The Mate They Stole

There were two kinds of wolves in this world, and everyone knew which side of the line they stood on. The first belonged to packs. Traditional packs had existed longer than anyone could remember. They held territory, maintained bloodlines, followed rank, and answered to an Alpha whose authority reached into nearly every part of pack life. Some Alphas inherited their position. Others challenged for it. A strong pack could control towns, businesses, stretches of forest, and enough political influence to make human authorities look the other way when something went wrong inside wolf territory. Pack wolves liked rules. They liked knowing where everyone belonged. Alpha. Luna. Heir. Beta. Enforcers. Families beneath them. The system was old, sometimes rigid, and powerful enough that most wolves never considered living any other way. Then there were the wolves who rode. Motorcycle clubs had begun as places for lone wolves who no longer belonged anywhere else. Some had lost their packs. Some had been expelled. Some walked away voluntarily after deciding they would rather live without an Alpha than spend the rest of their lives bowing to one. Others were simply born into MC families and never wanted traditional pack life in the first place. Over time, those clubs became something larger. They claimed roads instead of forests. Clubhouses instead of pack estates. Cuts replaced rank insignia. Presidents, vice presidents, sergeants-at-arms, and road captains held authority instead of Alphas and Betas. Their loyalty was chosen rather than inherited, and once a wolf earned a patch, the men and women wearing the same colors became family. Traditional packs called them rogues when they wanted to insult them. The clubs called themselves free. There were dozens scattered across the country, some legitimate enough to own garages, bars, trucking companies, construction firms, and custom bike shops. Others made their money through weapons, stolen goods, protection, underground fights, smuggling, and businesses no pack Alpha would publicly admit to using. Some MCs worked peacefully beside pack territories. Some were barely tolerated. Some were feared. Dead Reckoning MC belonged in the last category. The club had grown from a handful of wolves into one of the strongest wolf MCs on the road. Their members came from everywhere: destroyed packs, abusive packs, families they had abandoned, territories that no longer wanted them. Dead Reckoning didn’t ask where a wolf had been born before allowing them to prove where they belonged. They had rules, though outsiders rarely understood that. You didn’t betray the club. You didn’t touch another member’s family or bring trouble to their door without being prepared for what came after. Dead Reckoning protected its people with the same brutality traditional Alphas protected their packs, except there was no bloodline binding them together. There was only loyalty. At the center of it were four brothers. Roman, Cole, Beck, and Knox Maddox had been pack-born once. Their parents died during an attack when the brothers were younger, and although the pack survived, something inside the Maddox boys didn’t. The place that had been home while their parents lived became only territory after they were gone. Eventually, all four left. They found motorcycles before they found another place to belong. Years later, Roman wore the President patch of Dead Reckoning MC. Cole sat at his right hand as Vice President. Beck served as Sergeant-at-Arms, and Knox rode as Road Captain. They were dominant wolves, dangerous men, and biological brothers who had somehow managed to build a life where four males of their strength lived side by side without attempting to tear each other apart. Traditional pack wolves considered that strange enough. The fact that the Maddox brothers answered to no Alpha made them worse. Dead Reckoning was not the only MC with a reputation. There had once been another. Blacktop Wolves MC had been older, crueler, and far more interested in power than family. Where Dead Reckoning gathered wolves who needed somewhere to belong, Blacktop Wolves gathered wolves who believed strength entitled them to take whatever they could hold. Territory. Money. Businesses. Women. Loyalty. Years ago, the two clubs went to war. People still told stories about it. Businesses burned. Wolves disappeared. Bodies were found along roads claimed by both clubs. By the time the violence ended, Blacktop Wolves had been broken badly enough that most wolves assumed the club was finished. Their leadership was dead, their remaining members scattered, and their colors vanished from the highways. Dead Reckoning survived. Eventually, people stopped looking for Blacktop Wolves patches. That didn’t mean everyone forgot them. Traditional packs never forgot threats. Especially Bran Pack. Bran was one of the old packs, wealthy enough to be respected and strong enough that neighboring Alphas thought carefully before provoking it. Its territory had been controlled by the Rowan family for generations, and its current Alpha had spent years making sure nobody questioned whether that would continue. Alpha Beckham Rowan wasn’t universally liked. He was, however, universally known. There were Alphas who ruled through diplomacy, affection, and who spent their lives ensuring the wolves beneath them never had reason to fear them. Beckham Rowan had never cared about being loved by outsiders. He cared about Bran Pack. He cared about its borders, its wolves, its businesses, and its strength. He had fought challengers, destroyed enemies, ended alliances when they stopped benefiting his people, and made decisions that other Alphas still discussed behind closed doors. Some called him ruthless. Others called him a bastard. Nobody called him weak. Beckham had built a reputation powerful enough that wolves who hated him still respected his territory. More than one enemy had discovered too late that threatening something Beckham considered his was a good way to shorten a life expectancy. And there was nothing in the world Beckham Rowan considered more his to protect than his eldest daughter. Maeve Rowan was twenty-six, beautiful enough that pack gatherings tended to notice when she entered a room, and outgoing enough that she usually noticed everyone right back. She had long blonde hair threaded with pink, bright blue eyes, expensive taste she made no effort to apologize for, and an ability to charm people that had very little to do with her father’s rank. She was sweet because she wanted to be but she wasn’t soft because she had to be. Maeve had grown up surrounded by dominant wolves. Her father’s authority didn’t frighten her the way it frightened everyone else, partly because she had known him as Dad long before she understood what being an Alpha meant. She argued with him, ignored him when he became unreasonable, and occasionally made decisions specifically because she knew they would irritate him. And it did nothing to reduce the way he adored her. And somewhere outside Bran territory, men wearing Dead Reckoning cuts began planning how to take her.