Chapter 10
Parker
It was like a bad dream that circled back and circled back, chewing its own tail until only the nerves were left.
I was in Wrecker’s living room, sitting on a large cushioned sectional.
My leg bounced up and down like I was giving pony rides to toddlers.
I wish I had brought Rocket with me. I was always more relaxed with that dog around.
A stone fireplace dominated the wall in front of me with a gigantic TV mounted above the mantle.
I looked over my shoulder toward the dining area.
Wrecker was in the closed-off kitchen to the right, making coffee.
A tall sofa table sat behind the long part of the sectional where I was sitting, and I noticed several framed photos there.
My curiosity got the better of me, so I ventured around to look at who Eli Leonard would find important enough to memorialize in photos.
I was a little worried I’d see pictures of him with other women.
He had quite a reputation with the women around here.
All the Iron Valor officers did, except Bronc.
They’re all known for having had lots of women in their beds or flown off to the vampire king’s club where supposedly they all had a penchant for domination.
Clearly, Wrecker had shown me that side of himself.
And I soaked up every bit of that dominance with my own need to submit.
Happily, though, the photos were simply a reflection of his family and friends, and they made me feel closer to him, somehow.
A large bookshelf took up the bulk of the adjacent wall.
I was surprised to see several fantasy series by Sanderson and other of my favorite authors.
He also had a good number of classic novels as well.
I don’t know why I was shocked to learn that he was apparently well read.
Genius-level people tended to be. His tastes ran parallel to mine if you discounted the smut I loved so much. I giggled to myself at the thought.
Thanks to my stream of consciousness, thinking of my smutty books reminded me of when everything broke loose: Wrecker’s mouth on mine, his hand clamped at the nape of my neck, the world going white-hot and then blank, like someone tripped a kill switch behind my eyes.
But even now, after a night of sleep and a morning of black coffee, the memory still burned in my muscles, so real it made my skin ache.
Standing in front of the bookshelf, I shut my eyes. It didn’t help.
Instead, I saw Wrecker’s eyes—gray as unlit metal—and heard his voice, the way it buzzed through me: “You’re mine now. Say it.” I hadn’t said it. I didn’t know if I ever would. But something in me had already bent, and I felt that break echoing down every nerve.
I tried to focus on something practical, the way I always did when reality threatened to drag me under.
Like, what would I do if I could leave? Where would I run?
Who would I even call? But every time, my mind doubled back to the same fucked-up equation: If Wrecker wanted me dead, I’d be dead.
If Wrecker wanted to use me, I’d be used up, and there would be nothing left to salvage.
But why would I want to run? If I could be anything in the world, I would want to be Wrecker’s. That is the only thing that makes sense. It’s the only thing that computes inside my soul even if at this moment it was more physical than emotional. Wrecker was my mate.
The word stuck in my throat. It sounded like the punchline of a joke nobody dared to tell.
Wrecker. My mate. The man who’d spent his whole adult life barely noticing me, who’d treated me with a kind of detached disregard that only made me want him more.
Who had now, in a masked encounter and in another single night, stripped me down to a raw wire and then left me to short-circuit by myself.
I clenched my hands into fists, pressing my knuckles white.
It wasn’t just Wrecker I had to worry about.
There was Silas, lurking out in the world like a slow-acting poison.
There was Axel, whose debts had started this avalanche.
There was Iron Valor, who would never forgive me for what I’d done, even if I was technically a hostage now.
I tried to catalog my fuck-ups, to assign blame in neat little packets, but the truth was: this was always going to be the end of my story. Alone, cornered, desperate.
I thought of my parents, and my stomach flipped. I tried to reroute. I tried to remember something less painful.
Instead, a memory surfaced: me having just turned eighteen, huddled in front of my old desktop, watching the live feed from the front porch camera.
Wrecker, in a T-shirt and jeans, had knocked on the door, arms full of groceries.
His hair was buzzed short then, military-style, and there was a line of blood on his cheek.
I watched the way his eyes flicked left and right before he set the bags down, checked the lock, and then walked off into the night.
