Page 3 of Wade’s Wrath

Harlow’s pulse pounded violently as the deadbolt strained again before Frank shouted through the door. “You have no idea who you’re protecting.” His deep voice rolled through the bar quietly and cold enough to make chills spread across Harlow’s skin.

“You got no idea where the fuck you are,” Wade growled, opening the door with his gun pointed at Frank’s face. “But I think that it’s time for you to leave. The lady doesn’t want to marry you. Accept defeat and walk away while you still can.” Harlow looked between the two of them, not sure that she had even so much as taken a breath in the last five minutes.

Frank looked past Wade at her and smiled, making her skin crawl. She hated it when he smiled at her like that because it usually meant that he was about to hurt her. “This isn’t over, Harlow,” he spat, looking back at Wade. “Let’s go,” he said to his men. She didn’t let out the breath that she had been holding until he drove away. She knew that she wasn’t safe, not by a long shot, but she was still standing, and that was all that mattered right now.

“Problem solved,” one of the bikers said from the back corner.

“No,” she whispered, “it’s only getting started.”

WADE

“No,” Harlow whispered. “It’s only getting started.” Wade believed her. He stood in the open doorway of his bar, watching the taillights of the last black SUV disappear through the rain. He didn’t lower his gun until they were completely out of sight. Then he shut the door and threw the deadbolt.

“Curtis,” Wade shouted.

“Yeah?” Curtis asked.

“Kill the outside lights,” Wade ordered. The prospect moved without asking why. The neon sign in the front window went dark first, followed by the lights over the parking lot. Wade’s Watering Hole disappeared into the rainy Alabama night, leaving only the dim glow from behind the bar.

“Check the back,” Wade ordered. “Make sure nobody stayed behind.”

“On it,” Curtis said.

Harlow was still standing exactly where he’d left her—wet, shivering, scared out of her fucking mind, and staring at the door like she expected Frank to come crashing through it any second. Wade shoved his gun into the back of his jeans and walked toward her.

“He’s gone,” he assured.

“For now,” she breathed.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

Her eyes snapped to his. “You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me,” he said. She opened her mouth, and nothing came out. Wade waited because he was good at waiting. People tended to fill silence when it got uncomfortable enough. It was something he’d learned years ago and had used behind the bar more times than he could count.

Harlow was apparently better at silence than most. Unfortunately for her, Wade had all fucking night. He crossed his arms over his chest, and she finally sighed. “Frank doesn’t lose.”

“Everybody loses eventually,” Wade insisted.

“You don’t know him,” Harlow said. He had a feeling that he didn’t want to know Frank at all.

“You keep saying that,” he pointed out.

“Because it’s true,” she said.

“And you don’t know me,” Wade said. That seemed to shut her up. Wade stared down at her. She was trying damn hard to hold herself together. He’d give her that. But he could see the cracks forming. Her hands trembled, her teeth were beginning to chatter, and there was dried blood on her wrist and another smear near the elbow of the hoodie. Her makeup was a mess, and the expensive white dress she wore looked like she’d dragged it through half the state.

But underneath all that—she was fucking beautiful. Wade didn’t particularly appreciate noticing that right now. Her eyes were pale blue and seemed too damn big for her face. Her wet blonde hair fell in tangled waves over her shoulders, and her bottom lip trembled slightly every time she glanced toward the door. Wade dragged his attention away from her mouth. Fuck.

“Did he do that?” he asked, noticing the bruises on her wrist.

Her brows pulled together. “Do what?”

Wade pointed toward her wrist, and she immediately pulled her sleeve down. That was his answer. Something ugly stirred inside him. He’d never understood men who hit women. Wade had done plenty of bad shit in his life. He wasn’t going to pretend otherwise. He’d broken bones. Put men in the hospital. Helped the club handle problems that would earn him a permanent room in a federal prison if anyone ever managed to prove half of it. But there were lines—there were always fucking lines.

“Did Frank do that to you?” he asked again.

“It doesn’t matter,” she insisted, still fidgeting with her sleeve.