2. Morgan
MORGAN
Present Day
“Hey,” Ash looks up from his phone as I sit down on the bench seat opposite him. “’Bout time. Where’ve you been?”
“Usual shit.” I don’t need to elaborate. It’s not the first time I’ve been late because of my dad. Today’s bollocks was extra fucking special, even for him, but I don’t have the headspace to think about it right now.
It’s a beautiful Saturday afternoon and our favourite pub’s busy enough outside for a good atmosphere, but nowhere near the busiest we’ve seen it. That night’s still a bit of a blur, but the one thing I do remember is all the fucking people.
Ash has managed to snag a space at the back of the pub garden nearest the road, but there’s a little stream separating us from the tarmac, so it’s all good. With the air full of happy chatter and laughter, I let the atmosphere chase away the dark cloud I brought with me from home.
“Here.” Ash slides a pint across the table towards me, condensation dripping down the sides of the glass.
I take a long pull, the cold lager going down a treat. “Fuck me, I needed that.”
He laughs, then finishes his own drink and sets his glass back down with purpose. “Well, the sun’s out, we’re not at work tomorrow, so let’s forget about everything and get drunk.”
I can’t think of a single reason to say no, so I grin back at him. “Why the fuck not.”
We’re two pints in when the rumble of motorcycles sounds in the distance. I share a wary glance with Ash.
“Arse.” He looks over his shoulder.
I follow his gaze and wince. “Yep.”
There are a few pubs on this stretch of road, but there’s only one with bikes parked outside and a handful of tattooed, scary-looking fuckers sat in the beer garden.
They’re all wearing the same design on their backs: A full moon with a claw mark slashed through it and the words Feral Beasts above it.
It’s not the fact that they’re members of an MC that’s got me and Ash on edge. It’s the fact that they’re the wrong MC.
The Old Bell is a Wild Wolves hangout—the whole town knows it—and as the sounds of approaching bikes gets louder, I’m pretty sure that’s who’s roaring down the road towards us.
It’s like someone sucked the joy right out of the air around us. The happy atmosphere from a few minutes ago now replaced by a tension so thick it’s like a weight on my shoulders.
No one moves, fuck , I’m not sure anyone even breathes for the next few seconds.
“Should we go?” Ash says, barely audible, not wanting to draw anyone’s attention. Especially not the bikers over the road who’ve positioned themselves to face what’s coming.
I shake my head. “No.”
While Ash’s got his gaze fixed on me, I have a clear view of everything: the smirks being exchanged by the four Feral Beasts , and the unmistakeable sight of Lynx Harper—president of the Wild Wolves MC—sat astride his gleaming black Dyna as he rides towards us.
Three others ride with him, but he holds all my attention.
Well, him and his bike.
It’s a beauty. From the custom handlebars to the detailed wolf I know is etched onto the petrol tank. It’s not the first time I’ve admired it.
Or him.
Because as hot as his bike is, Lynx Harper is a million times hotter. Tall, built, with jet-black hair and scruff. The two of them together make my pulse race and my stomach clench. It’s a wonder I’m not drooling right now.
Ash kicks me under the table, hard enough to make me hiss.
I give my what the fuck eyes and he rolls his in return.
“You arsehole.” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “We’re gonna get caught up in a biker brawl, all because you’ve got a thing for criminals .”
He’s not wrong. On either count.
Well, maybe about getting drawn into their fight.
“We won’t.”
Ash mutters something I don’t catch, both hands clutching his pint as if that might save him, but I notice he doesn’t move either.
I’m not the only one with a thing for a bad-boy biker. He just won’t admit it.
He turns slightly, watching as the four Wild Wolves come to a stop outside the pub and turn off their engines.
The sudden silence is deafening, and I swear you could hear a pin drop for the two seconds it lasts.
“The fuck you doing here, Birch?” Lynx snarls the words, voice rough and deep and so fucking sexy, even with the death glare he’s sporting. If I was on the receiving end of all that, I’m pretty sure I’d be both hard and terrified right now.
None of the Feral Beasts so much as flinch.
The blond one, Birch, turns and leans back against the table they’re sat at.
“Just passing through.” He holds out a hand, gesturing around them.
“It’s a nice day. Thought we’d stop for a drink.
” He talks like they’re old friends, like he can’t see the way Lynx’s hands curl into fists or his murderous expression.
Lynx’s gaze snaps to the four almost empty pint glasses on the table. “Looks like you’re finished, so do everyone a favour and fuck off.”
