“A tow truck,” I squeak.
“Ain't no tow coming out in this storm.” His tone is matter-of-fact rather than harsh. "And ain't nowhere open at this hour anyway."
As if to punctuate his words, thunder crashes outside so violently it seems to shake the building's foundations.
I clutch my backpack tighter, the reality of my situation sinking in. I have nowhere else to go, no money for a hotel, no friends to call, no family who would take me in. "I can wait in my car until morning?—"
"No." The word is final, brooking no argument. Then, his voice softens. "It ain't safe."
I'm not sure if he means the storm or something else, but the conviction in his voice, the way he's looking at me like my safety actually matters, throws me even more off-guard.
Trix rounds the bar, her expression kinder than I expected. "Come on, honey. Let's get you warmed up."
I hesitate, looking back at Wrath, whose intense gaze hasn't left me. There's something in the way he's watching me—something protective and possessive. I should go. Leave. Run. But, god help me, I don’t.
"Nobody's gonna hurt you here,” he says, his voice growly and rough. “You have my word."
And strangely, impossibly, I believe him. Maybe it's my own desperation, or maybe it's the way he's looking at me like I'msomething miraculous, something magical that's been conjured from thin air.
As Trix leads me toward what appears to be a hallway, I hear Wrath's voice turn granite-hard behind me. "Anyone so much as looks at her wrong, you lose an eye. Touch her, and you die.”
When I glance back over my shoulder, he's still watching me, his pale eyes tracking my every movement with the focus of an apex predator.
I think I've just been granted something I have never had before—sanctuary.
Chapter 2
Wrath
What the hell is wrong with me?
I turn back to face the room, and every pair of eyes is fixed on me with varying degrees of confusion and speculation. Tank's mouth is still hanging open like a goddamn fish.
"Show's over," I growl, my voice cutting through their stares. "Get back to whatever the fuck you were doing."
The room slowly comes back to life—conversations resume, pool balls start clacking again, beer bottles clink. But I can feel their sideways glances, hear the undercurrent of whispers. Can't blame them. In the twenty-one years I've been patched in to this club, I've never given a shit about a woman before. No old lady. And I sure as shit have never threatened bodily harm to my club brothers over some random chick who wandered in from a storm.
Diesel appears at my elbow, water dripping from his leather jacket. "Car's fucked, brother. Engine's blown, transmission's shot to hell. Surprised it made it this far."
"Salvageable?"
He shakes his head. “We can give it a better assessment when the storm breaks, but I’m telling you it’d be cheaper tobuy a new car. That thing's held together with duct tape and prayers."
“Uh,” Jigsaw shifts his weight from foot to foot. “It looks like the car might be her home. Like she’s been living in that rust bucket.”
I process this information while staring down the hallway where she disappeared. So she's stranded. Completely fucking stranded with nowhere to go and no way to get there. A savage satisfaction settles deep in my bones.
She needs protection. And I'm very fucking good at protecting what's mine.
The thought stops me cold. What'smine?
I don't know this girl. Don't know anything about her except she's running from something—that much was written all over her. The way she flinched when Tank reached for her, the defensive way she held herself, the exhaustion in those green eyes.
Someone hurt her. And possibly for a long fucking time.
My hands curl into fists as images from this week flash through my mind. Just three days ago, I broke a man's fingers one by one for skimming from our gun running operation. Yesterday, I put a bullet in the kneecap of a meth dealer who thought he could set up shop in our territory. This morning, I watched a rival club member piss himself when I removed his ear with my pocketknife while explaining why his president needed to return our stolen merchandise.
Blood and violence. That's what I am, what I do, what I'm good at. I'm the beast the club unleashes when diplomacy fails, and I've never lost sleep over it. These hands have ended lives, broken bones, inflicted pain that made grown men beg for death.
