Page 33 of Bad Blood Wolf

Brody turned to see an enormous man padding down the curved staircase. He wore only a pair of jeans—sort of. There seemed to be more rips than fabric, and large expanses of skin were showing through. His tangle of black dreadlocks was wild and unkempt, and his alpha presence rolled out before him.

Holy fuck, this guy had more alpha in his little finger than the Nashville pack’s whole leadership team, alpha and lieutenants combined.

Jasmin’s face went still, but she kept her fingers in his belt loop. “Flynn, this is Brody Jameson. Brody, this is Flynn, our alpha. Brody’s from the Nashville pack,” she added.

“Not from the evil murdering douchebag part, though,” Xander said. “He says he’s one of Donnie’s guys.”

Flynn looked him over. His eyes were dark brown—almost black—filled with cool calculation and formidable intelligence.

“I thought all Donnie’s people moved to Idaho.”

“I didn’t go,” Brody said. “Personal reasons.”

Flynn just held him in that steady gaze. Brody felt like a butterfly pinned to a board.

Then he turned his gaze to Jasmin. “Where’s my truck?”

“Parking lot, Mad River Road House,” she said. “You need it? I was going to go over later and get it.”

Flynn shook his head. “Later’s fine.” He went over to the coffee pot, which was still filling. He picked up a mug and swapped it with the pot, letting the coffee drip straight into it, and then poured more coffee from the partly filled pot into the mug. He swapped them back.

“So, Brody,” he said. “You ever been on Tinder?”

What?

Jasmin gave a muffled snort, patted Brody’s ass and went back to cooking.

“Um, no,” Brody said.

“I heard you’re supposed to wear pants on dates.”

Ooookay. If this was a test, it was the weirdest one he’d ever heard of.

Brody considered. “I doubt that’s in the Terms of Service. And isn’t the whole point of a hookup app to end up not wearing pants?”

Flynn nodded. “My thoughts exactly.”

He added cream to his coffee and said, “Don’t fuck with my crew, or I’ll kill you.” He wandered out.