2. Rand
Two
Rand
The bar goes back to minding its own business.
Which is good.
Because I sure as hell haven't.
This woman doesn’t know me.
She absolutely is not mine.
And yet…
My Wolf is losing his damn mind.
Not angry.
Not violent.
Possessive?
Yeah, but honestly?
It’s more like he’s just happy.
Ecstatic, actually.
After forty-two years of waiting, I’ve finally found her.
My fated mate.
And she's standing right in front of us with those whiskey-colored eyes wide in surprise and those gorgeous blonde waves tumbling around her shoulders.
The scent coming off her is driving me insane.
Sugar and spice and summer rain.
She smells like mine.
Mate.
I can actually see her pulse beating at the base of her neck.
And sweet Mother Moon, I am so hard right now it's a wonder I can even stand upright.
Claim her now.
Fuck, my Wolf is getting demanding now.
Easy.
She's human.
Human women generally don't appreciate being dragged off by strange bikers who punched their dates unconscious.
Even if said dates deserved it.
Mike appears beside me, carrying a wet rag.
He tosses the rag at the guy.
“What’s his name?” Mike asks.
“Um, Brad or Chad? I forget,” my girl answers and shrugs.
I grin. Mike picks up the rag. And my girl? She looks wholly unaffected.
Fuck, she’s perfect.
“Okay then,” Mike murmurs and tosses the rag in Brad-or-Chad’s face one more time.
“Get up, Romeo,” he mutters. “You're bleeding on my floor.”
The idiot groans.
Good.
That means he’s still alive.
I can fix that later, my Wolf snarls. And the idea has merit.
Daria—because I caught her name during the world's worst date—looks down at the man on the floor.
Then back up at me. she doesn’t seem upset but I brace myself as one perfect eyebrow rises while she takes me in.
I know what I look like. I’m big, wearing denim and leather. I’ve got dozens of tattoos and long black hair.
Hell, I’m everything every girl’s mother ever warned her about.
But she doesn’t look intimidated. She looks interested.
And that right there? That makes me want to puff my chest out and howl into the night.
“So, do you usually solve problems with your fists?”
“Nope.”
Her eyebrow rises higher.
I shrug.
“Okay, sometimes.”
That earns me a laugh.
A real one.
Not polite.
Not forced.
It’s loud and real, and fuck, it makes my cock even harder.
And my Wolf? That simple bastard practically rolls over and shows his belly.
Mate laughs.
Mate happy.
Good.
I want to roll my eyes at my idiotic beast, but then Daria licks her lower lip.
And that's it.
My control snaps.
Not violently.
Not dangerously.
Just enough to make me realize that if I stay in this crowded bar much longer, I'm liable to start acting like an idiot.
And my mate deserves better than a drooling Wolf.
“Let's get out of here, Honey.”
I extend my hand.
Everything inside me goes still.
She looks at my hand.
Then at me.
Then at Mike.
The bar owner shrugs.
“Don’t look at me. I’m not vouching for either of you,” he says—and fair.
I get it.
Daria bites her lower lip.
Come on.
Choose me.
I want to beg.
I want to tell her she's the answer to prayers I stopped saying years ago.
Want to tell her she can have anything she wants.
Everything I have.
Everything I am.
Instead, I wait silently.
My Wolf wants to tear me a new asshole, but my patience?
It pays off.
Her tiny hand slides into mine.
My Wolf howls.
Mate.
Mine.
Forever.
I am so fucked.
Her fingers are soft and warm.
Perfect.
Electricity shoots up my arm.
She startles.
I know she feels it too.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
“Okay,” she says softly.
Then she blinks.
“Wait.”
My heart stops.
“What?”
“Just have to grab my purse and go to the ladies’ room first.”
I stare.
Then I laugh.
Actually laugh.
Sweet Mother Moon.
I almost had a coronary over a purse.
“Of course.”
Mike catches my eye from his position, propping Brad-or-Chad up against the table.
His expression says exactly what I'm thinking.
About damn time.
I flip him off.
He grins.
Daria returns with her purse and glances toward the front windows.
“Um, so before we go, are you planning on murdering me?”
I blink.
“Nope.”
“Okay, that seems believable.”
She smiles sweetly.
“Glad to hear it,” I reply.
“You know, it’s those true crime podcasts I listen to. They taught me to ask those kinds of important questions before leaving bars with handsome strangers.”
“Smart woman.”
Then I grin.
“You think I’m handsome?”
“You know you’re handsome,” she replies with a snort. Fuck, she’s cute. “Also, for the record, I don't normally leave bars with giant bikers who punch people.”
“That's very reassuring, Honey. Glad you're making an exception for me.”
“You’re welcome. Oh, I’m Daria Woods. So, what’s your name?”
“Rand Jameson. I’m forty-two years old. I live in Maccon City—born and raised. And I own Jameson Customs. It’s a motorcycle shop,” I tell her. “Anything else you want to know?”
“Yeah. Are you ready to go Rand Jameson?”
“I’m ready, Honey.”
“Honey?”
“It’s your eyes. They are the exact color of my favorite whiskey, Honey Bite. It's made by a local artisan distillery.”
“I think I’ve heard of Bite. I’ve never been one to garner nicknames, but I think I like it.”
“Good,” I murmur, and I take her hand in mine.
Electricity zips between us and my Wolf purrs.
Daria is sweet, soft, and feisty—everything I like in a woman. Only she’s better because this particular woman happens to be my mate.
Outside, the summer air wraps around us.
Maccon City is alive tonight.
Tourists.
Music.
The scent of the ocean.
Boardwalk lights glowing in the distance.
And parked at the curb—my Harley.
Daria stops.
“Oh.”
I grin.
“Oh good or oh bad?”
“Oh very, very good.”
Her eyes light up.
“You ride a motorcycle?”
“Yep. Just rebuilt this little beauty myself.”
Her gaze travels lovingly over my bike.
Then over me.
Then back to the bike.
I pretend not to be jealous of my own motorcycle.
“I've always wanted to ride on one,” she admits.
My Wolf preens.
Mate likes bike.
Excellent.
I grab the spare helmet from the saddlebag and settle it gently on her head.
My fingers brush her long flaxen locks.
God.
Touching her feels right.
Like something I've done a thousand times before.
She looks up at me through those beautiful eyes.
“Safety first.” I tell her.
“Okay. Um, how do I get on?”
I swing onto the Harley.
Then hold out my hand again.
“Climb on behind me, Honey. That’s right.”
“Where are we going?” Daria asks, her voice slightly muffled by the helmet.
“Nowhere special.”
She feels so damn good pressed against my back, I swear I forget how to think for a minute or two.
“That's mysterious.”
“Nah.”
I turn my head so she can see me grinning at her.
“It's just South Jersey.”
I nod toward the moonlit road.
“Figure I'll show this hot girl I just met the shore—take it nice and slow like.”
The words slip out before I can stop them.
Her cheeks turn pink.
And instead of slapping me—she moves in closer.
Then Daria wraps her arms around my waist.
Holy fucking goddess.
I nearly stop breathing.
My Wolf practically faints.
Mate touching.
Mate holding.
Mate close.
I start the engine.
And with her soft curves pressed against my back and the summer night stretching endlessly before us—for the first time in forty-two years—everything feels right.
“Hold on,” I tell her.
Then we take off.