Page 3 of Beast (Iron Sentinels MC #4)

P ixie wiped down the bar top, the damp rag dragging across the stained wood as she tried to ignore the rowdy laughter echoing through the clubhouse.

It had been a week since she started working for the Iron Sentinels, and while she was grateful for food and a warm bed, she never let herself forget she was in a den of wolves.

These men were dangerous, powerful, and every one of them carried an air of barely contained violence. Some of them were decent enough. Others made her skin crawl.

Beast, though—he was something else entirely.

He was always watching her. Always close, even when he wasn’t speaking.

She could feel the weight of his gaze no matter where she was in the room.

It made her pulse quicken, and she hated that she didn’t know if it was from fear or something else.

He was too intense, too sharp. If she wasn’t careful, he’d see past the mask she wore and start asking questions. And she couldn’t afford that.

She pushed away the thought and focused on the beer bottles littering the counter.

It was a typical night at the clubhouse.

Loud music, the smell of cigarette smoke and whiskey thick in the air.

The Sentinels were celebrating something—probably just an excuse to drink more—and the energy in the room had taken on an unpredictable edge.

She kept her head down, avoiding eye contact as she moved through the room, collecting empty glasses and dodging hands that reached too close.

Most of the guys treated her with some level of respect, but that didn’t mean they weren’t looking. She knew how men were. How they saw a girl like her—a stray with nowhere to go.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Pixie tensed before she even turned around.

A prospect named Shane leaned against the bar, his smirk lazy, his eyes lingering in a way that made her stomach twist. He wasn’t one of the worst, but he was persistent. Too damn persistent.

“You work too hard,” he drawled, reaching out as if to brush a lock of hair from her face.

She flinched back instinctively, gripping the tray in her hands tighter. “I’m busy, Shane.”

“Come on, I’m just being friendly,” he pressed, curling his fingers around her wrist before she could move away. “You don’t gotta act so skittish.”

Pixie’s heart pounded, a cold rush of adrenaline hitting her veins. The touch wasn’t violent, not yet, but she knew where things like this could lead. Her past had taught her that much.

“I’m not interested.” She forced the words out, keeping her voice steady.

Shane just grinned. “You sure about that?”

Her pulse jumped when he tugged her forward, just a little, testing. The music pulsed around them, the crowd too loud, too preoccupied to notice.

But one person did.

The air shifted before she even saw him.

A shadow loomed behind Shane, and suddenly the warmth of his grip vanished as a large hand clamped around his wrist.

Beast.

He wrenched Shane’s arm away from Pixie with a force that sent the prospect stumbling back. The laughter and conversation around them dimmed as the room caught onto the sudden tension.

“Did she look interested?” Beast’s voice was low, calm, but there was an unmistakable warning beneath it.

Shane, trying to save face, let out a forced chuckle and lifted his hands. “Relax, boss. I was just messing around.”

Beast didn’t look amused.

He stepped forward, crowding into Shane’s space. The difference in size was almost comical. Beast was built like a damn wall, all muscle and barely contained power. The patch on his cut read “President,” a reminder of exactly who he was in this place.

“Mess around with someone else.” His voice was still steady, but there was something lethal in it. Something final.

Shane swallowed hard, his bravado faltering. “Yeah. Yeah, sure, Beast. Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

He shot Pixie a nervous glance before slinking away, disappearing into the crowd like a dog with its tail between its legs.

The clubhouse slowly returned to life, the moment already fading into the background of the night. But Pixie was still frozen in place, her breath coming too fast, her body too tight with the remnants of adrenaline. Beast turned to her then, his dark eyes locking onto hers, searching.

“You okay?” Beast asked.

She nodded automatically. “I can handle myself.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “I know you can. Doesn’t mean you should have to.”

Her stomach flipped at the rough sincerity in his tone. He didn’t look at her like she was weak. Didn’t pity her. He just saw her. And that scared the hell out of her.

“Thanks,” she muttered, dropping her gaze.

She turned to leave, to escape to the kitchen where she could breathe again, but Beast’s fingers brushed her wrist before she could go. It wasn’t a grip. Wasn’t forceful. Just a touch. A brief, lingering weight that sent heat curling through her despite every instinct screaming at her to run.

“If any of them bother you again, you come to me.”

She swallowed hard. “Why do you care?”

He hesitated. Then, in a voice too low for anyone else to hear, he said, “Because you remind me of someone.”

Something tightened in her chest. She didn’t ask who. She didn’t want to know. Instead, she pulled away and walked toward the kitchen, her skin still burning where he had touched her.

She didn’t know if she should be relieved or terrified.

Beast was dangerous. Not just because of the power he held in the club, but because of what he made her feel. And Pixie had spent too long running to start feeling anything now.

****

B east watched as Pixie disappeared into the kitchen, her slim frame vanishing behind the swinging door. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look away.

The pull he felt toward her was unsettling, a slow, insidious thing creeping under his skin. He had no business feeling this way about a girl like her—too young, too skittish, too damn tempting.

