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I drove up to the entrance of their clubhouse. The gates were closed; they were always closed, and the huge chain-link fence butted up against an old brick building, a dive bar, one of the two businesses they owned and operated. The other was a garage. The bar was shut for the day and would open later. The garage beside it was fairly busy, the wide roller doors up, several hellhounds inside working on cars and bikes for the unsuspecting people of the town.

Only invited guests of the hellhounds were allowed past those imposing iron gates and into their clubhouse. Except me. I could come and go as I pleased. Warrick’s orders. Not that I took him up on the offer all that often. The male had staked some claim over me more than a year ago, for some reason known only to him, and I didn’t think encouraging him was wise.

I didn’t belong to anyone.

We hadn’t dated…if hellhounds even did date, and we sure as heck hadn’t slept together, so I wasn’t sure why he was so possessive of me. He’d told me we had a special bond, whatever the hell that meant.

Being around the guy unnerved me. He was overwhelming, and kind of terrifying at times. He was blunt and rude and demanding. He was also the sexiest male I had ever encountered. He took that rough around the edges thing some males had and cranked it all the way up to high. I won’t lie, it worked. Oh, he pissed me off more than anyone else in existence, but yeah, it seriously worked for him.

And unfortunately for me, he’d been the one to come to my rescue—more than once. He knew I could take care of myself, he just didn’t seem to care, and for some reason, had appointed himself my personal bodyguard.

Dragging in a steadying breath, I shored up my defenses and climbed out of my Morris Minor truck. It may be old, the blue paint faded and chipped, but I took good care of her. I’d had a few modifications done over the years—a bigger, faster engine, for one. It had once belonged to Gran, and she’d given it to me when I got my driver’s license. I loved it, even when occasionally it wouldn’t start on cold mornings.

Fender, one of the lower-ranking hellhounds, was working on his bike next to the clubhouse and spotted me first. I waved, and he straightened and slowly cleaned the grease from his hands before finally swaggering my way. He had long hair and a beard, like most of the hounds seemed to, was well over six and a half feet, and exuded cockiness and aggression with every breath, which was also something they seemed to have in common. Fender’s hair was a deep red and his eyes were light amber.

They studied me as he gripped the chain-link with thick fingers. “What you doing here, Wills?”

“I need to speak with your alpha,” I said and plastered a smile on my face.

“War’s busy at the moment.”

War was a fitting nickname for the hellhound alpha. The way he fought, the male was a one-male army, or maybe a tank. “I’m sure he’ll want to see me.”

Fender’s lips twisted. He was not pleased. “You should go.”

This was new. They always let me right in. “Did Warrick ask you to turn me away?”

He shook his head.

“He’ll be pissed if he finds out I came here and you told me to leave.”

Fender growled under his breath. Then, after long seconds, he finally unchained the gate and motioned for me to come in.

The fact I’d turned down their alpha was obviously becoming a sore spot. Great, that’s all I needed. More hellhounds pissed at me.

I drove through the gates and up to the clubhouse, parking beside the long line of bikes. To people living in Linville, the place looked like a human motorcycle club. It worked for them. They had a hierarchy, a roughness, and most definitely a lawlessness that suited that whole vibe. They also loved bikes. Hounds like the wind blowing through all that hair—they preferred that in their hellhound forms, on all fours, running through the woods—but riding a bike was the next best thing, or so I’d been told.

There were other hounds milling around and music was playing. The clubhouse, or den as Warrick sometimes called it, was an old factory and had their MC name, the Devil Dogs, painted on the side.

The music got louder.

Awesome.

They were having a party.

I strode through the doors and braced. Anything could be happening in the main room when they partied. Fucking, fighting…fucking and fighting. I’d seen it all. Things I wished I could unsee but were now imprinted on my brain forever.

I tried not to look into the dark corners, but there were several human females around the room, wearing little to nothing. No sign of Warrick, though, and the guy was hard to miss. He was the tallest of the hellhounds and radiated so much menace and violence he set off my fight-or-flight instincts whenever we were in the same room.

Without my say-so, an imprint of the way he held me after I’d been hurt a year ago had my skin tingling like a phantom caress, something else that often happened when we were together. He’d carried me away from the fear, from the guilt, from the scene of my failure, promising to protect me from ever being hurt again. That menace, that incredible violence that rolled off him, it’d made me feel safe then. And I’d needed that more than anything.

I didn’t need it anymore, though.

You sure about that?

I shut that voice down even as my belly gripped tight at the memory and the urge to run the hell out became almost more than I could resist.

Maybe I wouldn’t even have to see him? Lothar leaned against the wall, drinking a beer and surveying the room, seemingly oblivious to the woman clinging to him and all but dry humping his thigh. Lovely.