Chapter 1
Buck
Six Months Earlier
The blood looked black against the snow.
Buck crouched beside the carcass of the wolf and studied the bullet wound in its shoulder.
The animal had been dead for less than twelve hours and had been shot execution style.
This wasn’t a hunting incident, and the animal wasn’t killed because it was a threat.
Someone had shot it and left it to rot. It was the kind of thing that made Buck's temper rise fast.
"Third one this month." Buck looked up at the sound of Ghost's voice. He approached through knee-deep snow with his rifle slung across his back and a cigarette hanging from his lips. Ghost stopped beside him and looked down at the dead wolf, and his expression darkened immediately.
"Fucking cowards,” Ghost growled. Buck nodded.
The northern wilderness stretched around them for miles.
Its endless forests, frozen lakes, and untouched land were all part of the Kings of Anarchy territory in Manitoba.
The area was protected territory, and nobody was supposed to be out here—at least not without permission.
Yet somebody kept showing up—poachers, trespassers, smugglers.
It didn’t matter who it was because if they were killing wolves for sport, then the Kings would get involved.
Buck hadn't figured it out yet, but he intended to.
Ghost kicked the snow lightly. "This one got a collar too." Buck's eyes narrowed at the tracking collar around the wolf's neck, which had been damaged deliberately, but not enough to destroy it completely. It was like somebody wanted the data erased.
Buck carefully removed the collar and slipped it into his pocket. "We'll have to get the Canadian Wildlife Service involved and have them look at it." Ghost nodded and then looked toward the tree line. The easy humor he usually carried disappeared instantly.
"You feel that?" Ghost asked. Buck did. Something was wrong.
The woods felt different today. They were too quiet, and no birds were chirping, and there was no movement.
His instincts started screaming, and Ghost noticed too.
The two men exchanged a look, and then simultaneously reached for weapons.
Years together made communication unnecessary.
A branch snapped somewhere ahead, and Buck stood slowly.
The snowstorm rolling in from the north muted everything except the sound of wind through the trees.
A figure appeared—a man in a heavy coat and snowmobile gear.
He was armed and froze as soon as he spotted them.
Buck's eyes narrowed because he knew that the man wasn't hunting or trapping.
He definitely wasn't local. The stranger turned immediately and started running.
"Well," Ghost sighed. "That's suspicious.
" Buck was already moving, and the chase lasted less than five minutes.
The man seemed to know the terrain, but Buck knew it better.
They caught him near an abandoned logging road.
Ghost tackled him off the snowmobile, and Buck took his weapon.
The stranger fought hard, seeming panicked and even a bit desperate, which told Buck everything he needed to know.
The man wasn't afraid of getting arrested.
He was afraid of being forced to talk. Buck hauled him to his feet.
"Who are you?" he shouted.
The stranger spat blood into the snow. "Go fuck yourself."
Ghost grinned. "Well, I like him already.
" Buck ignored that. His attention stayed fixed on the man's jacket and the small symbol that had been stitched onto the shoulder.
Three slashes through a circle. Buck had never seen it before, but something about it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
The man saw where Buck was looking and smiled, like he knew something Buck didn't.
"You boys have no idea what's moving through these woods,” he said. Buck's grip tightened, and the stranger laughed. "You think this territory belongs to you?"
Ghost's expression hardened. "Careful." The warning was ignored, and the man looked directly at Buck.
"There's money flowing through this province that'll make your little biker club look like a daycare." Buck felt it then—the truth buried beneath the bragging. They weren’t running drugs or guns. They were running something else through the woods—something bigger.
The stranger leaned closer and whispered the words that would change everything. "You're already too late to stop it, too." Buck's stomach tightened as headlights appeared through the trees. The stranger saw them too and smiled triumphantly.
Before Buck could react, the man bit down hard, and blood filled his mouth instantly.
"Shit!" Buck shouted. “It’s poison.” Ghost lunged forward, but it was too late.
