“We protect what’s ours,” he said. The possessiveness in the statement sent heat curling low in her stomach before she could stop it. God, this man was a problem.
“You keep saying things like that,” she murmured.
Buck looked at her slowly. “Like what?”
“Mine. Ours.” Her pulse jumped harder beneath his steady gaze. “Like ownership matters more to you than laws do out here.” A slow silence stretched between them, and Buck leaned closer. He sat close enough that she could smell winter and smoke and whiskey clinging to his skin again.
“Out here,” he said roughly, “ownership’s the only thing keeping people alive.” The words settled heavily between them. Wren should’ve pushed back. She should’ve argued; instead, her eyes dropped briefly to his mouth, which was a big mistake because Buck seemed to notice instantly. The air changed around them, and her heartbeat stumbled hard when his gaze darkened.
“Wren,” he said quietly. It was just her name, but the way he said it made her body feel warm despite the freezing cold outside. A loud whistle shattered the moment, and both of them jerked apart. Ghost stood near the kitchen entrance holding two beers with the most obnoxious grin she’d ever seen.
“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” he drawled. Buck looked murderous, but Ghost ignored him completely as he walked over and handed one beer to Wren. “Thought you might need this after seeing our VP turn into a caveman over you all day.”
“I’m not—” Buck started.
“Protective?” Ghost interrupted. “Obsessed? One bad decision away from throwing her over your shoulder?” He smirked at Wren. “Take your pick.” Heat flooded her cheeks instantly. Buck looked ready to commit homicide, but Ghost just laughed and dropped into the chair across from them again like he had a death wish.
Then his expression shifted into something serious. “We got another problem.”
Buck’s attention snapped toward him immediately. “What kind of problem?” he asked.
“One of our southern contacts checked in.” Ghost tossed a folded paper onto the table. “The Vultures aren’t operating alone.” Buck unfolded the paper carefully. Wren watched the exact moment his expression hardened further.
“What is it?” she asked quietly. Buck didn’t answer right away. Instead, he slid the paper across the table toward her. Wren looked down, and her blood turned cold instantly. It was a photograph of her that had to have been taken yesterday. She was standing beside Buck’s bike outside the clubhouse gates. Someone had been watching them long before the attack. Scrawled across the bottom in black marker were three words that made her stomach drop.
BRING HER SOUTH.
Ghost
Ghost had seen Buck lose control exactly three times in his life. The first time had ended in a six-man bar fight and a broken jaw. The second had left a body floating beneath the ice near Thunder Creek. The third was happening right now, and it had everything to do with the woman sitting beside him.
Buck stared at the photograph in complete silence while the entire clubhouse seemed smart enough not to breathe too loudly around him. That was the thing about Buck—he didn’t explode like most men. He got cold, quiet, and deadly, and that was always worse.
Ghost leaned back in his chair, watching Wren carefully over the rim of his beer bottle. She looked pale now; her fingers curled tightly around the edge of the table while she stared at the picture like it might suddenly change. Poor thing still thought this was temporary. She didn’t understand yet that nobody threatened something belonging to Buck and walked away breathing.
The problem was, Ghost was starting to feel the exact same way about her. That realization should’ve pissed him off; instead, it settled deep in his chest like a slow burn. He likedthe way she argued with them both and the way she looked at Buck without fear and looked at Ghost like she already knew he was trouble but couldn’t stop herself from smiling anyway. Most women flirted with danger until it scared them. Wren walked straight toward it, and Ghost was fucked enough to admire that.
“You sure this came from our southern contact?” Buck asked finally.
Ghost nodded once. “Guy intercepted it outside The Pit in Flinn Flon. Vultures are passing her picture around.”
Wren swallowed hard beside Buck. “Why would they want me alive?”
Ghost and Buck exchanged a look, but neither answered immediately because they both knew exactly why they wanted Wren alive. They wanted leverage. The Vultures had figured out faster than Buck had that the woman sitting beside him mattered now. Not just to Buck, but to Ghost too.
Buck stood abruptly from the table, chair scraping harshly across the floor. “Church. Now,” he growled. Every patched member in the clubhouse moved instantly. Wren blinked as men disappeared toward the back hallway, grabbing weapons and radios on the way. The easy fluidity of it all seemed to unsettle her again. These men followed Buck without hesitation. Not because they feared him, but because they trusted him.
Ghost stood slowly and looked toward Wren. “You should head upstairs.”
“No,” she breathed.
Buck turned to stare her down. “Wren.”
“I’m not hiding in a room while everyone talks about me like I’m cargo,” she insisted. Ghost nearly smiled at that. Jesus Christ, he loved her fire.
Buck pinched the bridge of his nose once like she was giving him a headache. “This isn’t a discussion.”
“Seems like it should be, considering I’m the one in danger,” she spat.
