Chapter 8
Bronc
The bass from the jukebox vibrated through my boot soles as I followed Wrecker toward the office.
Laughter and the sharp clack of pool balls followed us down the hallway lined with framed photos of old club runs.
My fingers grazed the cool brass doorknob, the metal tasting like static against my palm before we stepped into the windowless room.
Wrecker didn’t bother with the desk lamp. The glow from the multiple computer screens carved shadows under his cheekbones as he tapped the spacebar. “Ran her through every system I could access.”
My knuckles popped before I realized I’d clenched my fists. “More?”
“So much more.” Wrecker’s thumbnail clicked against the trackpad, pulling up a society page photo that stole the oxygen from the room.
There she stood in ivory silk and diamonds cold enough to frost the screen, arm linked with a man whose smile had more edges than his Armani suit.
“Harrison Hastings IV. Old New York money, pharmaceuticals. With a side of assault charges that never stuck.”
The AC unit kicked on, blowing dust across the keyboard. I watched it settle in the crevice between the R and T keys. “That who she's running from?”
“Court records are sealed tighter than a virgin’s cunt.”
“Damn it,” my mind was racing, worry thickening my voice. Through the thin wall, Julia’s laughter spilled into the room—warm honey laced with tequila. My wolf stirred beneath my ribs, phantom claws scoring bone.
Wrecker leaned back in the creaking office chair, the leather sighing under his weight. “I’m thinking runaway bride. Look at this.”
My eyes read over a New York Times Page Six engagement announcement.
“Their wedding was supposed to happen last week.” I palmed the stress ball from his desk, some neon-green monstrosity shaped like a brain.
The squelch of silicone filled the silence between drumbeats seeping through the walls. “She got out in the nick of time.”
“Yep.” He gestured at the screen where the engagement ring glinted like a sniper’s scope. “That’s only part of it, Bronc.”
I tossed the stress ball onto the desk, and it rolled towards him. “Tell me.”
He handed me a thick folder. Filled with copies of birth certificates, marriage licenses, and black and white photos, Juliet’s lineage laid before me.
“Fuck me.”
“It’s a lot to take in.” Wrecker’s voice was quiet.
“I don’t feel so bad about wanting her now. She’s still 18 years younger than me.” I ran my hand through my hair.
“Dude. Once she hits 40, y’all will be about even,” he said, laughing.
He wasn’t wrong. The wolves in our pack lived a couple hundred years. Once we hit our forties, our aging slowed down to a crawl. She would eventually catch me. Didn’t mean I wouldn’t get more than a few dirty looks from the human population. Not that I had a single fuck to give about it.
I pulled the door open before I could respond, releasing a wave of Lynyrd Skynyrd and the tang of spilled beer.
Through the crack, I saw her—perched on a barstool with two cards in her grip.
Maddie’s arm slung around her shoulders, Scar dealt another round.
Julia or Juliet threw her head back laughing, throat exposed, and every muscle in my body went wire-tight.
“Christ, she’s glowing,” Wrecker muttered, not unkindly. “Like someone plugged her into a socket.”
She was. The cheap club lights haloed her wild waves as she laid cards down, completing a winning hand, the table erupting in groans and tossed poker chips.
My back molars ground together. “She’s drunk.”
“Multiple alcoholic drinks will do that.” Wrecker snapped the laptop closed. “You want me to—”
“I’ll handle it.” The words came out sharper than intended.
Through the haze of lust, contemplation, and neon, I tracked the swing of Julia’s hips as she slid off the stool.
Her black tank top clung to her danger zones as her hips swayed to the music.
She was no longer the malnourished woman who’d stepped off that bus weeks ago.
She now had curves that were undeniably sexy, and every wolf in the room had taken notice.
Somewhere behind my sternum, my wolf bared his teeth.
Not at her. Never at her. At the hungry eyes following the motion—prospects and hang-arounds alike, tongues hanging out like dogs at a steakhouse.
My thumb found the scar bisecting my palm, an old knife wound from a mission in Slovenia. The ache grounded me. Barely.
“Need me to—”
“Stand down, Wreck.” I was already moving, boots eating up the scarred hardwood. The club’s heartbeat thrummed in my veins; pool balls cracking like gunshots, ice cubes screaming in glasses, the creak of leather vests breathing with each rise and fall of chests.
Her scent hit me first. Ginger, burned sugar, and fear buried so deep only a shifter would catch it. She turned as I approached, cards fluttering from her grip. Five of hearts landed face-up on my boot tip as she passed.
The card stuck like a paper cutout of bad luck.
