Zara
For me, home isn’t soft. It’s loud, rough-edged, full of men who take up space without apology and speak without filtering anything. It’s also honest in a way that the Night Howlers never were for me, and as Mayhem and I walk into the Grinning Skulls clubhouse – the scent of whiskey, leather, and wood settling around me like something known – I feel the difference immediately.
“Well, well, well. Look who finally remembered where the hell she belongs.”
The voice comes from my left, deep and familiar, and I don’t even have to look to know who it is.
“Nice to see you too, Brick,” I call over to him, as Mayhem helps me out of my coat.
Brick Taylor pushes off the wall, all muscle and scars, the kind of man who looks like he was built for violence but never wastes it unless it matters.
