Shirley
The night air buzzed with adrenaline and engine smoke, the steady rumble of bikes drowning out the quiet unease that had been gnawing at me for days. The rally was supposed to be a reprieve—a show of unity, a reminder to the world that Dante’s pack wasn’t crumbling under pressure. Banners with the wolf’s head insignia flapped in the wind. Music blasted. Laughter, clinking beer bottles, and howls filled the open lot.
I tried to soak it in, tried to let the noise mask the hollow ache in my chest. Dante’s arm was draped across my shoulders, heavy and protective, though his sharp eyes never stopped scanning the crowd. He was always like that—half-present, half-calculating threats.
“Smile a little,” he murmured against my temple. “The pack needs to see you looking strong.”
I forced
