Page 5 of Beast (Iron Sentinels MC #4)

P ixie hadn’t meant to settle in—not really. She kept telling herself this was temporary, a pit stop on a road with no clear end. But a week turned into a month.

Somewhere between wiping down bar tops, balancing trays of beers, and exchanging the occasional joke with a patched member, she started to breathe again.

She was still wary. Still kept her secrets tucked deep.

But there were cracks forming in the walls she’d built.

Sometimes she laughed without thinking. Sometimes she didn’t flinch when someone brushed past her.

But it was Beast who drew her focus like a flame drawing a moth. She wasn’t blind—everyone noticed him. The commanding presence, the carved-from-granite frame, that voice like smoke and gravel. But it was more than that.

He watched her. Not in a creepy way, not like a man expecting something in return. No, Beast watched her like he was trying to understand something about her she hadn’t figured out herself. And that unnerved her.

That night, the clubhouse buzzed with a relaxed kind of energy. The bar was crowded but not rowdy, the music low and rhythmic. Pixie carried a tray of beers, weaving carefully between the tables.

She’d done this a dozen times, was getting used to the layout, the rhythm of the place—until one of the guys cracked a joke, and someone else shoved a chair back a little too fast. Pixie tripped.

She gasped, the tray wobbling in her hands, beers sloshing dangerously close to the edge.

She caught herself at the last second, but not before a bottle went flying.

It hit the ground with a sharp crash. Silence followed.

Her heart leapt into her throat. Cold panic surged up her spine. Eyes turned toward her. She froze, chest tight, hands trembling. She hated this—being looked at, being the center of attention, being vulnerable.

Before the heat in her cheeks could spread, before someone could laugh or mutter something crude, Beast was there. He crossed the room in three long strides, stepping into the space between her and the stares. Like a shield. Like a wall.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, steady.

Pixie blinked up at him. “I ... yeah. I just ... damn chair.”

He didn’t ask again. He gently took the tray from her, set it on a nearby table, and reached out. His fingers brushed hers, just enough to steady her.

“Breathe,” he murmured.

She did. Inhale, exhale. Her heartbeat began to slow.

“I didn’t mean to—” she started, but he shook his head.

“No one’s mad, Pix,” he said, using the nickname he’d started calling her when no one else was around. “Shit happens. You’re not in trouble.”

The way he said it—like he knew exactly what she feared—made something inside her crack wide open.

Pixie looked up at him, and something must have shown on her face.

Whatever mask she usually wore had slipped, and he saw all of it.

The fear. The frustration. The deep, aching exhaustion of constantly trying to hold it all together.

Beast didn’t say a word. He just looked at her with that intense, unreadable gaze of his. Like she was a puzzle he didn’t want to solve, just understand.

“I hate being looked at like I’m broken,” she whispered.

“You’re not.”

“I hate being helped.”

“Tough,” he said. “You’re gonna get both.”

Her breath caught. His hand was still on hers, rough and warm, and his eyes had darkened just a little, his focus drifting to her mouth. Pixie’s chest tightened with something hot and unfamiliar. Not fear. Not quite.

Want. She hadn’t wanted anything in a long time.

“I’m fine now,” she said, but her voice trembled just slightly.

He didn’t pull away. Neither did she. The heat between them rose in slow, steady waves. Pixie curled her fingers slightly against his palm, and he moved just a fraction closer—close enough that she could feel his breath against her cheek.

“Say the word,” Beast murmured, “and I’ll step back.”

Pixie didn’t say anything. Instead, her eyes flicked to his lips, and that was all it took. He bent his head and kissed her. It wasn’t rushed or desperate—it was a claiming. A slow, deliberate meeting of mouths that sent shivers skittering down her spine.

Beast slid his hand around her waist, pulling her in gently, like he didn’t want to scare her off. Pixie responded before she could second-guess herself, fisting her hands in front of his vest, her mouth opening to his with something that felt dangerously close to need.

When they finally broke apart, she stared at him, dazed, lips swollen, heart racing.

“That ... shouldn’t have happened,” she said, but there wasn’t any real conviction behind it.

Beast looked at her like he already knew she was his, even if neither of them had said the words yet.

“Maybe not,” he said. “But it did.”

Pixie’s breath trembled in her throat. “What happens now?” she asked.

Beast’s voice dropped into a low, rumbling promise. “Now I figure out how to keep you close without scaring you away.”

Pixie gave a breathless little laugh, her fingers still tangled in his vest. “Good luck with that.”

He smiled—a rare, real smile. “I don’t need luck, Pix. Never did.”

****

B east didn’t like the way the air felt—thick, electric, like the pressure that came before a storm.

He stood at the head of the war table in the Iron Sentinels chapel, jaw clenched tight as Techie laid out the situation.

“Guy fitting the bastard’s description was seen nosing around Steelhaven’s edge yesterday. Asking about a girl. Didn’t give a name, but the questions matched up.” Techie glanced at Beast, his expression grim. “It’s him. No doubt.”

