Buck
Morning came slowly in the north. The storm had broken sometime before dawn, leaving the world glazed in pale light and silence so deep it pressed against the windows.
Every surface outside glittered with frost—bikes under snow drifts, fuel drums rimed with ice, the skeletons of the pine trees bending toward the river.
The screen door creaked behind him, and he heard boots hesitantly scuff across the wood floors of the porch. “You’re up early,” Wren said.
He turned to find her standing just inside the doorway, wrapped in an oversized flannel shirt that belonged to nobody in particular—probably something one of the women left behind months ago.
Her hair was still damp from a hurried shower due to the water running cold.
Her curls were darker now and pressed against her cheeks.
She looked impossibly out of place against the rough wood walls and the patch of sunlight fighting through the clouds.
“Coffee’s on the stove,” he said.
“I already found it,” she answered, stepping out beside him. The mug in her hands shook a little from the cold. “At least, I found what passes for coffee around here.”
“That’s the good stuff,” he said dryly.
Wren smiled, brief but real. “You mean barely drinkable?” He liked the way sarcasm softened her fear. It made her seem not as fragile, but deliberate—someone who chose to stay standing even when she could have curled up and waited for rescue.
“You sleep?” he asked.
“Enough. Walls aren’t exactly soundproof,” she mumbled.
Buck’s jaw tightened. “Did any of my guys give you trouble?”
“No,” she said quickly. “Not them. I heard voices—yours and Ghost’s.” She paused. “You two argue a lot?”
“Sometimes, yeah,” he breathed.
“If I heard correctly, you two were arguing over me,” she said. He met her gaze, but she didn’t flinch. Wren just looked straight up at him like she wanted the truth, no matter how hard it was for him to give it.
He thought about lying, then decided against it. “Yeah, we fought over you.”
Something flickered in her eyes, part curiosity, part regret. “Because I’m a problem.”
“Because you’re a question that we don’t have an answer for,” he said.
“We don’t like strangers around here, if you haven’t been able to tell by your less-than-warm welcome.
” She took that in quietly, turning toward the yard.
The bikes lined up in the snow were dusted silver, the insignia on each tank glinting faintly.
She studied the emblem like she was trying to figure it out.
“So this is all of it?” she asked. “Your kingdom.”
“More like what’s left of it,” Buck said. “We used to run three chapters north of here, too. And it’s not mine. It belongs to Gorgon. I’m just keeping it safe for him until he gets back.”
“What happened to the three chapters up north?” she asked.
He stared into the trees. “Winter got longer, and we stopped pretending we were immortal.”
Her voice softened. “You make it sound like a war. Winter vs. you guys.”
“It was a war,” he said with a shrug. They fell silent again.
Somewhere behind them, a door slammed shut, and Ghost strolled into the yard, cigarette hanging from his mouth with his jacket half-zipped.
He wore the same dangerous grin when he looked at Wren—the one that worried Buck.
Even in the daylight, he looked like someone had carved him out of trouble.
“Mornin’, sweet thing,” he called to Wren. “Sleep okay in the madhouse?” Buck shot him a warning look, but Ghost ignored it.
Wren folded her arms. “Better than you, from the looks of you,” she sassed.
Ghost chuckled, flicking ashes into the snow. “You’re feisty before breakfast. You keep talkin’ like that, we might start likin’ you.”
“Enough,” Buck said, tone low but edged with authority. Ghost only shrugged, but his eyes slid toward Buck—sharp and meaningful. The same unspoken argument from last night was still in them. She’s already changing things.
Wren caught the exchange. “If you two are done posturing, I’d like to see the trap sites,” she said evenly. “That’s why I’m here—to work.”
Buck frowned. “They’re miles out, and the roads will be solid ice.”
“Then I’ll ride with one of you,” she said.
He almost laughed. “You ever been on a bike, Doc?”
“No. But you have,” she said. “I’m betting that you can handle the ice.
” The way she said it, steady and matter-of-fact, hit him harder than it should have.
She wasn’t asking for permission; she was demanding respect, and damn if that didn’t spark something dangerous under the calm he’d been building.
Ghost tipped his chin toward Buck. “Guess you’re drivin’ her then, VIP escort style.”
Buck sighed and set his mug down on the rail. “Fine. You get an hour to see what you came for. After that, we talk about you leaving.”
