Chapter 1
Brie
Two weeks since County Line and my mirror still lied to me.
I sat at the thrifted white vanity in my bedroom, or let’s call it what it was, a primary closet with delusions of grandeur. Two frosted bulbs flickered above the glass, one yellow, one blue-white, so my face split down the middle in a weird Monet-meets-crime-scene way. It suited me.
This morning, the reflection was extra brutal: my long inverted bob, which was longer in the front than back, refused to lay smooth, no matter how many times I’d used the flat iron. Purple smudges lay under both eyes because sleep and I were on a trial separation.
I ran the bullet-tip of my favorite eyeliner over my lower lashes, steady as a surgeon. Not because I was calm, but because if I didn’t anchor my hand, I’d poke my eye out. My wolf—the animal part of me that should have made me fierce and untouchable; instead curled up somewhere between my ribs, watching and waiting for any sign of him.
Gunner. Even thinking of the name sent a glitch through my pulse. Finn “Gunner” Walsh, who’d first been so easy with me when he’d loaded my mother and me into his truck after we’d stepped off the plane when we’d been rescued from the nightmare in that Paris warehouse. That’s where I’d seen my big sister, Harper, run a steel pipe through a man’s neck and into his chest; killing him. Bronc had asked Gunner to drive us to thehouse Parker had generously provided for my mom and me to stay in while we tried to figure out what was next for us. He’d spoken so kindly to me then.
A couple of weeks later at the County Line Bar I didn’t know he was there until a big, hulking creature had tried to back me up against him on the dance floor. He was all wrong, and I’d tried to pull away. But he was stronger and wouldn’t allow it. Then Gunner happened. I hadn’t seen him, but I heard his muffled voice, and the creature let go and backed away. Then his hands were on me. Gunner’s hands—strong, calloused, and perfect—wrapped around my waist, then under my shirt until I felt them against my skin. It felt like electricity ran through my body. I had to try to play it off. There’s no way I could let him see how he’d affected me. I just looked over my shoulder and teased him the way I knew he hated with an old cowboy reference. I called him ‘Billy the Kid.’ That’s when he whispered in my ear that he wasn’t an outlaw, but he wasn’t the good guy either.
That was the last time he’d spoken to me. He acted like I was some kind of feral cat you lured with bits of leftover steak, then he’d said he didn’t know if he should ‘kiss me or strip my pants down and spank my naked ass red.’ That had been his parting shot when he left me at the bar. He’d been grinding against my ass with his hand against my stomach, then he just left me there.
The moment had been surgical, precise. He’d leaned in, green eyes locked on mine. Every one of my internal alarms went off: scent of sweat and soap and leather, the ache in my belly, the stutter in my breath. My wolf uncurled, wild-eyed, tail up. He stopped just short of my lips—one centimeter—and let the entire universe pause on that knife edge.
I’d wanted it so bad I’d almost leaned in to bridge the gap.
Then he’d grinned and walked away, boots echoing on the sticky bar floor, not a backward glance. My wolf had howled, in the internal way you can’t explain to normal people. Harper and Arsenal had arrived to pick meup like I was some kind of wayward child and not a goddamn 23-year-old woman. I was furious. So of course I ran after Gunner like a fool, yelling at him as I went.
‘This isn’t finished, cowboy! We’re not done here!’ Yep, I made a right fool of myself. And it was only made worse when he turned back to me and tipped his damn hat to me.
Then he said the words I wasn’t sure I was happy to hear. ‘You’re goddamn right, little girl. We’re not done here. Not by a long shot.’
I had just stood there until Harper took my arm and led me out to Arsenal’s truck. I didn’t say a word and thankfully, neither did she. She quietly dropped me off back at my house where I’d drown in a fit of pure self-loathing, drawn every curtain, flipped every mirror, and spent twenty-four hours watching reality TV and eating Ritz crackers in bed. Because I was a sophisticated woman, damn it. Because I did not want Gunner, or any man, to own me.
Except I did. And my wolf did. And no matter how many times I told myself that I’d grown out of needing—out of being needy—every cell in my body wanted to run after him and beg.
Avoiding my mother had been tricky, but she’d learned to keep her distance when I got like this.
I blinked. The makeup pencil slipped, leaving a jagged line at the outer corner. Good, I thought. Ugly fit better.
But the memory of him replayed on a loop, and my body responded with flawless recall. The flush started in my cheeks, hot enough to steam off the cheap primer, then swept down my throat, prickle and heat gathering behind my sternum. My hands wanted to do something: break the pencil, throw the compact, clutch at my own skin. Instead, I gripped the white laminate edge of the vanity so hard my fingers lost color. My legs pressed together, thighs as tight as a vise.
This wasn’t new. I’d spent two weeks rerunning the scene, hoping it would fade or distort, that the real version was less humiliating than the one in my head. No such luck.
I dotted concealer under each eye, patted it in with the pad of my ring finger. Luc had said I looked pretty without it, but Luc lied about everything. Gunner wouldn’t have. He would’ve told me I looked like shit, then kissed me anyway. Then done the other thing, probably.
The idea made my stomach do a little backflip.
“Get a grip,” I whispered to my reflection. The mirror Brie sneered back, lips pale, eyebrows two different shapes. I tried to fix the left one and made it worse. My hand was definitely shaking.
Maybe it was chemical; could it be a mate bond? My sister Harper said it was ancient magic, as if that explained anything. I called bullshit, said we were mammals in heat, all biology and delusion. But Harper had accepted Arsenal and the bond that fate had clearly given them. They were sickly happy, so maybe I was the delusional one.
I pressed a knuckle into my sternum, hard, trying to root out the ache. My wolf flicked her tail and showed her teeth. The memory of Gunner’s voice was stuck on replay, like a song with one sexy, humiliating line.
The scent of him was stuck, too, in my memory. Not cologne—Gunner wore soap, leather, the kind of sweat that came from actual labor. The opposite of Luc Renault and his expensive French aftershave and pressed shirts. Gunner wore snap-front plaid and jeans that had seen more action than I had. His hands looked like they could break me in half. I’d seen those hands pull on the reins of a wild bronco until the horse calmed under his touch. It was like magic.
I lined my lips, overdrawn, a little desperate. I wiped half of it away, then reapplied. Everything felt wrong. Too much. My throat was tight.
The problem was, I’d never wanted anyone before. Not really. I’d liked being wanted, had learned all the tricks: how to tilt my head, how to arch my back, how to look at a man and make him forget his own name. Butwith Gunner, none of those tricks mattered. He saw through it, stripped me bare with a look, and left me reeling.
My phone buzzed on the vanity. I flinched so hard my mascara wand hit my eyelid and left a black smudge. For a second, I let myself hope it was him. It wasn’t. It never was. Just a group text from Harper, organizing “pack dinner” at the pack house.
I stared at the phone, at the message, at my own reflected disappointment. My wolf paced. I wiped the mascara off with a makeup wipe, furious at myself for the hope, for the need, for the visible evidence of both.
