Chapter One #2
It wasn’t entirely untrue. He had skipped breakfast. He’d also skipped dinner last night and most of yesterday’s meals, his body deciding that food was optional when anxiety was running high. Which was most of the time.
He bent back over the paperwork, focusing on each letter like it was the most important thing in the world. The dizziness gradually retreated, leaving behind a fuzzy exhaustion that made his bones feel like they were made of wet sand.
When the last page was complete, Nick set down the pen with deliberate care. His hands had stopped shaking, which felt like winning a small battle against his own body.
“Done?” Ash asked.
“Done.” Nick slid the folder back across the desk, suddenly aware of how small and unfinished he probably looked. Small and desperate and clearly struggling to keep it together.
Ash reviewed the application, his expression unreadable. Nick held his breath, waiting for the rejection. They always came eventually. He just never got used to them.
“You can start tomorrow,” Ash said finally. “Five p.m. We’ll start you on dinner service, see how you handle the rush. If you work out, we’ll talk about expanding your hours.”
Relief crashed through Nick so forcefully his eyes stung. He blinked rapidly, refusing to let actual tears happen. That would be pathetic.
“Really?”
“Really.” Ash smiled, something warm and genuine in it. “Everyone deserves a chance to prove themselves.”
Nick nodded, not trusting his voice. He stood on legs that still felt a little unreliable and headed back out to the bar.
The space hit him differently now. Less overwhelming, more like a puzzle he’d have to learn. He spotted an empty stool at the counter and claimed it, settling onto the vinyl seat. The cushion was worn smooth, shaped by countless other bodies.
“What can I get you?” A different bartender appeared, this one younger with kind eyes.
“Soda,” Nick said. “Whatever you’ve got. Ginger ale if you have it.”
The bartender nodded and disappeared. Nick swallowed against the lingering queasiness, watching the bar operate around him. Waiters moved with practiced efficiency, balancing trays and remembering orders. The bikers laughed louder, one of them slapping the table hard enough to make glasses jump.
His soda arrived in a tall glass, ice clinking as the bartender set it down. Nick wrapped his fingers around the condensation, the cold grounding him. Lifting the glass to his lips, he drank slowly, letting the carbonation settle his stomach.
Tomorrow. He’d start tomorrow. He had a job. That was something. That was more than he’d had this morning.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from Myron: How’d it go?
Nick typed back one-handed: Got the job. Start tomorrow.
The response came immediately: Yes! I’m proud of you. Dinner’s on me tonight. We're celebrating.
A genuine smile tugged at Nick’s mouth. Myron was a good guy. Annoying about the bills and definitely not Nick’s type but fundamentally good in a way that made Nick feel less alone in the apartment.
In the world.
He took another sip of ginger ale and let himself sit with the small victory. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges—the noise, the rush, the constant interaction with strangers. But this afternoon, he’d gotten a yes.
For someone like Nick, that was almost enough to make the darkness feel a little less heavy.
* * * *
The pack’s descent into town felt like freedom on wheels.
Sunlight glinted off chrome and leather, wind pushing at their backs as they rumbled down the mountain in a loose, easy formation.
They weren’t on a mission. They weren’t hunting.
They were just men enjoying a good day and each other’s company—laughing, shit-talking, and letting the summer air scrub the weight off their shoulders.
The gravel crunched under their tires as they pulled into the Frothy Pine’s lot.
Logan was the first to kill his engine, immediately getting smacked on the arm for some joke he cracked during the ride.
Another guy shoved him back, more bark than bite, and the pack dissolved into that familiar chorus of laughter.
Zeppelin swung his leg off his bike last, tall and broad and effortless.
No tension, no posturing, just that natural authority that settled around him like a shadow.
He shoved his sunglasses up his nose with two fingers, mouth curving in that quiet, knowing half-smile his men recognized as yeah, I heard you talking shit back there.
One of the packmates muttered something about Zeppelin taking the corners too slow.
Zeppelin didn’t even bother looking at him as he drawled, “If I went any faster, you’d still be trying to catch up.”
The guys burst out laughing, because that was their alpha. Dry as dust, amused, never ruffled, always in control.
Preston slid off the back of Zep’s bike a second later, curls catching the light, small frame moving with that quick, warm energy that cracked every wolf’s grin a little wider.
Zeppelin’s whole demeanor shifted a fraction—a subtle softening—and then he draped his arm over Preston’s shoulders like it was instinct.
Not a display. Not a warning. Just a man keeping what mattered close.
Preston nudged him in the ribs playfully. Zeppelin smirked, squeezed his shoulder, and kept walking, calm, confident, the kind of swagger that didn’t need volume to be felt.
The rest of the pack fell in around them, still talking over each other, boots thudding, elbows flying, summer heat soaking into their laughter.
They bunched up at the entrance of the Frothy Pine like a wall of sun, leather, and good mood, rolling inside as if they had absolutely nothing to worry about today.
And honestly? They didn’t.
The bar erupted around them like they’d flipped a switch. Conversations shifted, redirecting toward the pack like water finding its course. A few regulars raised their glasses in greeting, the kind of acknowledgment that came with knowing these men owned the mountain and everything on it.
Glasses clinked. Conversations overlapped. Ice rattled in a shaker somewhere behind the bar.
The pack flowed through the place with the ease of long practice, boots scuffing the worn wood floor in a rhythm that felt almost musical. Logan peeled off from the main cluster, heading for the counter while the others claimed booths and high-tops.
