Divorcing My Ruthless Biker Alpha Mate

lynn

y biker boots thundered up the steps. Patched riders and prospects poured in

e shoving crowd, her voice tight with wor

er wearing a Gamma patch-the pack's third-tier enforcers who handle h

ll the mob split down the middle, and every wolf in the hall dropped his chin, angling his throat away, yielding the path to their Alpha President out

st the cold brick wall at the bottom landing and watched Colt's j

nto my shoulder. My boot slipped off the bottom step, and I pitched sid

bing nothing, and my right knee slammed hard

skin down my shin. Warm blood gushed out instantly, sending a wave of naus

n the concrete floor as the thick, metall

of smell is sharper than a hunting hound's. Fresh blo

less than three paces away. His hea

half an inch toward my shadow against the wall. H

hetic moan against his collar.

ot slow his stride. He kicked open the heavy iron door to Doc's undergro

obody looked twice at a wolfless mechanic bleeding in the dirt. In a s

o her knees beside me and dug a folded cotton handkerchief

bit down hard on my lower lip, my mou

nd away and using the brick wall to haul my

in the center of my chest, a

ked in neat rows across the gravel, their chrome pipes gleaming coldly, with

limped past the grease pit where I rebuilt the pack's engine

s here to lick the cut clean. I uncorked a bottle of cheap a

t my lower lip until I tasted copper on my ton

tied off the ends with shaking fingers, and leaned my damp

ters buzzed overhead. I had lived in the gr

arred wooden workbench and swept a pile of c

ellowed parchment-the traditional contract paper outlaws

o the top of the sheet, writing in steady block le

o my stomach, yet my hand did not shake once. If Colt would n