Page 17 of North’s Claim

I nod.

“Say it.”

“Got it,” I whisper.

His jaw ticks. “Louder.”

“Got it,” I say again, stronger this time.

“Rule three: get used to me barking. I talk loud, I move fast. But I won’t lay a hand on you. Ever. You flinch at me again, and I’ll start yelling just to prove the point.”

My heart thuds. I want to believe him but Myka shoving me through a wall was a routine.

“Around here,” North continues, stepping closer but not enough to touch, “women are part of the family. All of them.”

My mouth goes dry. I know what Myka told me. The women they love might be safe, but candies? Candies are free game.

“You take care of yourself here: eat, speak, move. The house is yours as much as mine. You want music? Play it. You want to clean, fine. You want to sleep? Do it. But you don’t hide in corners. Not in my home.”

I feel smaller by the second. Like a kid being handed a gift she doesn't understand.

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “You can walk anywhere around the block, the clubhouse, whatever. But don’t leave the hood. Not without a patched member. Ravell’s safe, but I’m not gonna hunt for you through alleys because you got turned around.”

Fear slices down my spine. Even now, even here, I’m not safe to walk alone but something in his tone, it’s not about locking me in. It’s about keeping me in one piece.

His phone buzzes. He checks the screen, face tightens, and without another word, he walks out the door.

And I’m alone again, only this time, the silence doesn’t feel empty. It feels like the beginning of something.

Chapter 7

North

The moment the door clicks behind me, I storm across the lot and march straight into the office.

Tornado, Iron, and Colt are already inside. Cutter’s just behind me, Soul steps in last, shutting the door.

They know I’m not in the mood for bullshit.

“She settled?” Tornado asks.

I don’t answer. I just glare.

“Right,” he mutters. “Soul ran the tech sweep. Cutter pulled what he could from medical. Here's what we got.”

Soul steps forward, scrolling his phone. “Name she gave us—Elizabeth Nyxa Monterall. Turns out that part’s legit. She was born in Indiana, 22 years. School records check out. Smart as hell. Straight-A student. Dance school, awards, top of her class.” He lifts a brow. “Girl was destined for some kind of stage.”

Cutter speaks next. “Her dad passed away when she was fifteen. After that, grades dropped. ER records show a broken forearm at sixteen, some cracked ribs. Couple stitches. Appendectomy a year later. After that? Nothing. No medical, no credit, no trace until a coma admission showed up in Chicago.”

I narrow my eyes. “The coma. When did it happen?”

“Eleven months, give or take a few days. No follow-up, no physical rehab. She checked herself out and vanished again.”

That means she’s been with the Wolves long enough to be worn down. Long enough for the shit to dig in deep.

“She’s not in withdrawal,” I mutter.

Cutter nods. “Which means she either didn’t get the heavy dose daily, or she purged. You said she puked before and after the charcoal? She might’ve done that every time it hit her system. Might’ve been instinct, might’ve been her way of fighting it.”