The Feral King’s Mate (Feral Sons MC #1)

Chapter 1

Sarah

My Honda dies three miles outside Nightfall Cove.

No warning, no sputtering—one second I'm gripping the steering wheel, watching the last sunlight disappear behind the trees, and the next the engine quits. Smoke pours from under the hood, thick and black, and I coast to the shoulder with gravel crunching under my tires.

I sit there for a moment, just breathing, trying not to panic as the stench fills the car. Burning oil and burning rubber. Three days I've been driving, stopping only when I couldn't keep my eyes open, pushing through exhaustion and the voice in my head that keeps screaming he's going to find you.

And now this.

I get out on shaky legs. The October air hits me, damp and cold, smelling of pine.

The Pacific Northwest—as far from Connecticut as I could get without driving into the ocean.

The hood releases with a groan and more black clouds billow out.

Even I can tell this isn't a quick fix. The engine looks destroyed.

I pull out my phone, then stare at it. Who would I call? There's no one left. I shove it back in my pocket and lean against the door, hugging myself against the chill. Through the trees I can see the last light fading over the water, a cove with the ocean stretching dark beyond it.

The forest presses close on both sides of the road, massive evergreens with trunks disappearing into shadow. I catch movement in the treeline and freeze, telling myself it's probably a deer or a raccoon—but then I see the eyes.

Two points of amber light, low to the ground and too far apart to be natural. Unblinking. My heart hammers as more eyes appear, higher in the branches, another pair deeper in shadow. Five, six, seven sets, all fixed on me—the stranded woman with her dead car and her racing pulse.

This is how a horror movie starts.

I scramble back into the car and slam the door, hands shaking as I hit the lock. The eyes don't move. Don't blink. Just watch me.

Nightfall Cove. I picked this town for a reason—remote, forgotten, the kind of place Peter would never think to look.

But I'd also heard the stories. Twenty years ago, a wildfire tore through these forests and the creatures who lived hidden in the surrounding mountains and forests came out to help fight it.

Orcs. Minotaurs. Monsters that were supposed to be myths.

Nightfall Cove became the first place they revealed themselves to the world.

I'd thought it meant the town welcomed outsiders. I hadn't thought about what else might be living in the woods.

Minutes pass. Nothing moves except the eyes, blinking in and out as shapes shift between the trees. No cars. No headlights. The road stays empty in both directions. I've been sitting here for an hour, and this stretch hasn't seen a single vehicle.

Then I hear it.

The rumble reaches me before I process what it is—low and deep, vibrating through the asphalt and up through the car frame. Motorcycles, multiple bikes coming fast.

I'm out of the car before I can think, waving my arms as headlights cut through the dusk. Someone. Anyone. Even if they can't help with the car, maybe they have a phone that works, maybe they can call a tow truck, maybe.

The first bike rounds the curve and the words die in my throat.

For one wild moment I think it's Peter, that he sent someone to drag me back.

You'll never escape me, Sarah. I'll always find you.

Then I see the rider clearly, and Peter disappears from my mind, because the man on that bike is not human.

He's massive, even sitting on the motorcycle.

Broad shoulders strain against worn leather, thighs grip the chrome.

He sees my broken-down car and slows, the bike rolling to a stop twenty feet away before he kills the engine.

Behind him, five more bikes pull up and the riders swing off—big orcs in leather, watching me.

But the first one draws my attention. He pulls off his helmet and the dying light catches silver-shot black hair, a hard jaw.

Iron-capped tusks curve up from his lower lip, glinting dull in the twilight.

His eyes are dark and assessing. An orc.

I've seen them on the news, heard whispers about them, but I've never been this close to one in real life.

He swings off the bike, unfolding to his full height—six-foot-eight or more—and walks toward me with his boots crunching on gravel. His leather vest has patches I can't read in the dim light, but I catch the gleam of a "President" badge.

He stops close, close enough that I have to crane my neck to meet his eyes.

My brain says run. Every survival instinct I have screams that this creature is dangerous, that I should get back in my car and lock the doors again.

But my body doesn't move. My pulse, which has been racing for three days straight, actually slows.

Something in my chest loosens, like a fist unclenching.

I don't understand it. I should be terrified. Instead, I feel... safe.

"You lost, little human?"

His voice scrapes like gravel, not kind but not cruel either.

"My car died." My voice comes out steadier than I expected. "I'm trying to reach Nightfall Cove."