The stranger collapsed into the snow and was dead before he hit the ground.
Silence settled over the forest as Buck stared down at the body and the symbol stitched onto the jacket.
He looked back at the dead wolf nearby, and for the first time in years, something felt bigger than the Kings and their territory. This was bigger than club business.
Ghost crouched beside the corpse. "Well, that took a turn.” Buck didn't answer. His gaze remained fixed on the symbol—three slashes through a circle. It was a warning; a threat. It was the beginning of something ugly.
Ghost followed his stare. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"
Buck nodded. "Yeah." The north had a problem, and somewhere out there, people were dying because of it.
Buck didn't know it yet, but his entire world was about to spin off its axis.
Standing there in the snow beside a dead wolf and a dead stranger, he knew one thing—war was coming, and Buck Lawson had never been very good at backing down from a fight.
The wind off the river howled like it wanted to peel the world down to its bones.
Buck Lawson leaned against the railing of the clubhouse porch, a cigarette burning low between his fingers, watching the endless white swallow the night.
Out here in northern Manitoba, the cold didn’t just bite—it punished.
It got into a man’s soul and reminded him of what he was made of.
He liked that, most days—the quiet, the cold, and even the distance from everything that used to be so important to him. But tonight didn’t feel quiet.
Beneath the hum of the generator and the crunch of snow under his boots came the low snarl of an engine.
Not one he recognized. It wasn’t the deep roar of a Harley or the throaty rumble of a truck from the Kings of Anarchy fleet.
This was something smaller, and it seemed to be struggling like a tired old pickup gasping against the cold.
Buck took one last drag and flicked the butt into the snow.
“Open the gate,” he called to the prospect standing under the floodlight.
His voice didn’t need to rise to be obeyed.
“Let’s see what fool’s dumb enough to wander out here tonight.
” The gate creaked open. The wind brought with it the scent of oil, metal, and something sharper—fear.
When the headlights cut through the blowing snow, Buck squinted and saw a single figure inside the cab. They were small, with their shoulders tense and head angled toward the windshield like someone braced for a fight.
The truck rolled to a stop near the porch, engine knocking in protest. The door opened, and a woman climbed out.
For a second, Buck thought the cold had finally gotten to his brain.
Women didn’t drive up to the Kings of Anarchy compound in the middle of a January storm—especially not dressed like that.
She pulled the hood of her jacket down, and light spilled over her face.
She was from the city; he had no doubt about that.
Her hair fell in soft waves around her face as she shivered against the wind.
She was dressed to the nines, and she wore boots that probably cost more than his first bike.
But her eyes—hell, if those weren’t something else.
They were clear, steady, and bright enough to make him forget for half a breath that they were surrounded by snow, steel, and silence.
He straightened, crossing his arms. “You lost?” he asked, his voice low and rough.
“Not exactly.” Her voice shook, but not from fear, but from cold, or maybe even defiance.
She adjusted her satchel and squared her small shoulders.
“I’m Dr. Wren Callahan with Wildlife Services.
I’m supposed to meet a man named Rhett Dawson.
He was going to take me to the restricted zones along the Churchill River.
There’ve been reports of wolf poaching and—”
“Rhett’s dead,” Buck interrupted. That stopped her rambling. The wind filled the silence between them, snapping snow through the air. It was the kind of silence that could break things if you stood in it too long.
She swallowed and lifted her chin. “Then who’s in charge here?”
Buck took a step down from the porch, boots thudding against the wooden steps. “That’d be me. At least, I’m in charge until our Prez, Gorgon, gets back from his honeymoon.”
The way her eyes swept over him—careful but unflinching—told him she was cataloguing everything.
His size, the ink curling under his collar, the weight of the chain around his neck with the King’s insignia on it.
She didn’t seem to be stupid. He could tell that she knew what an MC was, but he had a feeling that she hadn’t realized where she’d wandered.