The words settled like lead in Beast’s gut. The man hunting Pixie—her brother’s old friend, the one she’d seen murder someone in cold blood—was here. Breathing their air. Close enough to touch her if he wanted.

A slow, controlled fury burned through Beast. He slammed his fist down on the table, hard enough to rattle the empty beer bottles and make a few younger members flinch. Gunner didn’t even blink. He’d expected that reaction.

“We’re locking it down,” Beast growled. “No one in or out unless I say so. We put eyes on every street leading in and out of town. If that son of a bitch so much as blinks in our direction, I want to know.”

Gunner gave a short nod. “Already posted men on shift. Techie’s tracking digital movement. We’ll get him before he gets anywhere near her.”

Beast didn’t answer. He just turned and walked out, rage pulsing beneath his skin like wildfire.

He found Pixie in the kitchen, rinsing out mugs at the sink, her sleeves rolled up, a faint smear of flour on her cheek. She looked up when he entered, and whatever she saw on his face made her go still.

“What happened?” she asked quietly.

Beast crossed the room in three long strides.

“He’s close,” he said. “Your brother’s old friend. He’s been asking around.”

Pixie’s face went pale. The sponge in her hand slipped into the sink.

“So, what now?” she asked. “Do I keep hiding? Pretend I’m not a walking target? Or maybe you’ll just lock me in a room like some kind of—”

“Stop.” Beast’s voice was low, sharp. “This isn’t up for debate.”

Pixie’s eyes sparked, some of her fight flaring to life. “I never asked for your protection.”

“No,” Beast agreed. “You didn’t. But you’re now part of the Sentinels, whether you want it or not.”

She opened her mouth, and he stepped closer, towering over her now.

“You’re under my protection now,” he said, each word heavy with meaning. “And I don’t take that lightly, Pixie. I don’t leave people behind. I don’t let them get hurt. So you can be pissed at me, you can hate the lockdown, but I’ll burn this town down before I let him touch you.”

She stared up at him, chest rising and falling, her lips parted like she wanted to scream, or cry, or both.

But she didn’t say anything. Eventually, she turned away and walked out, stiff-backed and silent.

Beast wondered if he could’ve handled that conversation a little better, but when it came to Pixie, his emotions sometimes got the better of him

By the time Beast made it back to his office, the clubhouse had quieted. Most of the brothers were sleeping or out on patrol. Gunner had taken over the front watch. The chaos of the night had dulled to a low hum of readiness.

He stepped inside, fully intending to drop paperwork on his desk and get back to the yard—but the sight of her stopped him cold.

Pixie was curled up on the old leather couch in the corner of his office, her knees drawn up, one arm tucked under her head.

He wondered if his office was the only place in the clubhouse she found safe.

Her hair had fallen across her face, lips parted as she slept, and she looked so damn small, so fragile, it made something sharp twist in his chest. Christ, woman. What are you doing to me?

He moved quietly, careful not to wake her. There was a folded blanket on the back of the couch—probably brought in by one of the girls who helped around the clubhouse—and he draped it over her, his hands lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

She stirred, eyelashes fluttering. Then her eyes opened, soft and bleary. They met his, and the silence that followed was thick with something ... heavy. Unspoken. Real.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep here,” she murmured, voice husky.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he told her, their little argument earlier clearly forgotten. But Beast didn’t mind.

She sat up a little, the blanket falling onto her lap. Beast turned to go, but her voice stopped him.

“There’s room, if you want,” she said, her gaze uncertain, almost shy.

Beast froze. Every instinct warred inside him—the one screaming to protect her, to keep his hands to himself, and the one that had been dying to hold her since the moment he saw the haunted look in her eyes that first night.

He turned back slowly, and sat stiffly. The couch wasn’t huge, but there was enough space for them to sit side by side.

When she shifted closer and leaned into him—her head against his chest, her fingers brushing his thigh—he wrapped his arm around her without hesitation. Pixie let out a breath, soft and shaky. Then another. Slowly, her body relaxed, melting into his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Beast didn’t know how long they sat like that. Time slowed. The world narrowed down to her warmth, her scent, the soft flutter of her breath against his neck.

Then he tilted her chin up and kissed her. This kiss was slow. Intimate. Beast took his time, savoring the taste of her. Her lips were warm and tentative against his.

Pixie bunched her hands in the front of his shirt. She made a sound in the back of her throat that damn near wrecked him—something between a sigh and a surrender.

When they broke apart, her forehead rested against his jaw, and her breath was steady. Calmer. She was calm with him.

Beast looked down at the woman curled up in his arms and felt something shift deep in his chest. She feels safe with me. That realization hit harder than any bullet ever had.

Pixie eventually dozed off again, her body soft and trusting against his. Beast didn’t move. Didn’t dare. He just held her, watching the storm rage quietly inside him while her presence calmed it all.

For the first time in a long time since he’d said goodbye to Evelyn, he didn’t feel hollow or lonely. He felt whole, and he knew, with terrifying certainty, that he’d never let her go without a fight.