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.”
Wren
Everything about the Kings of Anarchy should have terrified her. The guns, the blood, even the violence simmering beneath every glance and every word. Instead, Wren found herself watching Buck—again.
The clubhouse had exploded into motion after Mason collapsed through the doors. Men shouted over each other while boots pounded across old wooden floors. Guns appeared like magic from hidden drawers and locked cabinets. Engines roared outside as prospects scrambled toward the garage. It was organized chaos, and somehow Buck stood in the center of it like the eye of a storm. He was calm, deadly, and completely in control.
Wren stayed near the hallway while Mason sat at one of the long tables, Ghost pouring whiskey directly over the deep cut in his shoulder while another man stitched him up. The younger biker barely flinched.
She should’ve been horrified; instead, she kept staring at Buck. He stood near the fireplace with three patched members surrounding him. His expression never changed as they talked strategy, but tension radiated from him in waves now. Thesoftness she’d seen earlier—the teasing, the reluctant smiles—was gone. This Buck looked dangerous.
“Enjoying the view?” Wren jumped slightly as Ghost leaned beside her against the wall, cigarette dangling from his lips, amusement dancing in his pale eyes.
“I was listening,” she lied.
“Sure you were,” Ghost said. Her cheeks warmed. God, she hated this place, or maybe she hated how alive she felt inside it.
Ghost studied her for a long second before speaking again. “You know what the problem is now, right?”
Wren frowned. “Besides armed criminals trying to start a war?”
His grin widened slightly. “Besides that.” She crossed her arms defensively. Ghost lowered his voice. “Buck cares.”
Her stomach tightened instantly. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” he asked
“Yes,” she insisted.
Ghost laughed softly under his breath like she’d just said something genuinely funny. “Sweetheart, Buck barely sleeps when one of the prospects gets a cold. The man’s built wrong when it comes to protecting people.” His gaze drifted toward Buck across the room. “But you? You’re already under his skin.”
