Chapter 2
Knox
Rain hammers my face but I don't feel it.
All I feel is her. Arms locked around my waist, fingers not quite meeting across my stomach.
Face pressed against my back, sheltering from the storm.
And cutting through the rain and exhaust and pine—her scent.
Faint, diluted by the storm, but there. Warm.
Bright. Something like summer grass and honey that has no business existing in this downpour.
My grip tightens on the handlebars.
Twenty years I've built this life. Twenty years since I walked away from the clans, from my father's throne, from everything I should have been. Forty-two years old and scarred in places no one sees. Long past believing in fairy tales.
So why does this small human woman make my blood sing?
I lean into the curves harder than I should. Her arms tighten and she leans with me into the curves. The feral thing in my chest—the part I've spent decades chaining down—rumbles approval.
Good. She trusts us.
I kill that thought. She doesn't know me. Scared, stranded, out of options. That's desperation, not trust.
But underneath her exhaustion, underneath the terror I caught on the roadside—she smells like relief.
The clubhouse lights slice through the rain as we round the final bend. I ease off the throttle, let the other bikes pull ahead and give her a moment to see it.
The Shipyard rises from the waterfront—massive timber beams weathered by salt and decades, sprawling across the old dock works. We've spent twenty years turning this abandoned wreck into home.
She lifts her head from my back, arms loosening, and I hear her breath catch.
I imagine what she sees: dark wood against darker water. Bikes lined up in formation. The Feral Sons banner snapping in the wind. Warm light bleeding from a dozen windows. Nothing like the corporate boxes humans build.
A monster's den.
I kill the engine. Silence crashes down, louder than the rain. Brothers dismount around us, rolling their bikes under the covered walkway.
"You okay back there?"
She doesn't answer right away. Her hands flatten against my stomach—steadying herself—and heat punches through my wet shirt.
"It's bigger than I expected." Her voice comes muffled through the helmet.
I swing off and turn to help her down. The moment her leg clears the seat, she wobbles. I catch her elbow. Her free hand lands on my chest.
She looks up.
Rain streams down the visor, hiding her face. But it doesn't matter. I know what's happening. Her pulse hammers where my fingers circle her arm. Her scent shifts—curiosity threading through the exhaustion. Something warmer underneath.
My fingers tighten on the doorframe hard enough to dent the wood.
"Knox." Finn's voice cuts through. "Want me to get her set up in the back room?"
I drop her arm. "No, I'll handle it."
His eyebrow rises. He doesn't push. Smart man.
Sarah pulls off the helmet, shakes loose hair darkened with rain, and looks past me toward the entrance.
Garrett fills the doorway—seven feet of minotaur, arms crossed, horns catching the light.
Rex leans against a pillar beside him, gold tusk caps glinting, wearing that careful blank expression he uses when sizing someone up.
Sarah doesn't shrink.
She should. Any human with survival instincts should take a step back from Garrett. Make herself small. Show submission.
But she squares her shoulders. Lifts her chin.
Brave. The word burns through me. Fierce.
I shut it down.
"Come on." My hand finds her arm again—I can't stop touching her—and I steer her toward the door. "Let's get you warm."
The brothers part as we approach. Garrett's nostrils flare. Something shifts in his massive face. Rex's hand twitches toward his hip before he catches himself.
They smell it on me. Whatever she's doing to my chemistry, they can tell. Twenty years I've led them. Twenty years of control. And right now I'm marching a strange human through our door with my territorial instincts screaming so loud I can barely think.
"Kitchen's got food if she's hungry." Finn falls into step beside us.
I glance down at her. "You want to eat?"
She shakes her head.
"She needs a hot shower and sleep." The words come out harder than I mean. Finn's steps slow. I don't look at him. Don't want to see the understanding dawning on his face.
The main room opens around us. Exposed beams, leather furniture worn soft with use. Fire crackling in the stone hearth. Jax behind the bar, pouring whiskeys. The women's touches show everywhere—clean surfaces, plants in the corners, a quilt draped over the longest couch.
Sarah stops. Her hand presses against her chest.
"This isn't..."
"Isn't what?"
"I don't know what I expected but not this."
I follow her gaze around the room. Club photos on the wall. The hand-carved Feral Sons crest above the fireplace. Worn patches in the leather where we've sat through hundreds of family dinners and twice as many arguments.
She sees home.
"My office." I touch her elbow, steering her away from the watching eyes. "We need to talk."
The door closes behind us. Clubhouse noise fades to a murmur. Sarah stands in the center of the room, rain dripping from her clothes onto hardwood, arms wrapped around herself.
I move past her to my desk, letting my eyes sweep the space. My territory. Desk buried in invoices and parts catalogs. Shelves lined with books I'll never admit to reading. The old leather chair Garrett salvaged from a closed university fifteen years ago."
She doesn't belong here. But somehow she doesn't look out of place either.
"Sit." I gesture to the chair across from the desk. "Coffee? Something stronger?"
"I'm fine."
She's not. She's running on fumes. I can smell the exhaustion smoking off her skin. But I don't push. I drop into my chair. Let the silence stretch.
She breaks first.