Through the haze of tequila fumes and Lynyrd Skynyrd wailing through blown speakers, I counted seven sets of eyes tracking her sway toward the makeshift dance floor.
Seven fucking prospects specifically, who’d forgotten whose territory they were sniffing around.
My knuckles popped in time with the bass line.
“Prez.” A hang-around named Rook materialized at my left elbow, reeking of Drakkar Noir and eagerness. “Can I get you anything?”
“Air.” The word came out half-growl. Wolf saliva pooled under my tongue, coppery and hot.
Across the room, Juliet threw her head back, laughing at something Snake’s latest fling whispered in her ear.
The sound punched through my solar plexus.
“Mine.” The beast gnawed at my ribs, all primal hunger and single-minded possession.
Rook scrambled backward, colliding with a waitress carrying a tray of J?ger bombs. Glass shattered. No one looked.
Juliet’s hips found the rhythm of “Sweet Home Alabama,” her movements liquid grace underscored by tequila courage. Three guitar chords later, Gunner’s newest prospect—kid couldn’t be older than twenty-two with his baby-faced swagger—slid up behind her. His palms settled on her waist.
My vision tunneled.
The song warped into a distorted whine. Every follicle on my arms stood rigid. The prospect’s fingers flexed, thumbs brushing the underside of her ribs. Juliet stiffened, a fractional hitch in her breathing that would’ve been imperceptible to human ears.
I was moving before conscious thought kicked in. Bodies parted like wheat before a combine. Somewhere to my right, Maddie’s whiskey-cured laugh cut off mid-cackle. The prospect’s grip tightened as he leaned in, lips grazing the shell of Juliet’s ear.
Her hands came up to push at his wrists. Too slow. Too polite.
Mine weren’t.
“Hands.” I locked the kid’s thumb in a pressure hold, peeling him off her like a sweaty t-shirt. His yelp harmonized with the static of the speakers. “You’re fond of these?”
“Bronc, Jesus—” Juliet stumbled sideways, pupils blown wide. Tequila and adrenaline soured her sweat.
The prospect wheezed, knees buckling. “Didn’t mean no—”
“Disrespect?” I completed his sentence through gritted teeth. “You’re fluent in it.”
Scar materialized from the mob, silver earrings catching the strobe lights. “Got him, Prez.” Her hand closed around the kid’s collar.
I didn’t wait to see the fallout. Juliet’s pulse thrummed against my palm where I’d grabbed her wrist—rabbit-quick and fluttering.
She tried to dig in her heels near the women’s bathroom, but I shouldered through the fire exit into the service corridor.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, bleaching the scuffed linoleum.
“Let go.” She twisted, nails scoring my forearm. “You don’t get to—”
I caged her against cinderblock walls painted industrial green. Her chest heaved, blonde bangs sticking to damp temples. My wolf preened at having her trapped, at the way her pupils dilated despite the anger tightening her mouth.
“You want to play at being brave?” My voice came out gravel-rough. “Fine. But you don’t get to dance with danger in my house.”
Her chin jerked up. “Your house? Last I checked—”
“My rules.” I crowded closer, knee slotting between her thighs. She caught her breath. “You stroll in here smelling like sunshine after a decade of thunderstorms and expect—”
“Sunshine doesn’t have a scent.”
“It does on you.” My nose skimmed her hairline. Vanilla. Salt. Faintest hint of jasmine shampoo. “Like crushed ginger and sugar.”
She trembled. Or I did. The distinction blurred.
“Why does it matter?” Her whisper ghosted over my lips. “I’m just another—”
“Lie.” My thumb found the frantic leap of her carotid. “You’re champagne in a beer can, Juliet.”
She froze. The name hung between us—an indictment and a plea.
I watched the realization crash through her, shoulders tensing, throat working, right hand twitching toward the exit sign. Her tells were textbook; upper-class training warring with feral survival instincts.
“Don’t.” I bracketed her hips. “Running’s what got you here.”
Her laugh cracked like thin ice. “And where’s here exactly? Some backwoods purgatory where bikers play white knight?”
“Purgatory’s got a pool table and bottomless pretzels.” I traced the shell of her ear, delighting in her shiver. “Stay. Fight.”
“For what?”
The challenge hung in the air, ripe and trembling. Behind us, the exit sign’s red glow threw her face into sharp relief—flushed cheeks, parted lips, eyes gone midnight-dark.
I answered without words.
Our collision echoed off concrete walls—a cacophony of desperate hands and shattered restraint. Her mouth burned hotter than August asphalt, tasting of lime and recklessness. When she bit my lower lip, my wolf nearly shredded my skin from the inside.
“Bronc.” My name spilled from her like a curse and a prayer.