My heart hammers against my ribs as Red Head approaches, his eyes traveling down my body with a look that makes me want to scrub my skin raw. I take an instinctive step back until my shoulder blades hit the door.
"Don't be shy now. We're all real hospitable here at the Hellbound Compound.” His grin reveals sharp teeth and bad intentions. “Realfriendly to pretty little things like you."
I've spent nineteen years learning to read danger, learning when to run and when running would only make things worse—some men love a chase. Every instinct is screaming at me to flee, but I'm trapped between these beasts and the storm outside.
“I-I just need to call a tow truck," I say, hating the tremor in my voice. "Then I'll be gone. I promise."
Red Head reaches out to touch my wet hair, and I flinch so hard I bang my head against the door. His eyes narrow at the reaction. "Pretty little thing like you shouldn't be out alone at?—"
"Tank."
The single word cuts through the room like a knife.
Every head swivels toward the voice, and the atmosphere shifts so dramatically I can feel the change in my bones. Mocking grins disappear. Postures straighten. Red Head’s hand drops away like he's been burned.
The man who emerges from the shadows makes my knees weak. It’s not just his size, or his bulging muscles, but the undeniable air of dominance that surrounds him.
He's massive—towering well over six and a half feet, with shoulders that look as though they could carry the weight of the world. He's not putting on a show of badassery. He doesn't need to. Every inch of him screams “mean motherfucker.”
His hair is pulled back in a low bun, revealing a face that would be beautiful if it weren't so hard—sharp cheekbones that could cut glass, a strong jaw covered in dark scruff, and irises the pale gray of a winter sky. Intricate tattoos cover both arms visible beneath a black t-shirt stretched tight across a chest that speaks of hours in the gym or years of hard labor.
But it's his eyes that stop my breath. When they find me, something electric passes between us—a recognition that doesn't make sense, a pull that defies logic. For a moment, the room fades away, the storm quiets, and there's only the two of us. I swear he’s looking at me as though he's seeing something rare and special.
"What the fuck is going on?" His voice is low, gravelly, but carries easily through the now-silent room.
"Just having some fun with our unexpected visitor, Wrath," Red Head—Tank—says, though his earlier cockiness has diminished significantly. “Little girly here wandered in from the storm."
Wrath. Even his name sounds ominous.
His pale eyes study me with terrifying intensity. I feel transparent under his gaze, like he can see every secret, every fear, every scar I've tried to hide. But instead of the predatory assessment I'm used to from men, there's something else there—something that makes my pulse flutter for entirely different reasons.
“Her car broke down," someone offers from near the pool table.
Wrath approaches slowly, and despite my best efforts, I can't help pressing myself further back against the door. Lightning flashes outside the windows and for a split second his face is illuminated in stark detail.
"You hurt?" The question is so kind, so unexpected, from this dangerous man that it takes me a moment to respond.
I shake my head hard enough to send water droplets flying from the ends of my hair. "Just stranded."
His eyes track over my face. What does he see, I wonder.
Dark circles under my eyes? My arms wrapped around my body, holding tightly? Bone-deep exhaustion?
Maybe all of it because when his gaze comes back up to meet my eyes, understanding passes between us. As though he recognizes what I am—broken.
"Where's your car?"
“Um…it’s…um, just up the road. Maybe fifty yards." I'm surprised my voice comes out steady. "The engine died."
Wrath turns to the room, and I notice how everyone straightens to attention. "Jigsaw."
A lean man with grease-stained hands and intelligent eyes steps forward. "Yeah, VP?"
VP. Vice President. That explains the authority that radiates from him.
"Go check it out. Take Diesel with you." He turns back to me, and his voice gentles fractionally. "Keys?"
With numb fingers, I fish them from my pocket and hold them out. Instead of taking them himself, Wrath nods to Jigsaw, who approaches cautiously to retrieve them from me.
