“Maybe have someone else take over so you can get some sleep, doc.”
“Jet’s up there.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Jet?” I love him like a brother, but he’s more of the strong silent type. I can’t imagine his bedside manner is all that soothing. And he’s not a fan of humans.
“He’s been surprisingly good with Nico.”
“What about the others?”
Corey winces. “He’s not paid much attention to Tyler and outright ignored Morgan.”
I snort, because that’s more like it.
“But to be fair, Morgan’s still unconscious.”
“Doubt it’d make much difference if he was awake.”
Corey grins. “You’re probably right.” He glances behind him back through the house. “I’m also supposed to tell you that Mal, Flint, and Callum are waiting to talk to you.”
“Great.” I can’t think of anything I’d rather do less. “Inside or out?”
“In.” With that he stands, giving my shoulder a squeeze on the way out.
The three ofthem are already sat around the huge oak table when I get there. It has a stylised wolf’s head carved into the middle with the name of our club underneath.
It was Callum’s idea.
He’d read somewhere that motorcycle clubs had a room where the top dogs met.
Church.
And apparently, we needed a fancy fucking table to do it around.
Goddess, we didn’t have a fucking clue what we were doing when we started this: a mismatched group of outcasts and ring escapees.
We formed our own pack, forged from trust and loyalty instead of familial ties. But you can’t have that many people living together without raising a few eyebrows in the human world.
So the Wild Wolves motorcycle club was born.
And five years later, we’re stronger than ever.
“Close the door,” Callum says before I can take my seat.
Ahh. It’s like that, is it?
This room is soundproofed more than any other. I’ve got a good idea what they want to talk about. Not that I’m in the habit of keeping secrets from my pack, but some things are delicate enough to warrant careful planning before we reveal it to the rest of them.
And Morgan Webb is one of those things.
There’s an air of tension in the room, thick enough to raise the hairs on the back of my neck. My wolf stirs, the alpha in me ready and waiting to rise to any challenge, but I push it down.
For now.
“Webb is a problem,” Callum states, getting straight to the point. “What’s the plan?”
I trace a groove in the wood, taking my time to get my thoughts in order.
I walk a fine line between pack alpha and club president.