With the worst timing in the world, Kira, one of the servers at the Old Bell, comes out the side door to collect glasses. She’s small, dark haired, and very pretty, and she’s also in a world of her own and doesn’t notice the standoff happening right in front of her.
But they notice her.
Kira went to school with us, we’ve known her for years, but even if we didn’t, I’d still hate the way two of those sat at the table leer at her.
Hungry, like they want to eat her right up and they don’t strike me as the type to ask permission first. One of them grins, rubs a hand over his groin, then reaches that same hand out to make a grab for her arse.
As terrified as I am to get involved, I can’t sit here and do nothing while some wanker tries to feel her up.
“ Kira! ” I yell at the exact same time as Lynx shouts, “ Stop! ”
She yelps and jumps a mile, dropping glasses onto the grass, but takes a reflexive step back, successfully evading any wandering hands.
Blood drains from my face as I feel everyone’s gaze snap my way.
Everyone’s but Lynx’s, that is.
His focus is still on Kira.
“Go back inside,” he orders. “And lock the door.”
She nods and then bolts back inside the pub, the door slamming behind her.
It’s only then that I get to experience the full force of Lynx Harper’s stare. Our eyes meet for the briefest moment, but it’s enough to steal the breath from my lungs and make my heart beat double time.
Jesus Christ.
Even from this distance it’s like he’s staring into my soul. Like he can read every filthy, desperate thought running through my mind right now.
I wonder what he sees when he looks at me.
A tall, skinny, blond-haired idiot who doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut. Thank you so much for that insight, brain.
Heat sears through me, regardless, because everything about Lynx Harper is potent. I’m half hard and desperately want to look down and check it’s not as obvious as it feels, but it’s like I’m locked into whatever this is.
It also feels oddly familiar, but that’s just desperate and wishful thinking on my part.
Lynx breaks first, his attention snapping back to Birch and his crew. With the heat from his gaze no longer warming me from the inside out, I shiver.
Ash kicks me again, mouthing, What the fuck? But I’ve got nothing, still reeling from the weird connection I felt for that one glorious second.
“The fuck you waiting for, Birch?” Lynx doesn’t raise his voice, but the threat in it rings loud and clear. It’s like the most dangerous game of tennis as me and the rest of the pub look from Lynx to Birch, then back again, waiting for the next move.
If Birch has any sense of self-preservation, he’ll get up and ride out of here while he still can, but I’m almost positive he’s got none. Or maybe he thinks Lynx is all talk.
Or maybe he doesn’t give a shit.
I’m leaning towards the latter because Birch still wears that stupid smirk as he rubs his throat. “Not done drinking yet.”
“Yeah, you are.” As one, Lynx and the three other Wild Wolves get off their bikes and walk around to stand in front of them. The movement is slow, predatory, with a hint of wildness, just like their club name suggests.
All clad in worn jeans, T-shirts, and the black leather cut of their club, they’re scary as fuck, but so damn hot I almost forget what’s about to happen.
Birch shoots to his feet, all traces of that smirk gone as he and the others square off. “Back the fuck off, Harper. You know the rules.”
“I do.” Lynx walks closer, cracking his neck from side to side. “Pretty fucking sure you don’t though.” He nods at the front of the Old Bell. “This is our territory. You’ve no business being here.”
“The whole town’s neutral territory, so don’t give me that shit.” Birch crosses his arms and tilts his chin up. “You gonna make us leave?”
Lynx glances back at his men, eyebrow raised. He gets three nods in return, and I’m hit with a mix of dread and unhealthy excitement.
Here we fucking go.
LYNX
I hate him.
I don’t give a shit about pack territory. Well, I do, obviously, but the Old Bell is ours and Birch knows it. Every fucker around here knows it. Birch may be a cunt, but he’s not a stupid one. So that begs the question: what the fuck is he doing here when he knows it’s asking for a fight?
Unease settles under my skin, and I take that shit seriously.
You never ignore your instincts.
“Careful, Harper,” Birch warns. “I hear Beck and his team are in the area. You want that sort of attention?” That smirk returns and it gets under my skin like the tip of a sharp claw. He’s lucky we’ve got an audience, or I’d rip his fucking throat out.
I grind my teeth, swallowing down the urge to do just that. As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. We can’t afford to draw Beck’s, or any hunter’s, attention.
But Birch being here is a big fuck you and I can’t let it stand.
I don’t want to.
My lip curls, baring teeth I know are a little too sharp to be human.