Chapter 2

Carolynn POV:

The twisted leather collar choked off my windpipe, forcing my chin up as Colt's furious face hovered inches from mine, his hot breath slamming against my skin.

I did not kick or grab at his wrists. I let my weight hang from his fist, locking my clear amber eyes onto his icy blue ones, my voice colder than winter asphalt. "Take your hands off me."

Colt's pupils shrank. The dead stillness in my eyes seemed to burn his skin, and his grip loosened by a fraction of an inch.

I shoved both palms hard against his solid chest, breaking his hold, and stumbled back two steps. Standing straight, I brushed my hands down my wrinkled vest as if wiping off dirty motor oil.

"You heard every word, Havoc," I said, using his road name—the blood-soaked title stitched on his shoulder that every outlaw on the interstate feared—instead of his given name. "Draw up the separation papers. I'll sign them."

Colt's chest heaved. He swung his heavy biker boot and kicked the mahogany coffee table completely over. Glass and ashtrays shattered across the floorboards as he roared like a cornered beast. "In your dreams! Until I say you're done, you belong in this compound for the rest of your life!"

A dry laugh escaped my throat. I turned and grabbed Harper's elbow. "We're leaving."

I walked straight out the doorway without looking back. Cool night air blew in from the stairwell, clearing the heavy cedar scent that was suffocating my lungs.

Heavy boots pounded the wood right behind me. Colt lunged into the corridor, his shadow swallowing mine as a low, feral growl rumbled in his throat, rattling the framed club photos on the wall.

"Carolynn! Stop right there!" he barked, the Alpha command in his voice trying to force my knees to lock.

His massive hand reached out, his fingers less than an inch from my shoulder, when a shrill, ragged scream tore out of the office behind him.

"Ah—Colt! My heart... it's burning!" Jetta's voice cracked, followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor.

Colt froze in mid-stride. His outstretched hand hung in the air behind my back.

I stopped walking and turned my head, watching the panic and hesitation war across his tight jaw.

He only hesitated for half a second. He shot me one brief, conflicted look, then spun on his heel and bolted back into the office like a black hurricane.

I stood in the hallway and watched him drop to his knees beside Jetta, scooping her frail body into his arms.

"Jetta! Hang on! Breathe for me!" Colt's voice shook with a raw, naked terror he had never once wasted on me in two years.

Jetta slumped against his leather vest, her face powdered pale, both hands clutching the dress over her chest. Everyone in the Iron Fangs knew that routine. Two years ago, during a highway ambush, she had taken a silver bullet meant for Colt—the only metal on earth that poisons a werewolf's blood and stops their body from healing. Because of that scar, the whole pack treated her like fragile glass.

As Colt bent his head to check her pulse, Jetta opened her eyes halfway. Looking right over his broad shoulder, she curved her lips into a vicious, triumphant smile meant only for me.

She dug her pale fingernails into the sleeve of Colt's jacket, clinging to him like a lifeline. "Colt... don't leave me alone... I can't breathe..." she whimpered softly, her eyes still glued to my face.

Beside me, Harper sucked in a sharp breath and took a step forward to call out the fake act, but I caught her arm.

"Let her put on her show," I said flatly, my stomach turning sour at the sight. "Faking a dying heart is the only way she knows how to keep him in the room."

Colt did not notice Jetta's eyes at all. He lifted her effortlessly into his arms and bellowed toward the stairs, "Clear the damn hall! Get Doc to open the underground clinic right now!"

Outlaw wolves cannot go to human hospitals where nurses draw blood and ask questions about silver burns, so the pack kept its own trauma room beneath the clubhouse. Colt charged out of the office carrying Jetta, brushing past me so fast the wind from his jacket stung my cheek. He did not spare me a single glance.

The mix of his cedar scent and her cheap floral perfume faded down the stairs. Standing in the empty hallway, I felt a cold, hollow laugh bubble up in my chest.

I had wasted two years of my life losing to a fraud who swallowed black-market stimulants every morning just to make her pulse race for the club doctor.

I let go of Harper's arm and squared my shoulders, turning toward the back stairs that led out to the cramped garage bay where I slept.

If Havoc refused to hand me my freedom, I would write the separation contract myself and slap it on his desk.