Page 2 of Beast (Iron Sentinels MC #4)

B east was in a foul mood. The kind that made men wary, silenced laughter in the clubhouse, and turned casual glances into careful avoidance.

No one said anything about it. Not outright.

They all knew what today was. Five years.

Five goddamn years since Evelyn. Since the accident.

Since the phone call that had gutted him like a dull knife to the ribs.

Some wounds healed. Others festered beneath the surface, turning into something dark and poisonous.

His had festered. He barely heard the details of the meeting with the allied MC. He was there, but only in body. His mind was stuck in the past, in the ghost of a touch that no longer existed, in the sound of a laugh that time had stolen from him.

Gunner, his VP, wasn’t fooled. The bastard had been watching him all day with a sharp, knowing look. By the time the meeting wrapped up, Gunner fell into step beside him, his tone casual but pointed.

“You’re wound tight,” Gunner remarked.

Beast let out a slow breath, lighting a cigarette. “No shit.”

“Maybe you oughta find a way to let off some steam,” Gunner suggested.

Beast exhaled, watching the smoke curl into the night air. He knew what Gunner was getting at. A fight. A drink. A woman. None of it would fix what was broken inside him. None of it would bring back Evelyn.

“I’ll check the warehouses,” he muttered instead.

Gunner arched a brow. “At this hour?”

“It’s quiet,” Beast grumbled.

And he needed quiet.

His MC brother didn’t push, just gave a slow nod. “Just don’t put your fist through another wall.”

Beast didn’t reply. He just swung onto his bike and rode out into the night.

The wind was sharp against his skin, the steady rumble of his Harley the only thing grounding him. He let it drown out everything—the memories, the ache, the restless fire burning in his gut.

By the time he reached the warehouses at the edge of Steelhaven, his mood was no better, but at least it was contained. Or so he thought.

The second he stepped inside the first warehouse, something felt off. The scent hit him first. Soft. Warm. Faintly floral beneath the staleness of dust and concrete.

His body tensed, instincts flaring to life. He reached for his gun, grip steady, heart slow and measured as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting filtering through the high, grimy windows.

Then he saw her. A small figure, curled up on the cold concrete near a stack of crates. Beast froze. She was tiny, damn near swallowed up by the oversized hoodie she wore.

Dark hair spilled over the duffel bag she used as a pillow, her breathing deep, her limbs tucked close, like someone who had learned long ago that sleep was a luxury, not a guarantee.

Beast’s frown deepened. What the hell was she doing here? His first instinct was to wake her up. Demand answers. Remind her that she had no business being here, that club property wasn’t a goddamn homeless shelter.

But he didn’t move. Because something about the way she slept—the sheer exhaustion lining every inch of her—stopped him.

He knew that exhaustion. Knew what it was like to run until your body couldn’t take another step.

Knew what it meant to find whatever hole you could crawl into for just one night of peace. Knew what it meant to be lost.

His grip loosened on his gun. His jaw clenched. This wasn’t his problem. He had enough ghosts clawing at him. Enough weight pressing on his goddamn chest. He didn’t need another stray.

And yet...

For the first time all day, the ache inside him wasn’t just grief. It was something else. Something dangerous. Something he didn’t have a name for yet.

Beast let out a low grunt, rough and unintentional, but it was enough to wake her.

She jolted upright with a sharp inhale, her limbs tangling in the oversized hoodie she wore.

For a split-second, she looked disoriented, lost between sleep and panic.

Then her gaze snapped to his, and wide, frightened blue eyes locked onto him like he was the Devil himself.

Beast felt the impact of that gaze like a goddamn punch to the gut.

She was young. Too young to be sleeping on a cold concrete floor in some abandoned warehouse, looking at him with that wary, fight-or-flight expression. Too young to already have the weight of the world pressing down on her slender shoulders.

Beast tightened the grip on the gun at his side, though he wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t going to use it on her. But the motion must’ve screamed danger to her.

She darted her hand to her pack, fingers fumbling for something—maybe a weapon, maybe just the comfort of having something solid between her and him—but she froze the moment she saw the gun in his hand.

Smart girl. Beast didn’t move. Didn’t need to.

“This is Iron Sentinels MC territory,” he said, his voice low, rough from too many cigarettes and too much whiskey.

She swallowed hard, flicking a glance to his cut, her sharp gaze landing on the patch that marked him as President. Her breath hitched. He caught the slight tremble in her fingers before she curled her hands into fists.

“I’ll leave,” she said, voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. “I don’t want to cause trouble.”

She shivered, and the fabric of her hoodie seemed too thin to Beast to keep out the night chill. But something about the way she said that—like she was used to it, like she’d said it too many times before—made something shift in Beast’s chest.

She reminded him of Evelyn. Not in the way she looked—Ev had been taller, curvier, with a sharp wit and a wicked smile—but in the way she held herself. That stubborn tilt of her chin, the fire in her eyes even though she was clearly exhausted.

Ev had been like that too. A fighter. And now she was gone. Five years in the ground, but the wound still felt fresh, torn open every time he woke up to an empty bed, every time he reached for a ghost that wasn’t there.

Beast exhaled slowly, forcing the memory down, forcing himself to focus on the present. He tucked his gun into the back of his waistband, then jerked his chin toward her.

“What’s your name?” Beast asked.

She hesitated. Like she was debating whether to lie. But then she exhaled and said, “Pixie.”

It suited her.

He crossed his arms. “Why are you here?”

Her gaze flickered toward the entrance, calculating, but she didn’t bolt. “I just got off the bus. Saw the warehouse and figured I could crash here for the night.”

She wasn’t telling him the whole truth. That much was obvious. But the hunger in her eyes, the weariness in her shoulders—those were real. She was just trying to survive.

