His gaze held hers, and he gave her the honest truth. “No, not even once have I regretted keeping you.” She studied him, like she was still learning how to trust something that didn’t come with conditions. He didn’t come with an exit plan, and he could tell that scared the hell out of her.
“You didn’t run away when I needed you,” she said softly.
“Neither did you,” he breathed.
“I love you,” she said.
His hand came up, sliding into her hair, pulling her in just enough. “You’re mine,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a question, but it also wasn’t the same kind of possession it used to be. This was different. It was real.
Her breath caught—but she didn’t pull away from him. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I am.”
He kissed her, and for the first time in a long time, the storm didn’t feel like something to survive. It felt like something they’d already made it through—together.
The End
What’s coming next from K.L. Ramsey in the Kings of Anarchy MC world? You won’t want to miss Property of Buck (Kings of Anarchy MC Book 2), coming in July 2026! Here’s a sneak peek!
Buck
The wind off the river howled like it wanted to peel the world down to its bones.
Buck Lawson leaned against the railing of the clubhouse porch, a cigarette burning low between his fingers, watching the endless white swallow the night. Out here in northern Manitoba, the cold didn’t just bite—it punished. It got into a man’s soul and reminded him of what he was made of. He liked that, most days—the quiet, the cold, and even the distance from everything that used to be so important to him. But tonight didn’t feel quiet.
Beneath the hum of the generator and the crunch of snow under his boots came the low snarl of an engine. Not one he recognized. It wasn’t the deep roar of a Harley or the throaty rumble of a truck from the Kings of Anarchy fleet. This was something smaller, and it seemed to be struggling like a tired old pickup gasping against the cold.
Buck took one last drag and flicked the butt into the snow. “Open the gate,” he called to the prospect standing under the floodlight. His voice didn’t need to rise to be obeyed. “Let’s see what fool’s dumb enough to wander out here tonight.” The gatecreaked open. The wind brought with it the scent of oil, metal, and something sharper—fear.
When the headlights cut through the blowing snow, Buck squinted and saw a single figure inside the cab. They were small, with their shoulders tense and head angled toward the windshield like someone braced for a fight.
The truck rolled to a stop near the porch, its engine knocking in protest. The door opened, and a woman climbed out. For a second, Buck thought the cold had finally gotten to his brain. Women didn’t drive up to the Kings of Anarchy compound in the middle of a January storm—especially not dressed like that.
She pulled the hood of her jacket down, and light spilled over her face. She was from the city; he had no doubt about that. Her hair fell in soft waves around her face as she shivered against the wind. She was dressed to the nines, and she wore boots that probably cost more than his first bike. But her eyes—hell, if those weren’t something else. They were clear, steady, and bright enough to make him forget for half a breath that they were surrounded by snow, steel, and silence.
He straightened, crossing his arms. “You lost?” he asked, his voice low and rough.
“Not exactly.” Her voice shook, but not from fear, but from cold, or maybe even defiance. She adjusted her satchel and squared her small shoulders. “I’m Dr. Wren Callahan with Wildlife Services. I’m supposed to meet a man named Rhett Dawson. He was going to take me to the restricted zones along the Churchill River. There’ve been reports of wolf poaching and?—”
“Rhett’s dead,” Buck interrupted. That stopped her rambling. The wind filled the silence between them, snapping snow through the air. It was the kind of silence that could break things if you stood in it too long.
She swallowed and lifted her chin. “Then who’s in charge here?”
Buck took a step down from the porch, boots thudding against the wooden steps. “That’d be me. At least, I’m in charge until our Prez, Gorgon, gets back from his honeymoon.”
The way her eyes swept over him—careful but unflinching—told him she was cataloguing everything. His size, the ink curling under his collar, the weight of the chain around his neck with the King’s insignia on it. She didn’t seem to be stupid. He could tell that she knew what an MC was, but he had a feeling that she hadn’t realized where she’d wandered.
“What did you say your name was?” Buck asked.
“Wren,” she said, steady this time. “When will your Prez be back?” she asked.
Buck ignored her question. It wasn’t her business to know where Gorgon was or when he’d be back. Hell, he didn’t even know all those details. He rolled her name around in his mind before speaking. “Like the bird?”
Her lips twitched. “Like the woman.” Something about her answer hit him straight in the chest. Brave—too brave for someone standing in King's territory after dark.
The clubhouse door opened behind him with the creak of old hinges, spilling light and noise onto the porch. Laughter, music, and the heavy tread of Ghost’s boots.
“Who the hell’s drivin’ a junker through our gate this late?” Ghost’s voice cut through the wind before Buck answered. When he stepped out, cigarette dangling from his mouth, his smirk was pure trouble. “Well, I’ll be damned. What’s this? A fed in lipstick?”
“I’m not a fed,” Wren said sharply, turning to face him. “I’m with Wildlife Services. I’m here to investigate illegal poaching. Rhett Dawson?—”