One eyebrow rises as he glances at the Honda, at the smoke still curling from the hood. "That thing's beyond saving."

Behind him, one of the bikers laughs—a younger face with dark hair braided back and a broken tusk.

"This is Feral Sons territory," the big orc says, turning back to me. "You know what that means?"

I shake my head.

"Means you're either lost or stupid." He studies me, his gaze sweeping over my rumpled clothes and the shadows under my eyes. His nostrils flare and his eyes narrow. "Not afraid of me. But you smell like you've been afraid for a long time."

Of course I'm afraid. You're an orc, seven feet tall. You could snap me in half.

But that's not what he means. I can see it in his face—he smells more than surface fear on me.

"It's been a long drive," I deflect.

He watches me and I hold his gaze even though every instinct screams at me to look away, to submit, to make myself small the way I learned with Peter.

I'm done being small.

His expression changes. Not softening—I don't think this orc softens for anyone. But the hard line of his mouth eases a fraction.

"Finn," he says without looking away from me. "Call the prospect, get him out here with the truck. Car needs to be off the road."

The younger orc moves toward one of the bikes. "You got it, Knox."

Knox.

"The garage will look at your car in the morning," Knox says to me. "There's a storm coming tonight and nothing's getting done until it passes."

The weather has changed—pressure dropping, wind picking up.

"Is there a hotel in town? Or a motel?"

Knox's mouth curves. "Cove Hotel's full up. Town council meeting this week—brings people in from all over the county." He pauses. "You can wait at the garage while we work on it. Or..."

He stops, studying me again.

"Or?"

"The clubhouse. We've got rooms and food."

The clubhouse. A biker clubhouse, surrounded by orc bikers in a town I don't know.

I should say no.

But Knox watches me and my pulse slows. My shoulders drop. Three days I've spent looking over my shoulder, flinching at every man who looked at me twice. And this orc, this massive creature who could crush me without effort, doesn't make me flinch at all.

I don't understand it.

"The clubhouse," I hear myself say. "Please."

Surprise crosses his face before he gives a short nod. "Finn! Grab the lady's bags. We're heading to the clubhouse—the prospect can deal with the car."

He turns back to me and offers a helmet. Black, like his. It looks huge compared to my head.

"You ride with me."

I take the helmet but before I can put it on, Knox steps closer. He takes it from my hands and lifts it over my head, sliding it down gently. His fingers brush my cheek as he adjusts the strap, then graze the side of my neck.

The world stops.

Heat floods through me, sharp and electric, and I gasp before I can stop myself. Knox freezes, his hand still on the strap, his dark eyes locked on mine. Something passes between us—something I can't explain. A pull. Like some part of me has been waiting for this exact moment without knowing it.

His nostrils flare. His jaw tightens. For a long second he doesn't move or breathe.

Then he steps back, his expression unreadable, and stalks toward his bike without a word.

I stand there with my heart pounding and no idea what just happened.

"You coming?" He throws the words over his shoulder. "The storm waits for no one."

Finn pulls my duffel from the backseat—everything I own now. Clothes and books, emergency cash I'd hidden for six months, the restraining order Peter laughed at. My whole life in one bag.

None of it matters now.

I put on the helmet and walk toward the motorcycle. When I reach him I hesitate because the seat is high, but Knox is already astride it with one boot on the ground, waiting.

"I've never—"

"Swing your leg over, grab on, and don't fall off."

Helpful.

I swing over and settle behind him, the bike dipping under my weight before my chest hits his back. Solid and warm, all muscle under leather. I don't know where to put my hands.

"Arms around my waist, or you'll fly off the first curve."

I wrap my arms around him and my fingers barely meet. The hard planes of his stomach press against my forearms through his shirt.

This is insane.

The bike roars to life and the vibration goes through me. Knox kicks off and we're moving, accelerating so fast my arms tighten around him. He's the only solid thing in the world right now.

We roar down the darkening road with wind whipping past and the first raindrops hitting my arms. I grip an orc MC president as we race toward a town I've never seen, and I realize I've stopped looking over my shoulder.

For the first time in months, my chest isn't tight.

Knox calls back through the wind: "Hold tight, little human. It's about to get rough."

Rain comes harder and I press my face against his back, breathing in leather and motor oil. Whatever comes next, at least I'm not running anymore.

At least I'm not alone.