"You want to know why I'm running."
"Yes I do and why here?" I lean back. Keep my voice even. "Nightfall Cove isn't on the way to anywhere. It's the end of the road. You don't stumble onto it by accident."
Her fingers twist in her lap. The wedding ring tan line stands out pale against her skin. Recently removed.
"Bad divorce." Her voice flattens. "Needed somewhere remote. Somewhere I could start over."
Not a lie. I've caught lies on my tongue since before she drew breath. What she says rings true.
But not the whole truth.
"The man you're running from. Is he dangerous?"
Her chin jerks up. "I didn't say—"
"Didn't have to." I tap the desk once. "Fear like yours doesn't come from lawyers and paperwork. Someone hurt you. You're not sure you're safe yet."
Color drains from her face. For a long moment she doesn't speak. I wonder if I've pushed too hard. Scared her off.
Then her spine straightens. That fierce edge sharpens in her scent.
"I have a restraining order. It didn't help much. So I left."
Good. She fought. She ran. She survived.
A restraining order that didn't work. Rex will dig up the rest by morning.
"You can stay tonight." I stand. She watches me rise. "Betty's Diner hires constantly. I'll have your car looked at tomorrow. Depending on the damage—could take a few days."
"And if I can't pay for repairs?"
"We'll work it out."
She stands too. Closes the distance between us. And I realize my mistake. In this small office, with fire crackling down the hall and rain streaming down the windows, she stands close enough for her scent to wrap around me like hands.
"Why are you helping me?"
The question hangs. I should have answers—hospitality, good business, the fact that stranded humans on our road create problems. All true.
None of it is the real reason.
"I haven't figured that out yet."
The honesty surprises us both. Her lips part. I watch her throat move as she swallows.
I need out of this room.
"Come on. I'll show you where you're sleeping."
The guest room sits at the end of the east corridor, away from the noise, window overlooking the cove. I push open the door. Let her pass. Catch another wave of her scent as she brushes by.
She takes in the space—clean sheets, simple furniture, bathroom through the far door. Better than most motels. Surprise flickers across her face, she wasn't expecting it to be so nice.
"Towels in the closet." I pull one from the shelf, hold it out. "Water runs hot in about a minute. Anything you need, there's an intercom by the door. Push the button and someone will come."
She takes the towel but doesn't move toward the bathroom. Just stands there, clutching it against her chest, looking up at me.
"Thank you." Her voice cracks on the words. "I don't—you didn't have to do any of this. Stop for me. Bring me here. You don't even know me."
"You needed help."
"Most people would have kept driving."
I don't know what to say to that. She's right. Most humans would have. Most monsters too.
She takes a breath, and something shifts in her face. The exhaustion is still there, but underneath it—curiosity. Her gaze traces my jaw, my mouth, moves up to my tusks and lingers there.
Her hand lifts toward my face. Stops halfway.
"I've never touched an orc before." Her voice comes out soft. "Can I?"
I should say no. Every rational thought in my head screams to step back, keep the distance, don't let her touch me like she's not afraid of what I am
"Yes."
Her fingers reach up. Brush my jaw first—light, tentative. Then trace higher. Finding the edge of my tusk where it curves up from my lip. She touches the iron cap, cool metal under her fingertips, then moves to the tusk itself. Runs her thumb along the smooth surface.
I stop breathing.
No one touches an orc's tusks. Not like this. Not with wonder instead of fear.
She's so close. Her scent floods the room until I can't smell anything else—not rain, not wood smoke, not my own skin.
Mate.
The word detonates in my skull. My father's tongue. The old language I've spent twenty years burying.
Mine.
My hand shoots up, catches her wrist. Not hard but firm. Stopping her.
Her breath catches. Her pupils blow wide. She feels something too. I see it in her face, the flush spreading across her cheeks.
For one heartbeat I consider pulling her closer. Burying my face in her neck. Finding out if she tastes the way she smells.
Instead, I release her wrist and step back. Put distance between us before I do something I can't take back.
"There's a lock on the door. My brothers won't bother you, but if it helps you feel safe—use it."
I don't wait for an answer. I'm out the door and pulling it shut behind me before I can change my mind, bracing my hands against the corridor wall while my chest heaves like I've sprinted a mile.
A sound builds in my throat that I swallow before it escapes.
I ignore it and walk to my quarters, shedding my wet jacket along the way. Brothers pass me in the hall. They have the sense not to speak. I close my door, sink onto the edge of my bed, and stare at the ceiling.
The old bastard would laugh himself sick if he could see me now. His wayward son. The prince who walked away from a throne. Getting twisted up over a human woman half his age.
She's young. Too young for me—I'd guess late twenties, maybe less. Hasn't figured out who she is yet. And I'm sitting here with her scent filling my lungs and her eyes burned into my memory and every instinct I have demanding I go back to that room.
Tomorrow I'll put brothers on the roads into town. Watching for strangers. She hasn't asked me to. Won't know I did.
Like she belongs to me.
She doesn't. She's running from something and deserves better than a monster who still feels the pull of his father's wars.
But the thought won't leave.
What is she running from?
And who do I have to kill to keep her safe?