“No, you’re trying to make trouble,” Buck countered. “Same as always.” Their exchange had the easy rhythm of old loyalty—and maybe even old rivalry, if she wasn’t mistaken. Wren saw iteven in the silence, the way neither man needed to raise his voice to challenge the other.
When Buck looked at her again, the decision was already made. “There are some rooms upstairs. You can take the first one on the right. You’ll be safe here tonight.” There it was again—safe. It didn’t sound like comfort when he said it; it sounded more like an order.
“I don’t want special treatment,” Wren said. “I’ll leave at first light. Just tell me which way’s south.”
“That’s not happening.” Buck pushed off the desk, taking a slow step closer. “The roads will be glass in an hour. You drive on them, and I’ll be digging your car out of a ravine by morning.”
Her shoulders tightened, but she nodded. She knew he was right. The way the storm had looked on her climb up the hill—it wasn’t letting anyone out of Manitoba tonight. Still, the thought of sleeping above men whose eyes had followed her like she was their prey was far from comforting.
Buck must’ve read the hesitation on her face because his next words softened, just a fraction. “No one will touch you. They might look, they might talk about you, but they know better. You’ve got my word.” Somehow, she didn’t doubt he could enforce it.
He reached past her to grab a key from a hook on the wall. His arm brushed her shoulder, his heat bleeding through her jacket, grounding her in a way she didn’t want to admit. The sight of his hand—broad, scarred, steady—made something tight settle in her chest she couldn’t quite name.
“Here.” He pressed the key into her palm. “Rooms are on the second floor. Go right at the top of the stairs.”
“Thank you,” she said quietly, meaning it more than she intended to.
Ghost stood aside as she walked toward the door, a smirk still half-formed on his face. “Sleep tight, Wren.” Buck’s glarewarned him off before she even reached the hallway, but Ghost just gave one of those amused huffs that said he liked crossing lines for sport.
Upstairs, the floorboards groaned under her boots. The narrow hallway smelled like cedar and smoke. Her room was small—barely containing a twin bed, a dresser, a single lamp whose shade leaned to one side—but it was warm, and the window framed the storm screaming across the frozen land.
She set her satchel down and finally let her breath out. In the quiet, the sounds from below rose—the hum of voices, country music, men laughing, and the metallic clink of bottles. Somewhere in that noise, she could pick out their voices: Buck’s low, steady rhythm and Ghost’s sharper tone threading through it. They were arguing, or talking, or both. It was hard to tell.
Wren toed off her boots and sat on the edge of the bed. Her legs ached from driving, and her mind wouldn’t stop circling the events of the past hour. The man who had promised to guide her to find the poachers was dead. Outlaws seemed to have more power than the law out here—and that was dangerous. She currently sat in a house full of men who answered to loyalty, not jurisdiction.
And Buck—the way he stood between her and danger, like it wasn’t a question. There was protectiveness in him, yes, but also something territorial. As if once she walked through that door, she’d crossed a line she couldn’t go back over.
She rubbed her arms, listening to the storm press against the windows. Her breath pooled in small, fogged circles on the glass as she whispered to herself, “Just one night.” But deep down, she already knew that she was lying to herself.
Ghost
The storm pounded the metal roof like it wanted to tear the place down. The wind howled through the cracks in the siding, snow scraping across the windows like claws. Inside, the heat from the stove was heavy, tinged with whiskey and smoke. A night made for confessions, or for fights—maybe both.
Ghost sat at the bar, spinning his half-empty glass slowly between his fingers. The whiskey was cheap, but it burned high and clean in his chest as he swallowed it down. He preferred that kind of pain these days—the kind he could measure in ounces.
He watched Buck pace the length of the room, unhurried but restless, every movement tight with thought. Typical Buck—stillness in motion. Always holding something back, and a part of Ghost wanted to figure out what that was exactly.
He had known the man for years now and trusted him with his life. Hell, Buck was his brother, but a part of him wanted so much more with him. The problem was, Ghost had learned a long time ago to keep that part of himself a secret. Wanting to be with both a man and a woman wasn’t readily accepted in biker clubs. The Kings of Anarchy was one of the first clubs that he’d been in that seemed to accept everyone—no matter what. So the question was—why was he still being such a chicken? He had afeeling that the answer to his question was currently packing the floor in front of him.
“Is she asleep?” Ghost finally asked when he couldn’t take Buck pacing any longer.
Buck didn’t look at him. “No idea,” he lied. Ghost could tell that his friend was keeping a close eye on their visitor.
“Probably scared shitless. Can’t say I blame her. Not exactly the Four Seasons we got here.”
When Buck didn’t respond, Ghost smirked. “You got that look on your face again, brother.”
“What look?” Buck asked.
“The one that says you’ve already decided to fix something that ain’t yours to fix,” Ghost assessed.
Buck shot him a flat, unimpressed glance. “She was half-frozen out there, and going out on those roads is suicide. I had no choice but to insist that she stay the night. You’d have done the same.”
Ghost knocked back the rest of his drink. “Maybe, but I wouldn’t be pacing like a man bit by his own conscience after.”
Buck ignored the jab, grabbed the bottle, and poured himself another without spilling a drop. He was always so neat and measured.
“Is she really with the government?” Ghost asked, lighting a cigarette.