"Dangerous. The kind that doesn't look it until it's too late. VP of an MC doesn't happen by being nice, Quinn. Ithappens by being willing to do whatever needs doing. Violence, intimidation, worse. Don't let the pretty face fool you."
Pretty face. Even my father had noticed.
The memory of that smile made warmth spread through me again. The way he'd touched my hand like he had all the time in the world. "Copy that."
But pulling back onto the highway, I already knew it was too late. Wolf McCarthy had looked at me like he saw straight through the uniform to the woman underneath—the woman who was tired of being the sheriff's daughter, tired of being perfect, tired of following all the rules.
The woman who wanted those rough hands on her bare skin.
I was in so much trouble.
The rest of my shift dragged like molasses. Every motorcycle engine made my heart race, hoping and dreading it would be him again. By the time I pulled into the station at end of shift, adrenaline and frustrated desire had me wound tight
"How was patrol?" Dad asked when I walked in, his concern more paternal than professional. He sat at his desk, probably had been since I radioed in about the stop.
"Fine. Quiet."
Those sharp eyes that had caught me sneaking in after curfew, that had seen through every lie I'd ever tried to tell, studied me carefully. "That McCarthy boy give you any trouble?"
"No trouble." Unless you counted the persistent ache between my thighs. The phantom touch of his fingers against mine. His voice saying 'sweetheart' on repeat in my head like a song I couldn't shake.
"Good. Remember what I told you, Quinn. Those men are dangerous. They might clean up nice, might pretend to be legitimate with their garage and their protection services, but underneath? They're criminals. Every last one. Don't let them charm you into forgetting that."
Too late for that warning, Dad.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. Because the only danger from Wolf McCarthy was to my self-control. The way he'd looked at me wasn't criminal—it was hungry. And God help me, I was hungry too.
That night in my small apartment above the bakery, I lay in bed replaying every second of the encounter. His eyes. His smile. The casual confidence of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and wasn't afraid to take it. The way he'd said my name—Deputy Jenkins—like it was foreplay.
My hand drifted down without conscious thought, finding the ache that had been building since he'd called me beautiful. I imagined those rough hands instead of my own, that gravelly voice saying my name, that powerful frame pressing me against his bike.
I pictured him pulling me closer instead of letting me walk away, kissing me right there on the side of the highway, not caring who saw. My fingers worked faster as I imagined him lifting me onto his bike, settling me in front of him, my back to his chest, his hand sliding into my uniform pants.
Release crashed through me with his name on my lips—"Wolf"—leaving me gasping into my pillow, ashamed and aroused and already planning where I'd set up my speed trap tomorrow.
Because Wolf was right about one thing.
This did feel like fate.
The dangerous, destroy-everything-you've-built kind of fate.
And I was already halfway to letting it happen.
CHAPTER 2
WOLF
The pool cue slid through my fingers as I lined up the shot, but my concentration was shot to hell. Three days since Deputy Quinn Jenkins had written me that ticket, and I hadn't been able to focus on anything except the way her breath had caught when I'd called her beautiful.
Buck's bar hummed with its usual Tuesday night crowd—truckers passing through, ranch hands spending their paychecks, and a handful of Pike Creek Riders holding court in the back corner. The familiar sounds of country music and trash talk should have been comforting. Instead, every time the door opened, my attention snapped to it like a dog on a leash.
"You gonna shoot or fondle that stick all night?" Phoenix asked from his perch on a bar stool, beer in hand.
I sank the seven ball without looking, muscle memory taking over where focus failed. "Jealous of my technique?"
"Of you mooning over the sheriff's daughter?" Tank laughed from across the table, chalking his cue. "Heard she wrote you up doing twenty over. The VP of Pike Creek Riders getting a speeding ticket from a tiny brunette with a badge? Fucking priceless."
"It was a routine traffic stop." Except for the ticket and the worst case of sexual frustration I'd had since high school. "Besides, she's not that tiny."
