“Dead,” Ghost interrupted, echoing Buck’s earlier words with a rough chuckle. “Guess you’ll have to take that up with our VP here.” He tilted his head toward Buck. “You always did have a soft spot for strays, brother.”
Buck ignored him. “You shouldn’t be here,” he told her.
“I didn’t have a choice.” She looked up at him, eyes flashing with what he assumed to be anger. “Every official map marks this territory as open government land. If someone’s poaching wolves out here, I’m the one who has to stop it. That’s my job.”
“Your job,” Buck muttered, “is going to get you killed.”
She bristled. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”
“It’s a warning.” He stepped in closer, enough for her to see the tattoo peeking from his collar—a skull wearing a crown—Kings of Anarchy. Her breath hitched, and he could almost see the realization hit her. But instead of running, she stood her ground.
“Then maybe you should tell your people to stop killing wolves,” she said quietly.
Ghost barked out a laugh, smoke curling from his lips into the frozen air. “Oh, she’s got claws. Careful, Buck. You might like this one.”
“I don’t like anything that bleeds trouble,” Buck muttered. He kept his stare locked on her, even though something inside him already knew that it was too late to deny that she was just his type. He’d known it the moment she looked at him like he was just another obstacle to move past, not a man used to being obeyed.
The snow thickened, swirling between them as the storm closed in. “You’ll stay the night,” Buck said finally. It wasn’t a question.
“I can drive back to town?—”
“No, you can’t. The roads will ice over in thirty minutes, maybe less.” He jerked his chin toward the clubhouse. “You’llfreeze before you make the first mile.” Wren hesitated, seeming torn between pride and reason. Buck could practically feel her weighing trust against fear. Finally, she nodded and followed him when he turned toward the door.
Ghost fell in beside him, voice low. “You sure ‘bout this, brother? Bringing her into the den might not be a good idea.” Buck didn’t answer right away. He let the door swing open, and the heat of the clubhouse rushed out, the sound of laughter, clinking metal, and life filling the void the storm left behind.
Inside, things would get complicated. Ghost always said Buck had a habit of protecting things that didn’t belong to him. But as Wren stepped into the light, shaking snow from her hair, the word mine echoed somewhere deep inside of him, where reason didn’t live. Buck Lawson didn’t believe in fate. But tonight, he almost did.
Wren
The air inside the Kings of Anarchy clubhouse hit her like a blow to the gut. It was too warm, too loud, and just too much. Smoke curled with the scent of oil, whiskey, leather, and fire, all of it crowding the doorway as she stepped in after Buck. The storm shut out behind her with a slam, and for a heartbeat, she wished it hadn’t.
Every man in the room turned to look at her. Their laughter faltered, and the music dimmed under the low rumble of engines idling somewhere out back. Pool cues hovered mid-strike. Wren felt the pressure of their eyes—assessing, cataloguing, and deciding what to do next. But it wasn’t curiosity she heard in the silence. It was ownership. She was trespassing on their territory, and she was sure that they didn’t like it one bit.
Buck moved ahead of her like nothing could touch him, like the weight of their stares meant nothing. He owned the space the way the cold owned the north, a man carved out of leadership and habit.
“Back to business,” he said, his voice deep enough to roll through the room. “She’s with me.”
That single sentence worked better than a gunshot. The men looked away, muttered to themselves, and went back totheir games. Wren wasn’t naïve enough to believe it meant acceptance. It just meant she was an unwanted guest. In some undefined and possibly very temporary way, she belonged to Buck.
Ghost fell into step behind her as they crossed the floor—the tall, lean man from outside whose grin was all blade, and no warmth. He was the opposite of Buck’s silent gravity. Where Buck carried control, Ghost wore trouble like a second skin.
She heard him chuckle under his breath, soft and amused. “Bringing strays indoors now, Buck?” he teased. Buck didn’t answer. His hand brushed her back, guiding her toward a door at the end of the hall. His touch was brief, almost impersonal, and yet Wren felt it spark under her skin.
The office he led her into was smaller, quieter. There was a wood stove in the corner, maps pinned to the walls, and the faint tick of thawing ice dripping from his gloves onto the floorboards. He tossed them onto the desk and rolled his shoulders like he’d been living under the same weight for years.
“Sit,” he ordered. It wasn’t a suggestion, but Wren stayed standing anyway, clutching her satchel strap tight across her chest. “I told you—I’m with Wildlife Services. I’m not?—”
“Fed, yeah, you said that.” Buck’s voice was rough, drawing gravel out of each word. “Still doesn’t explain what the hell you’re doing out here alone.”
Her chin lifted. “My job. There’ve been reports of traps, primed bait sites, and several endangered carcasses near the reserve line. We’ve lost three collars in the last two months—wolves, tagged and tracked from Thompson to here. My department sent me to find out why.”
He leaned a hip against the desk. “And you figured you’d just wander onto MC territory without a clue whose ground you were standin’ on?”
“I didn’t realize anyone owned Manitoba,” she said tightly.
His gaze cut sharper. “Everything belongs to someone, sweetheart. Up here, mistakes get people buried.”
She held his stare, refusing to flinch even though her heart was hammering in her chest. “Then I guess I’ll tread lightly.”
