“Thank you,” she said quietly, meaning it more than she intended to.
Ghost stood aside as she walked toward the door, a smirk still half-formed on his face. “Sleep tight, Wren.” Buck’s glarewarned him off before she even reached the hallway, but Ghost just gave one of those amused huffs that said he liked crossing lines for sport.
Upstairs, the floorboards groaned under her boots. The narrow hallway smelled like cedar and smoke. Her room was small—barely containing a twin bed, a dresser, a single lamp whose shade leaned to one side—but it was warm, and the window framed the storm screaming across the frozen land.
She set her satchel down and finally let her breath out. In the quiet, the sounds from below rose—the hum of voices, country music, men laughing, and the metallic clink of bottles. Somewhere in that noise, she could pick out their voices: Buck’s low, steady rhythm and Ghost’s sharper tone threading through it. They were arguing, or talking, or both. It was hard to tell.
Wren toed off her boots and sat on the edge of the bed. Her legs ached from driving, and her mind wouldn’t stop circling the events of the past hour. The man who had promised to guide her to find the poachers was dead. Outlaws seemed to have more power than the law out here—and that was dangerous. She currently sat in a house full of men who answered to loyalty, not jurisdiction.
And Buck—the way he stood between her and danger, like it wasn’t a question. There was protectiveness in him, yes, but also something territorial. As if once she walked through that door, she’d crossed a line she couldn’t go back over.
She rubbed her arms, listening to the storm press against the windows. Her breath pooled in small, fogged circles on the glass as she whispered to herself, “Just one night.” But deep down, she already knew that she was lying to herself.
Ghost
The storm pounded the metal roof like it wanted to tear the place down. The wind howled through the cracks in the siding, snow scraping across the windows like claws. Inside, the heat from the stove was heavy, tinged with whiskey and smoke. A night made for confessions, or for fights—maybe both.
Ghost sat at the bar, spinning his half-empty glass slowly between his fingers. The whiskey was cheap, but it burned high and clean in his chest as he swallowed it down. He preferred that kind of pain these days—the kind he could measure in ounces.
He watched Buck pace the length of the room, unhurried but restless, every movement tight with thought. Typical Buck—stillness in motion. Always holding something back, a part of Ghost wanted to figure out what that was exactly.
He had known the man for years now and trusted him with his life. Hell, Buck was his brother, but a part of him wanted so much more with him. The problem was, Ghost had learned a long time ago to keep that part of himself a secret. Wanting to be with both a man and a woman wasn’t readily accepted in biker clubs. The Kings of Anarchy was one of the first clubs that he’d been in that seemed to accept everyone—no matter what. So thequestion was—why was he still being such a chicken? He had a feeling that the answer to his question was currently packing the floor in front of him.
“Is she asleep?” Ghost finally asked when he couldn’t take Buck pacing any longer.
Buck didn’t look at him. “No idea,” he lied. Ghost could tell that his friend was keeping a close eye on their visitor.
“Probably scared shitless. Can’t say I blame her. Not exactly the Four Seasons we got here.”
When Buck didn’t respond, Ghost smirked. “You got that look on your face again, brother.”
“What look?” Buck asked.
“The one that says you’ve already decided to fix something that ain’t yours to fix,” Ghost assessed.
Buck shot him a flat, unimpressed glance. “She was half-frozen out there, and going out on those roads is suicide. I had no choice but to insist that she stay the night. You’d have done the same.”
Ghost knocked back the rest of his drink. “Maybe, but I wouldn’t be pacing like a man bitten by his own conscience after.”
Buck ignored the jab, grabbed the bottle, and poured himself another without spilling a drop. He was always so neat and measured.
“Is she really with the government?” Ghost asked, lighting a cigarette.
“Wildlife Services. Said she’s looking into who’s poaching wolves around here,” Buck said.
“Hell,” Ghost muttered, exhaling smoke through his nose. “Rhett used to handle that stuff.”
“Used to,” Buck said, voice low. “She asked for him by name, so I’m guessing that he had agreed to help her.” Ghost stared at the wood grain on the bar for a long moment. The noise oflaughter and music had faded; most of the men had cleared out, leaving only the hum of the generator and the storm’s growl outside.
“I still see it, you know,” Ghost murmured finally. “The way we found him. Half-buried, like the snow wouldn’t even take him.” Buck said nothing. The silence between them became cold and sharp. They both carried Rhett’s ghost—the third man who’d kept them from killing each other more than once. The one who’d died when the club got too deep in northern territory routes they shouldn’t have touched.
“You think it was the other crew?” Ghost asked quietly.
“I think it doesn’t matter anymore,” Buck admitted.
“The hell it doesn’t,” Ghost growled.
Buck’s voice cut through the air, low but final. “It matters that I keep this club alive until Gorgon gets back. I’m not dredging up a war that’s already frozen over.”