“And if I find proof someone’s setting traps here?” Wren asked.
“Then we’ll talk about that,” he said. She nodded, seeming unafraid, and turned back inside to grab her gear.
Ghost waited until the door clicked shut before speaking. “You’re already breakin’ rules, brother.”
“I make the rules,” Buck muttered. “That’s my job while Gorgon isn’t here, remember?”
“Not this time.” Ghost’s smile was slow and knowing.
“You just don’t see it yet, but you’re in over your head, Buck.
” Buck watched Wren’s shadow move past the frosted window, small but certain.
She was the kind of person who didn’t yet understand how far the north could reach inside you and never let go.
He told himself this was temporary, just logistics—getting her through the snow and then sending her home.
But somewhere deep in the quiet morning, the truth settled heavier than frost. He wasn’t sure if he wanted her to leave anymore.
The ride out to the river should’ve been peaceful.
Instead, Buck could feel her everywhere.
Wren sat behind him on the bike, tense at first, her gloved hands hovering near his sides like she didn’t know where she was allowed to touch.
The second they hit the ice-covered logging road and the back tire slid sideways, she grabbed onto him hard and held on for dear life.
He felt every inch of her, too, while her body was pressed against his back, thighs tight against his hips, fingers curled into his kutte as though she trusted him not to let her fall. It did something ugly to his head. Something akin to making him possessive.
The north stretched around them in endless white and dark pine.
Snow kicked up behind the tires while the frozen river glimmered between the trees like broken glass.
The cold usually cleared Buck’s thoughts, but not today.
Today, all he could think about was the warmth of the woman clinging to him from behind.
He shouldn’t have brought her. Ghost had made that clear enough with the look he’d given Buck before they left. Like he already knew this was a mistake. Like he could see the cracks forming before Buck did. Maybe he was right.
Wren wasn’t built for this world. She belonged somewhere with heated sidewalks, coffee shops, and people who followed laws instead of making them. But every time Buck looked at her, she dug herself deeper under his skin.
“You okay back there?” he called over the engine.
“I think my fingers are frozen off,” she shouted back.
Buck smirked despite himself. “That’s the spirit.”
“I hate you a little right now,” she shouted.
“Get in line. There are a lot of people already ahead of you, honey,” he said.
Her laugh surprised him. It was soft and quick, carried off by the wind, but it hit him square in the chest anyway.
He couldn’t remember the last time laughter sounded normal around him.
Most days, the clubhouse lived on tension, old violence, and men pretending they weren’t carrying ghosts on their backs.
But Wren sounded alive when she laughed, and that was dangerous.
The trail narrowed as they pushed deeper into the reserve. Snow-covered branches scraped against Buck’s shoulders while the bike growled beneath them. He knew these woods better than he knew most people. Every frozen creek, every hidden trail, and every place a body could disappear.
When he finally slowed near the riverbank, Wren climbed off behind him carefully, her boots crunching into the snow.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. Buck followed her gaze.
A wolf lay half-buried near the tree line.
Its gray fur was stained red around the steel trap clamped onto its front leg.
Frost coated its muzzle. It had been dead a long time if he had to guess.
“Fuck,” Buck muttered. Wren was already moving before he could stop her. She dropped to her knees beside the animal, carefully brushing snow away with shaking hands. Her face tightened as she examined the trap.
“This isn’t for food,” she said quietly. “It’s cruelty.” Buck crouched beside her, scanning the trees automatically out of instinct. Old habits were hard to break when it came to survival in these parts.
“Can you tell how long it’s been here?” he asked.
“Maybe two days.” Anger sharpened her voice.
“Maybe less.” Buck’s jaw clenched. The Kings didn’t hunt wolves.
Hell, most of them respected the animals more than they respected people.
Wolves survived brutal winters, protected their own, and killed only when necessary.
That meant something out here. Which meant somebody was sending a message.
Wren pointed toward the trap. “This isn’t standard issue. Look at the markings.” Buck leaned closer. A symbol had been carved into the metal. A circle with three slashes through it. Recognition hit instantly, and his stomach dropped.
“What?” Wren asked, catching the shift in his expression.
Buck stood slowly. “We need to go.”
“Buck—”
“Now,” he shouted, cutting her off. She rose immediately, seeming to read the danger in his tone. The woods had gone too quiet. The birds weren’t making any noise, and there was no wind through the trees—just silence.