Page 7 of Property of Buck
“Then we’ll talk about that,” he said. She nodded, seeming unafraid, and turned back inside to grab her gear.
Ghost waited until the door clicked shut before speaking. “You’re already breakin’ rules, brother.”
“I make the rules,” Buck muttered. “That’s my job while Gorgon isn’t here, remember?”
“Not this time.” Ghost’s smile was slow and knowing. “You just don’t see it yet, but you’re in over your head, Buck.” Buck watched Wren’s shadow move past the frosted window, small but certain. She was the kind of person who didn’t yet understand how far the north could reach inside you and never let go. He told himself this was temporary, just logistics—getting her through the snow and then sending her home. But somewhere deep in the quiet morning, the truth settled heavier than frost. He wasn’t sure if he wanted her to leave anymore.
The ride out to the river should’ve been peaceful. Instead, Buck could feel her everywhere. Wren sat behind him on the bike,tense at first, her gloved hands hovering near his sides like she didn’t know where she was allowed to touch. The second they hit the ice-covered logging road and the back tire slid sideways, she grabbed onto him hard and held on for dear life.
He felt every inch of her, too, while her body was pressed against his back, thighs tight against his hips, fingers curled into his kutte as though she trusted him not to let her fall. It did something ugly to his head. Something akin to making him possessive.
The north stretched around them in endless white and dark pine. Snow kicked up behind the tires while the frozen river glimmered between the trees like broken glass. The cold usually cleared Buck’s thoughts, but not today. Today, all he could think about was the warmth of the woman clinging to him from behind.
He shouldn’t have brought her. Ghost had made that clear enough with the look he’d given Buck before they left. Like he already knew this was a mistake. Like he could see the cracks forming before Buck did. Maybe he was right.
Wren wasn’t built for this world. She belonged somewhere with heated sidewalks, coffee shops, and people who followed laws instead of making them. But every time Buck looked at her, she dug herself deeper under his skin.
“You okay back there?” he called over the engine.
“I think my fingers are frozen off,” she shouted back.
Buck smirked despite himself. “That’s the spirit.”
“I hate you a little right now,” she shouted.
“Get in line. There are a lot of people already ahead of you, honey,” he said. Her laugh surprised him. It was soft and quick, carried off by the wind, but it hit him square in the chest anyway. He couldn’t remember the last time laughter sounded normal around him. Most days, the clubhouse lived on tension, old violence, and men pretending they weren’t carrying ghosts ontheir backs. But Wren sounded alive when she laughed, and that was dangerous.
The trail narrowed as they pushed deeper into the reserve. Snow-covered branches scraped against Buck’s shoulders while the bike growled beneath them. He knew these woods better than he knew most people. Every frozen creek, every hidden trail, and every place a body could disappear.
When he finally slowed near the riverbank, Wren climbed off behind him carefully, her boots crunching into the snow. “Oh my God,” she whispered. Buck followed her gaze. A wolf lay half-buried near the tree line. Its gray fur was stained red around the steel trap clamped onto its front leg. Frost coated its muzzle. It had been dead a long time if he had to guess.
“Fuck,” Buck muttered. Wren was already moving before he could stop her. She dropped to her knees beside the animal, carefully brushing snow away with shaking hands. Her face tightened as she examined the trap.
“This isn’t for food,” she said quietly. “It’s cruelty.” Buck crouched beside her, scanning the trees automatically out of instinct. Old habits were hard to break when it came to survival in these parts.
“Can you tell how long it’s been here?” he asked.
“Maybe two days.” Anger sharpened her voice. “Maybe less.” Buck’s jaw clenched. The Kings didn’t hunt wolves. Hell, most of them respected the animals more than they respected people. Wolves survived brutal winters, protected their own, and killed only when necessary. That meant something out here. Which meant somebody was sending a message.
Wren pointed toward the trap. “This isn’t standard issue. Look at the markings.” Buck leaned closer. A symbol had been carved into the metal. A circle with three slashes through it. Recognition hit instantly, and his stomach dropped.
“What?” Wren asked, catching the shift in his expression.
Buck stood slowly. “We need to go.”
“Buck—”
“Now,” he shouted, cutting her off. She rose immediately, seeming to read the danger in his tone. The woods had gone too quiet. The birds weren’t making any noise, and there was no wind through the trees—just silence.
Buck reached beneath his kutte and pulled his handgun free. Wren’s eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t panic. He felt pride over that, which he had no right to feel. The thought came out of nowhere and nearly pissed him off.
A twig snapped somewhere behind them, and Buck turned to find three men stepping out from the trees. They were dressed in snow camo, holding rifles, and their faces were hidden beneath masks. They weren’t locals, not hunters, and definitely not fucking tourists.
“Well,” one of them drawled, voice muffled beneath his face covering. “Look what wandered into our territory.” Buck moved slightly in front of Wren without thinking. The rifle nearest to him shifted toward her, and everything inside him went cold.
“You’re trespassing,” Buck said evenly.
The man laughed. “Funny, we were gonna say the same thing to you.” Wren’s fingers curled around the back of Buck’s jacket. Fear finally radiated off her in waves, but she stayed silent. Buck counted steps between them, automatically. They had three rifles, and he only had one woman to protect, and the snow was too deep to outrun bullets. His odds weren’t ideal, but he had been in worse situations.
