Chapter 2

Ariana POV:

Two miles down the interstate, my boots crunched onto the gravel lot of a run-down dive bar. The wooden porch carried no club flags—neutral ground where riders from rival packs could drink without drawing blades.

I pushed through the door, walking past the smell of stale beer and sweat straight into the restroom. Standing before a water-stained mirror, I splashed freezing tap water over my face to scrub away the last traces of garage grime.

Heavy footsteps suddenly thudded down the hallway outside, accompanied by the harsh scrape of metal against concrete and the thick copper tang of blood.

My nose twitched. Beneath the blood hung a scorched, bitter stench—burned silver powder, the only metal on earth that could poison a werewolf's blood and stop our healing cold.

The restroom door flew open. A massive shadow nearly filling the doorframe staggered inside and slammed the deadbolt shut.

In the dim yellow light, I saw a man over six-foot-six wearing a heavy black leather jacket with no Patch stitched on the back. Dark red blood soaked the front of his shirt. He leaned against the wood, his ragged breathing rumbling like a dying V8 engine, while cold gray eyes glared out from the shadows with terrifying ferocity.

Footsteps pounded down the hall outside, followed by a muffled curse. "He took a silver round! He couldn't have gone far—check every stall!"

The giant turned his head, locking his gaze on me. Before I could step back, his rough hand shot out, clamped over my mouth, and dragged me into the narrowest stall at the end of the row.

His palm burned against my skin, carrying the sharp scent of gunsmoke and wild cedarwood—an aggressive male scent completely different from Cleon's.

"Not a sound," he rasped against my ear, his voice like sandpaper over leather, his knuckles white from the agony in his chest.

Outside our stall, a boot kicked open the neighboring door with a loud bang. The reek of silver blades drifted closer. The man's chest heaved, his blood scent thickening in the cramped air. If the hunters smelled his wound, we were both dead in seconds.

My eyes caught the tight line of his jaw and a jagged, silvery-black scar peeking from his open collar—the mark of an old silver burn. An inexplicable urge to protect him surged in my chest.

I had seen that scar before. Years ago, when I was still a scrawny kid hanging around the Iron Claws' garage, a stranger had walked through the compound with a silver burn on his collar, and he had been the only one who'd looked at me like I was a person instead of a stray. I never learned his name. But the scar stayed with me.

I had no weapon, no time, and no way out. The only thing that could mask the copper smell of his blood was my own scent—and the only way to make that scent strong enough was skin contact. A kiss was the fastest, crudest way to flood the air with it.

I grabbed the leather lapels of his jacket, rose onto my toes, and pressed my mouth hard against his cold, cracked lips.

His massive frame went rigid. A low, dangerous growl vibrated in his throat as his hands came up to shove me away.

I bit my lip and held on tighter, releasing every trace of my soft Omega scent to wrap around him like a shield, masking the copper smell of his blood.

He froze for a fraction of a second, then lowered his raised arms. Instead of pushing me off, his heavy arm hooked around my waist, pinning me flush against the stall door. His tongue, tasting of whiskey and iron, parted my lips and took total control of the kiss.

Heavy boots stopped right outside our door. Dark shadows stretched across the wet tiles beneath the gap.

The man cupped the back of my skull with his wide palm, tilting my head deeper into the kiss while his scorching body heat soaked through my jacket.

"Damn it, just a pair of stray dogs in heat," a hunter spat in disgust outside. "Check the back alley!"

Their footsteps faded until the back door slammed shut. Only then did the man slowly release my mouth, his deep gray eyes swirling with a dark, unreadable heat.

Suddenly, his tall frame swayed. He slid down the stall door and slumped onto the closed toilet lid, the silver poison eating through his nerves.

I snapped open my mother's wooden medical box, pulled out a copper needle—never silver—and pricked the tip of my index finger. As a hidden White Wolf healer, my blood carried a rare purification power that could burn out silver toxin, so long as I gave it willingly.

I pressed my bleeding fingertip, glowing with a faint aurora light, along the blackened edge of his chest wound. The scorched stench of silver hissed and faded.

His gray eyes snapped wide open, locking onto the faint light on my finger with a fierce, possessive intensity.

"You..." Before he could finish, the deep roar of multiple heavy motorcycle engines shook the walls outside, surrounding the bar.

Thinking the hunters had brought reinforcements, I closed my medical box, slid the stall latch open, and bolted for the back window.

"Gomez. Remember the price of saving me."

His rasping voice stopped me for half a heartbeat, and before I could turn around, his rough hand shoved something heavy into my right pocket.

Then his heavy gaze burned into my spine until I vanished into the night.