Buck #3
“Because I know this world,” he growled. The air between them tightened instantly.
Ghost slowly pushed away from the doorway. “Welp,” he muttered. “I’m gonna go before one of you starts stripping or stabbing the other.” He pointed at Wren. “Fifty-fifty odds either way.”
“Get out,” Buck snapped. Ghost laughed under his breath and disappeared down the hall. Silence settled heavily after he left.
Wren crossed her arms tightly across her body. “He’s insane.”
“Pretty much,” Buck agreed.
“And you trust him?” she asked, nodding to where Ghost had stood.
“With my life,” he said. That seemed to catch her off guard. Buck sat heavily on the edge of the table, finally allowing her to clean the wound. The second her fingers touched his skin, his entire body tightened.
Fuck. She seemed to notice, too. Her movements slowed just slightly as she cleaned the blood from his arm with warm water. “You should’ve let me stay behind the bike,” she murmured quietly. “You exposed yourself pulling me down.”
Buck watched her carefully. “Wasn’t gonna let them take you.” The confession slipped out rough and honest.
Wren’s lashes lifted slowly as she looked at him.
“Why?” she asked. He didn’t say all the things that were running through his mind.
Like the thought of another man touching her made him violent.
Or that the second he saw her standing in the snow, something inside him already decided that she was his.
But most importantly—he left out the part about having already buried too many people and not wanting to add her name to the growing list.
Instead, Buck said, “Because you were under my protection.” Something flickered across her face then. Disappointment, maybe, or maybe relief. He wasn’t sure which bothered him more.
She wrapped the bandage carefully around his arm before stepping back. “There, you’ll live.”
“Damn, I was hoping for a tragic ending,” he teased.
A reluctant smile tugged at her mouth, and Buck stared at it too long.
She was dangerous like this. Not because she carried a weapon or knew how to fight—but because she made this place feel different.
Lighter somehow—more human. And men like Buck didn’t survive by wanting human things.
“You recognized the symbol on the trap,” Wren said quietly after a minute.
Buck’s jaw tightened again. “Black Vultures,” he admitted. “Small crew out of Saskatchewan. They are smugglers, mostly. Guns, drugs, women—whatever pays.”
Her face paled slightly. “Women?”
“Yeah,” he breathed.
“And they’re here?” she asked.
“They are now,” he admitted.
Wren looked toward the frosted window, unease finally creeping into her expression. “This is bigger than poaching.”
“Way bigger,” he agreed.
She swallowed hard before meeting his eyes again. “Then why are they targeting wolves?”
Buck stood slowly. “Because wolves matter to the people up here. Kill enough of them, and fear spreads. Routes open up, and communities stop fighting back.” His expression darkened.
“It’s intimidation.” Wren looked sick, and Buck understood why.
The north wasn’t civilized—not really. Out here, survival still belonged to whoever was ruthless enough to take it.
“You should go home,” he said quietly. Her eyes widened slightly, but Buck forced himself to continue. “Once the roads clear, I’ll have Ghost escort you south.”
“No.” Now it was her answering too quickly. Buck frowned, and Wren shook her head slowly. “Those wolves are still dying. And now I know why.” She stepped closer, stubbornness blazing in those bright eyes again. “You said yourself this land matters. So does what’s happening to it.”
“You don’t understand what you’re walking into,” he insisted.
“Then explain it to me,” she said. Buck stared at her in silence. Most people ran from the Kings. Most people saw blood and guns and cold men with patches and decided self-preservation mattered more. But not Wren. She kept stepping forward, and God help him, Buck wanted to let her.
A loud engine roared outside suddenly, and both of them turned toward the window instantly. When he heard the shouting outside, Buck moved first, grabbing his gun from the table while Ghost’s voice thundered through the clubhouse.
“Buck!” he shouted. Every instinct inside him went deadly calm.
He stormed down the hallway with Wren close behind despite his growled order for her to stay put.
The clubhouse doors slammed open, and a prospect stumbled inside, covered in blood and snow.
Buck recognized him instantly—Mason. He was one of the younger Kings who was stationed near the south route checkpoints.
The kid collapsed to one knee, gasping hard. “They hit the supply run,” Mason choked out. “Three trucks ambushed near Blackwater Ridge.”
Buck’s stomach dropped. “How many?”
“Don’t know,” Mason rasped. “But they left a message.”
Buck crouched in front of him. “What message?”
The prospect looked up slowly, fear written all over his face. “They said the Kings don’t own the north anymore.”