He never came in, never said hello. He just made sure Axel and I had what we needed, then vanished again.
I remembered sitting there, watching the grainy video on repeat, trying to decode the message in his body language. Was he worried about us? Was he angry? Did he even know who we were, or was he just running errands for Bronc?
At the time, I told myself I hated him. I told myself that if he ever tried to talk to me, I’d tell him to fuck off. But he never tried, so I never had to. I just watched him, the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. He came and went several times, always just out of reach.
Now I understood. The mate bond had always been there, dormant and malignant, like a tumor nobody saw until it metastasized.
My wolf must have recognized him first, which was why I’d spent the next seven years trying to recreate him in every man I dated.
None of them came close, obviously. None of them could have.
He appeared from the kitchen entryway, and my heart shot up into my throat. I quickly walked from the bookshelf to the dining table.
Wrecker filled the doorway, all six foot four of him, and for a second I thought I might faint. Not from fear. From want, which was so much worse.
He wore a black T-shirt and jeans, his hair longer than he had always worn it, falling in a careless, perfect mess over his brow. His arms looked like they could break cinder blocks for fun. He carried a mug of coffee in each hand, and when he set one in front of me, his eyes never left my face.
I couldn’t look away.
He stared down at me, silent, as if he were searching for something under my skin.
“Drink,” he said. His voice was low, a command, but there was something else in it—a tremor, or maybe just the echo of what had happened between us.
I took the mug with both hands, because otherwise I’d have spilled it. The heat radiated up my fingers, and I tried to focus on that instead of the way my pulse thrashed at my neck.
“Thank you.” At least I could still be polite.
He sat across from me. The table creaked under his weight.
For a long minute, he didn’t speak. I drank the coffee in tiny sips, the taste acrid and perfect, and tried to pretend this was a normal afternoon in a normal house.
But nothing about this was normal. Not the way my wolf whimpered every time Wrecker moved. Not the way I kept glancing at his mouth, remembering the feel of his teeth at my throat. Not the way my body still ached from what he’d done to me the night before.
He spoke first. “You’re not as good at hiding things as you think.”
I bristled, automatic. “Says the guy who breaks into houses and roots through people’s phones for a living.”
He smiled, barely. “It’s different. I don’t try to hide what I am.”
I stared at him, letting the words slide around in my head. What was he exactly? Not a monster. Not a hero. Just a man who’d decided I was his problem to solve, or maybe his toy to break.
I set the mug down, careful not to let it rattle. “So, what’s the plan now?” My voice sounded strange to me.
He looked at me hard. “Plan is, you do what I say. You do exactly what I tell you, no improvising, no hero shit. You follow every instruction to the letter.”
I nodded, though my wolf squirmed at the thought.
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “And you don’t talk to anyone. Not Bronc, not your brother, not Silas. Not unless I give you permission, Parker.”
The last word snapped in the air like a commandment.
I tried to muster a retort, but nothing came. I was too busy cataloging the changes in him: the way he watched my every move, the way his hands flexed on the table, the way his voice softened when he used my real name.
“Okay,” I said finally. “Fine.”
He watched me a second longer, then sat back. “You’re going to be bait,” he said matter-of-factly. “You’re going to feed Silas exactly what I want him to know. You’re going to make him think he’s winning. And then, when the time is right, we burn him to the ground.”
I swallowed. “What about Axel?”
“We’ll get him out, too. But you have to trust me.”
I didn’t say anything.
He let the silence stretch, then finally got up, the chair screaming against the floor. “You should eat,” he said. “You’ll need the energy. Sit tight.”
I stared at the mug for a while after he left.
It was only after I heard his footsteps fade into the kitchen that I let myself breathe again, full and deep. My wolf settled just a little, comforted by the certainty of him.
For the first time in months, I felt something like hope. It was small, and mean, and dangerous. But it was enough. I could do this.
I finished the coffee in three burning gulps. Then I waited for Wrecker to feed me.
Whatever happened next, I was ready for it.