She wasn’t club material, not in the way that meant something permanent, and yet, every time he saw her, every time she moved past him with that wary glance, he had to fight the urge to pull her in, to claim her before someone else tried to.

A heavy arm slung over his shoulder, breaking him out of his thoughts.

“Drink?” Gunner asked, his voice knowing, like he’d caught Beast in the middle of something he didn’t want to admit to.

Beast grunted in agreement. He let Gunner lead him to a table, grabbing a beer from one of the club girls who was smart enough to keep her distance. His mood tonight was unreadable, even to himself.

He took a slow sip, eyes still tracking the room.

Pixie was back, weaving between tables, head down, focused on the job.

He noted, with some satisfaction, that no one dared to bother her now.

They’d gotten the message loud and clear.

She was his to protect. Not officially. Not in any way that made sense, even to him.

But that didn’t matter. He wouldn’t let anyone lay a hand on her.

Gunner leaned back in his chair, gaze sharp. “All right, what was that about?”

“Nothing,” Beast muttered, taking another sip of his beer.

Gunner gave a low chuckle, unconvinced. “Bullshit.”

Beast exhaled through his nose, feeling his temper flicker to life. He wasn’t in the mood for this.

“I mean Pixie,” Gunner clarified, nodding toward the kitchen. “She’s not just some stray you picked up.”

Beast didn’t respond right away. Instead, he swirled the beer in his bottle, watching the amber liquid catch the dim light of the clubhouse.

Finally, after a long moment, he admitted, “She reminds me of Evelyn.”

Gunner was silent for a beat, and then he shook his head. “They’re nothing alike.”

Beast’s grip tightened around the bottle. He should’ve swung at him for that, should’ve said something sharp, something that would shut Gunner up—but he didn’t, because deep down, he knew his VP was right.

Pixie wasn’t Evelyn, not even close, but there was something about her. The fire in her. The way she held herself together even though he could see the fractures underneath. The hunger in her eyes, not just for food, but for survival.

Gunner sighed, stretching his legs. “Well, if you intend to make her yours, you should make it clear.”

“I don’t,” Beast shot back, too quickly.

Gunner just smirked. “Uh-huh.”

Beast ignored him, downed the rest of his beer, and pushed back from the table. He was done for the night.

The clubhouse was buzzing, music thumping low through the speakers, girls laughing, brothers talking, but none of it reached him. His head was somewhere else. Somewhere it had no damn business being.

He made his way out to his bike, needing the ride, needing the air to clear his head. The crisp night air bit at his skin as he roared down the highway, but it didn’t help.

Nothing helped. Not the ride, not the cool night air slicing across his skin, not the familiar rumble of his Harley beneath him. By the time he reached his house—the house he built for Evelyn—he was still wound tight, his body thrumming with restless energy.

He killed the engine and sat there for a long moment, staring at the darkened windows. The place felt hollow, just like it had for the past five years. A shrine to a life he no longer had. A ghost of what could’ve been.

With a heavy sigh, Beast swung his leg off the bike and made his way up the steps, unlocking the door and stepping inside.

The scent of wood and old leather greeted him, familiar and unchanging.

He hadn’t moved much since Evelyn passed.

Her touches were still everywhere—the bookshelf she insisted on, the couch she curled up on, the framed pictures he could never bring himself to take down.

But tonight, it wasn’t Evelyn’s face haunting him. It was Pixie’s.

Beast kicked off his boots, stripped out of his shirt, and dropped onto the bed.

He was exhausted, but sleep didn’t come easy.

Not when his mind was full of her. The scent of her.

The way she’d looked at him earlier, eyes shadowed with something unreadable.

When he finally drifted off, it wasn’t to the darkness he was used to. It was to her.

He dreamed of Pixie—of her lips parting on a gasp as he pinned her against the bar, of his hands sliding under her worn sweatshirt, mapping the soft curves hidden beneath.

She shivered in his arms, not from fear but from want, and fuck, he wanted her too.

Wanted to taste her, to hear his name on her lips in that breathy little voice of hers.

In the dream, she wasn’t running. She wasn’t afraid. She wanted him as much as he wanted her.

His hands gripped the sheets as his breathing grew heavier, the dream shifting, sharpening. He had her under him now, her body pressed against his, bare and warm, her fingers digging into his back as she arched into him. She moaned his name, and he swore he felt it against his skin.

Then—

He woke with a start, a ragged breath tearing from his throat.

His body was tense, overheated, his sheets twisted around him. His pulse pounded hard and heavy, his entire being still caught in the remnants of the dream. He ran a rough hand over his face, trying to shove it away, but the image of her lingered.

He cursed under his breath. This was a bad idea. A terrible fucking idea. He had no business wanting her, and yet he did. More than he should. More than was safe.

With a growl, he pushed out of bed, heading to the shower. He needed cold water. Anything to drown out the heat Pixie had burned into his skin, even if she didn’t know it.