops for Amarillo State back when she was a sophomore. After their parents died, she went on to Texas Tech and then went off-grid for a while. She’d been working legit corporate jobs and doing corporate contracted IT for the past year. That’s where the money is.” I shrugged. “She’s good. Not as good as me, but close enough to make it interesting.”
Bronc leaned forward. His eyes had that cold, glassy edge they got before a fight. “Why now?”
I shook my head. “Doesn’t make sense. She’s not hurting for money—her house is paid off, she freelances for three Fortune 500 companies. But she’s been poking at our perimeter for a few weeks. Not subtle, either. Almost like she wants us to catch her.”
Big Papa set his cup down, careful not to spill. “Maybe she’s trying to send a message.”
“Maybe,” I said. “It’s possible she’s wanting us to find her breadcrumbs.”
Bronc nodded, absorbing, gears turning behind the eyes. “Who else knows about this?”
I snorted. “Just us and whoever hired her to do it. I covered the tracks, salted the logs. If you want to keep it in the family, we can.”