“What did you say your name was?” Buck asked.
“Wren,” she said, steady this time. “When will your Prez be back?” she asked.
Buck ignored her question. It wasn’t her business to know where Gorgon was or when he’d be back. Hell, he didn’t even know all those details. He rolled her name around in his mind before speaking. “Like the bird?”
Her lips twitched. “Like the woman.” Something about her answer hit him straight in the chest. Brave—too brave for someone standing in King's territory after dark.
The clubhouse door opened behind him with the creak of old hinges, spilling light and noise onto the porch. Laughter, music, and the heavy tread of Ghost’s boots.
“Who the hell’s drivin’ a junker through our gate this late?” Ghost’s voice cut through the wind before Buck answered. When he stepped out, cigarette dangling from his mouth, his smirk was pure trouble. “Well, I’ll be damned. What’s this? A fed in lipstick?”
“I’m not a fed,” Wren said sharply, turning to face him. “I’m with Wildlife Services. I’m here to investigate illegal poaching. Rhett Dawson—”
“Dead,” Ghost interrupted, echoing Buck’s earlier word with a rough chuckle. “Guess you’ll have to take that up with our VP here.” He tilted his head toward Buck. “You always did have a soft spot for strays, brother.”
Buck ignored him. “You shouldn’t be here,” he told her.
“I didn’t have a choice.” She looked up at him, eyes flashing with what he assumed to be anger. “Every official map marks this territory as open government land. If someone’s poaching wolves out here, I’m the one who has to stop it. That’s my job.”
“Your job,” Buck muttered, “is going to get you killed.”
She bristled. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”
“It’s a warning.” He stepped in closer, enough for her to see the tattoo peeking from his collar—a skull wearing a crown—Kings of Anarchy. Her breath hitched, and he could almost see the realization hit her. But instead of running, she stood her ground.
“Then maybe you should tell your people to stop killing wolves,” she said quietly.
Ghost barked out a laugh, smoke curling from his lips into the frozen air. “Oh, she’s got claws. Careful, Buck. You might like this one.”
“I don’t like anything that bleeds trouble,” Buck muttered.
He kept his stare locked on her, even though something inside him already knew that it was too late to deny that she was just his type.
He’d known it the moment she looked at him like he was just another obstacle to move past, not a man used to being obeyed.
The snow thickened, swirling between them as the storm closed in. “You’ll stay the night,” Buck said finally. It wasn’t a question.
“I can drive back to town—”
“No, you can’t. The roads will ice over in thirty minutes, maybe less.
” He jerked his chin toward the clubhouse.
“You’ll freeze before you make the first mile.
” Wren hesitated, seeming torn between pride and reason.
Buck could practically feel her weighing trust against fear.
Finally, she nodded and followed him when he turned toward the door.
Ghost fell in beside him, voice low. “You sure ‘bout this, brother? Bringing her into the den might not be a good idea.” Buck didn’t answer right away.
He let the door swing open, and the heat of the clubhouse rushed out, the sound of laughter, clinking metal, and life filling the void the storm left behind.
Inside, things would get complicated. Ghost always said Buck had a habit of protecting things that didn’t belong to him.
That was the problem. Nothing had ever belonged to him—not like he wanted someone to.
That was his fault, though. He never let anyone in.
He never told any of the guys that he was bisexual or that he had always thought about being in a relationship with both a man and a woman.
He was pretty sure that most of his brothers would pretend to accept him for who he was, but he just couldn’t chance them rejecting him.
Not now, after he’d built his relationships with his brothers.
Ghost was right, because he would protect anyone who belonged to him.
And as Wren stepped into the light, shaking snow from her hair, the word mine echoed somewhere deep inside of him, where reason didn’t live.
He’d only had that thought about one other person in his life—Ghost, and that was something he planned on taking to his death.
Buck Lawson didn’t believe in fate. But tonight, he almost did.