Cautiously, she asked, “What’s your name?”

“Bennett James,” he said. “But my MC brothers call me Beast.”

Her lips parted slightly. “Why do they call you that?”

His jaw clenched, but he answered honestly. “Because when someone pushes me to the edge, when my enemies threaten those I care about, I become more animal than man.”

He expected her to flinch. Expected her to shrink back, maybe start making excuses to get out of there faster, but she didn’t. Instead, she just nodded, like that answer made perfect sense.

“I’d like someone like that on my side,” she murmured.

That shouldn’t have hit him the way it did. Beast exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. He should walk away. He should tell her this wasn’t a damn shelter.

Instead, he found himself saying, “You can stay.”

She blinked up at him, like she wasn’t sure she’d heard him right.

“No one will disturb you,” he added, his voice coming out rougher than intended.

For a second, something like relief flashed across her face. Then it was gone, swallowed up by wariness and whatever ghosts she carried in those big blue eyes.

But she nodded. “Thanks.”

Beast didn’t answer. He turned and walked out, but damn if he didn’t feel those eyes on his back the whole way.

Beast swung his leg over his Harley, the familiar weight of the machine grounding him. The rumble of the engine vibrated through his chest, a constant reminder that he was still here, still breathing, still moving forward—even on days like this.

Days when the past had a stranglehold on him. Days when the hole Evelyn left in his chest felt like it had been ripped open all over again.

The ride back to the clubhouse was supposed to clear his head. It usually did. The wind, the open road, the raw power beneath him—those things had always been his escape. But not tonight.

Tonight, the restlessness clawed at him. He wasn’t even sure when he made the decision to turn back. One second, he was halfway to the clubhouse, the next, he was gripping the handlebars too damn tight, cutting a sharp U-turn and heading straight back to the warehouse.

It was stupid. Irrational. He had no reason to go back. No reason to care. And yet, there he was, pulling into the same dark lot, his headlight casting long shadows against the warehouse’s steel walls.

He didn’t go inside this time. Didn’t wake her. Didn’t even know what the hell he was doing. Instead, he sat there, watching.

The night was quiet, save for the occasional howl of wind through the abandoned lot. It wasn’t safe out here, not for someone like her—small, alone, vulnerable. He’d seen what happened to people like that. The world had no mercy.

His jaw clenched. Why the hell was he thinking like this? This wasn’t his fight. Wasn’t his problem, but that didn’t stop him from staying.

Beast didn’t sleep. Didn’t even try. Sleep brought dreams, and dreams brought Evelyn. He didn’t want to see her tonight. Not on the anniversary of her death. Not with the weight of another woman’s presence lingering in his head.

Because that was the part that really messed with him. It wasn’t just that Pixie was vulnerable, or that she looked like she’d been through hell. It was the flicker of something familiar.

Not her face, not her body—but the way she curled in on herself, like the weight of the world had beaten her down one too many times. That thought had him gripping the handlebars tighter, his knuckles turning white.

The sun was already creeping over the horizon when he finally moved. Without thinking, he rode into town, stopping at an old diner he’d been going to since before he patched into the Sentinels. It smelled like burnt coffee and grease, but it was familiar. Comforting.

The old lady behind the counter recognized him, but she didn’t ask questions. Just handed him two black coffees and a breakfast sandwich wrapped in wax paper.

He drank his coffee to wake himself up, then rode back.

When he reached the warehouse again, he expected her to be gone.

Maybe it would’ve been better that way, but she was still there.

Beast found her crouched beside her pack, rummaging through her things with the kind of tense, focused energy that told him she was used to running. Ready to leave at a moment’s notice.

He stepped inside, his boots echoing against the concrete. Pixie went still. Her body tensed, muscles coiling like a cornered animal, but when she looked up and met his gaze, some of the fear in her eyes dimmed. Just a little.

He grunted and set the food down on a crate beside her. “For you. Figured you were hungry.”

She hesitated, her gaze flicking between him and the sandwich like she was waiting for some kind of catch. Then, cautiously, she reached for it.

Beast leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching, and that was a mistake.

For the first time, he really saw her. The delicate curve of her jaw.

The way her dark hair framed her face, messy from sleep.

The faint tremble of her fingers as she peeled the wrapper back and lifted the sandwich to her lips. And those lips...

Jesus. He needed to stop looking, but then she did something that almost made him chuckle. She sniffed it first, like she was making sure it wasn’t poisoned.

Then she ate—fast, like she hadn’t had a decent meal in days. She barely stopped to breathe between bites, washing it down with scalding coffee like she didn’t even feel the heat. He wasn’t sure why that got to him, but it did.

Beast wasn’t the type to offer kindness easily. He sure as hell didn’t take in strays. But something about this woman, about the quiet determination in her eyes despite the exhaustion, despite whatever the hell she was running from, made it hard to look away.

“Where you from?” he asked.

Pixie hesitated mid-bite. “Nowhere.”

He raised a brow. “Nowhere, huh?”

She just shrugged, keeping her gaze on the food like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

Beast exhaled through his nose. He wasn’t buying it. She was running. That much was obvious, and maybe he should just let her go. Let her keep moving. Let her be someone else’s problem.

But the idea of her out there, alone and unprotected, didn’t sit right with him. Beast tightened his jaw, and he made a decision he wasn’t sure he’d regret later.

“You’ve got two choices, Pixie,” he said, his voice low and gruff. “You can leave, or you can work for your stay.”

She went still, her fingers curling slightly around the coffee cup. Then, slowly, she lifted her gaze to meet his. “What kind of work?” she asked.

Beast smirked, something dark and knowing flashing in his eyes. “Nothing you can’t handle,” he said.