Page 47 of North’s Claim

I didn’t freeze.

I fought.

And when I walk out, North’s leaning against the wall, arms folded, watching me like he sees every bit of that fire I’m just starting to see in myself.

“Hit anyone?”

“Jude.”

“He still breathing?”

“Regretfully.”

He smirks and pulls me into his side. “Good.”

His hand lingers a little longer. His eyes burn a little deeper.

And for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like prey. I feel like a fucking storm.

Chapter 16

North

The new prospects are giving me a fucking headache. Especially when rumor has it, one of them tried to hit up on Nyxa. Soul told me how proud she was of saying she’s my property. I know why it happened. They don’t see us much together and it’s my fault.

Those kiddos are rookies with loud mouths, twitchy hands, and too much testosterone for their own good. I’ve been drilling rules into them for days, and it still feels like trying to tattoo discipline onto wet concrete. One of them called Maeve a ‘sweet piece’ yesterday when she came for the last update on the sessions with Nyxa. By the time I was done, he couldn’t sit straight. The message was clear: in this club, you respect women, or you bleed.

Between that and the usual shit, the shipments, the security upgrades, the Wolves' latest drama, I’ve barely seen Nyxa.

And yeah, it eats at me, but the hood comes first.

She knows that. She’s seen it. Still, the guilt clings like smoke.

By the time I finally drag my ass back home, it’s past dinner time.

I climb the stairs and unlock the door, expecting silence. She’s usually lost in some book. Instead, I find her on the couch.

The glow from the TV paints her in soft gold. Her knees are tucked to her chest, a blanket draped over her legs. Her eyes are glued to the monitor.

I don’t move.

I just watch.

On the screen, a woman glides across an ice rink, elegant and fierce. She’s spinning, arms slicing the air like a warrior in silk. The announcer says her name: Ashley. Rock’s wife.

Nyxa’s lip trembles.

And something inside me splinters.

I clear my throat, stepping closer. Her head jerks toward me, surprise flashing in her expression before she wipes her cheeks and reaches for the remote, and her eyes—fuck. Red-rimmed. Wet.

“Didn’t know you were home,” she says, voice small.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

She shrugs, trying for casual, but she can’t quite hide it. That ache. That longing.

I nod toward the screen. “She’s good.”