Preston dropped into the seat beside Zeppelin, already chattering about something that made the alpha shake his head with that half-smile he reserved for his mate. The rest of the guys arranged themselves around the table, leather creaking as they shifted and settled.
“The usual?” Ash called from behind the bar.
“You know it,” Logan replied, leaning against the polished oak. The wood was warm under his palms, worn smooth from years of elbows and hands just like his.
Ash nodded, already reaching for the good bourbon. The kind they kept for regulars. Logan watched the amber liquid fill the glass, catching the light like liquid gold.
Movement caught his eye. A waiter weaving through the crowd with a practiced grace that suggested experience.
The bleached tips caught the late afternoon sun streaming through the windows, turning his dark hair into something almost iridescent.
Lean frame, sharp cheekbones, a smile that looked like it cost him effort.
Logan’s breath caught in a way that had nothing to do with the bar’s temperature.
Then the small man stumbled.
Just slightly. A small stagger that would’ve gone unnoticed except Logan’s wolf had already locked onto him the moment he entered his field of vision. The tray tilted. A pint glass threatened to slip.
Without thinking, Logan moved, hand shooting out to steady the guy’s elbow. The contact sent a jolt through his arm, electric and warm and immediately addictive.
Logan was aware of everything at once. Sharp cheekbones. Full lips. The scent of him underneath the bar’s chaos—white tea and warm skin. His eyes were charcoal-dark with the faintest blue hidden in the shadows, like dusk right before nighttime fully settled.
“Careful,” Logan said, his voice rougher than his usual easy tone.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m...” The guy cleared his throat, steadying the tray. “Sorry. Just a stumble.”
But his hand trembled slightly against the tray’s edge. Logan noticed because he was looking. Because his wolf had decided this moment mattered.
“Logan.” He extended his hand, still holding the guy’s elbow with the other. Greedy. His wolf purred approval at the contact.
The handshake was brief but firm, fingers cool and slightly damp. Nervous energy radiated off him like heat shimmer off summer asphalt.
“Nick.” The name came out soft, a little uncertain. His gaze darted toward the back corner, locking onto something.
Logan glanced over his shoulder and spotted Sloane at the corner booth, Jamie tucked against his side like they’d been designed to fit that way. Sloane’s arm rested across Jamie's shoulders with casual possession, and Jamie looked at him like he hung the moon.
“You know Sloane?” he asked, turning back to Nick.
“He’s my old roommate’s boyfriend,” Nick replied.
Logan remembered Jamie mentioning his roommate in passing, some guy named Nick who worked at a diner. Except, apparently, he worked here now.
“I’m Sloane’s brother,” he said and watched Nick’s shoulders relax fractionally. Not much. Just enough to notice. “He’s harmless. Well. Mostly harmless. Depends on whether you’re threatening his boyfriend.”
Nick’s laugh came out shaky. “I already know. I threatened him once. When he took Jamie on a date. Told him he better bring my roommate back in once piece.”
A bark of laughter burst out of him, head back, eyes crinkling hard at the corners. “No. You did not.”
The image of Nick, maybe five-two at the most, threatening an apex predator who stood at a height of six-four?
Logan wished to god someone had recorded it.
He would have to ask Jamie later. Get the details.
And roast his brother. If Nick didn’t look so nervous, Logan would’ve called his brother over right now to roast him.
Nick’s tongue flicked over his teeth before the slightest smirk appeared. “You borrow my friend, you bring him back how you found him.”
“I would’ve paid to see my baby brother put in his place.”
Nick’s eyes met his, and for a second, the bar fell away. It was just the two of them, breathing the same air, existing in the same space. The moment stretched taut as a wire.
“You need help with that?” Logan gestured toward the tray.
“No. No, I’m good. Just need to...” Nick gestured vaguely toward a table where three guys in construction gear were gesturing impatiently. “Customers.”
“Right. Work calls.” Logan stepped back, releasing his grip on Nick’s elbow. The loss of contact felt immediate and cold, like stepping out of sunlight.
Nick turned to leave but paused. His head tilted slightly, like he was considering something. Then he looked back, and their eyes met again. The connection felt almost physical, a taut line drawn between them.
Logan winked. Just a small thing. Meant to be reassuring.
Nick’s face flushed pink as he turned away, nearly colliding with a server carrying a tray. The flush deepened as he steadied himself and disappeared into the crowd.
Logan wrapped his fingers around his drink, but his attention stayed on Nick as the guy worked. The efficiency of his movements. The way he smiled at customers even though something in his body language suggested he was running on fumes.
Something didn’t sit right. Not in a dangerous way. More like watching someone balance on a tightrope and knowing one wrong step would matter.
His wolf paced restlessly, wanting to approach, to investigate, to understand why this particular human had gotten under his skin so quickly.
Patience, Logan told himself, taking a sip of his bourbon. The taste was dark and familiar, but it couldn’t quite distract from the way Nick had felt under his hand. Solid. Real. Important in a way that made no sense after a thirty-second interaction.
“You good?” Preston appeared beside him, having apparently escaped Zeppelin’s embrace for a bathroom run or something.
“Fine,” Logan said, but his eyes tracked Nick across the bar.
Preston followed his gaze then looked back with that knowing expression that came with being mated to their alpha.
Something inside him jolted hard, a lightning strike to his marrow. His wolf surged up so violently Logan’s jaw locked, canines threatening to punch free. Heat seared through his chest, molten and possessive, crushing his lungs until his next breath came as a ragged, animal gasp.
Nick was his mate.