Page 21

Rocky

That weekend the Wild Dog was lit up like a damn firework. The boys were back from a recon run. Smokey and Chevy were deep in argument over some supply drop gone wrong, and Knox stood in the shadows, arms crossed, eyes tracking everyone like a fox. Music pounded through the walls, pool balls clacked, and the usual swarm of club girls buzzed around like flies drawn to shit.

But I wasn’t in the mood for any of it.

Not with Birdie sittin’ at the bar in a tight little black number that hugged her curves like a fuckin’ prayer answered. Straight from some marketing meeting at some swanky gallery opening, her hair was up in some kind of twist, sunglasses propped on her head even though it was well past dark. She was laughin’ with Sass and Loretta like she didn’t know the whole damn room turned to look when she walked in.

Mine. That word stirred low in my chest.

I didn’t say it out loud, not yet, but hell if my wolf wasn’t practically pacing every time she crossed her legs or tilted her chin.

“Top,” TNT muttered from behind me, flickin’ a blade open and shut as he leaned against the jukebox. “You got a tail.”

I didn’t have to turn around to know who he meant .

“Delilah,” I said under my breath, already feelin’ my night take a nose dive.

She walked in like she always did, hips first, trouble close behind. Tight jeans, high heels, and a glare that could curdle milk. Her eyes locked on Birdie, then flicked to me with that old fire I used to think was love but now I knew better.

She was here to make a scene.

I moved fast, but not fast enough.

By the time I crossed the room, Delilah had posted up right beside Birdie at the bar, leanin’ close enough for a fight to start without a word.

“Rocky sure has a type,” Delilah purred, real loud-like. “Blonde. Soft. Pretty. Fragile.”

Birdie turned to her slow, smile gone sharp.

“Funny,” she said. “I was just thinkin’ the same thing. Except his type must’ve changed, since he met me.”

Delilah let out a laugh like broken glass.

“Oh honey,” she cooed. “You think this is real? You think you’re gonna ride off into the sunset with him on the back of a hog, wearin’ his cut and makin’ him apple pie? You’re a chew toy. Somethin’ to keep him distracted.”

I was three feet away now, closin’ in, but Birdie didn’t need me.

She stood.

All five-foot-nothin’ of her, heels clickin’ against the concrete, shoulders squared like she’d been born for war.

“I’ve met raccoons with better manners,” she said. “And they wash their hands.”

Delilah’s jutted out her chin. “You don’t know what he really is.”

Birdie’s face crinkled as she stepped in close. “But I know what you are. Bitter. Bored. And about five seconds from gettin’ knocked on your ass.”

I opened my mouth to shut it down, to pull Birdie back before things got bloody, but then Delilah shoved her.

Bad move.

Birdie didn’t hesitate.

She swung.

And holy hell, she landed it.

Delilah staggered back into the bar, one hand to her cheek, eyes wide with shock. But she wasn’t done. She lunged, nails out, and the two of them went down in a tangle of wild hair, legs, and high-pitched fury.

“Shit,” I growled, shovin’ through the crowd that’d already gathered. “Enough!”

I yanked Delilah back by the waist. She kicked like a damn mule, cussin’ in three languages. One of them not human .

Birdie popped up with a scratch on her neck, hair a mess, dress twisted sideways but smilin’ like a queen who’d just won a duel.

“Get her outta here,” I barked at Smokey, tossin’ Delilah toward the door. “Now.”

“Gladly,” Smokey muttered, already draggin’ her out by the arm.

Delilah shouted over her shoulder, “This ain’t over, Rocky!”

“Yes, it fucking is,” I snapped.

I turned to Birdie, chest still heaving, pulse roarin’ in my ears.

“You alright?”

She wiped a drop of blood from her lip and nodded. “I’m fine. She just pushed the wrong button.”

“Hell,” I muttered, tryin’ not to laugh. “You punched the wrong button right in the face.”

She tilted her head, grinnin’. “She knows about you?”

My jaw flexed.

“Yeah,” I said.

“You tell all the girls?” she asked, clearly upset.

“I didn’t tell her. She’s not normal…”

“She’s like you? And you’re not with her?”

“That’s right. ”

Birdie leaned in and kissed me, hot and quick and full of fire, I knew I was already hers.

Whether she knew it yet or not.

She was still staying with Eliza, but she said she needed to get a few things. The ride back to Birdie’s place was supposed to end with my hands under her dress and her breath hot against my skin.

Instead, it ended with a family of goddamn raccoons starin’ me down like I was trespassin’.

“What in the hell…” I muttered, pullin’ off my helmet and squintin’ up at her front porch.

Five of ‘em. Big, fluffy, beady-eyed little bandits sittin’ in a line across the top step like they were waitin’ for her to come home.

Birdie let out a delighted gasp, practically hoppin’ off my bike before I’d even cut the engine. “Look at them! Oh my God, they’re all here!”

“All?” I followed behind her, warily eyein’ the masked critters like they were armed and organized. “You mean you know these little rabies bombs?”

She turned around, beamin’ like I’d just brought her flowers. “Rocky, these are my raccoons .”

I blinked. “I’m sorry. Your what now?”

“They come every night.” She fished a half-bag of marshmallows outta her purse like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I feed them. ”

I backed up a step. “Birdie, those are wild animals. That one’s missin’ part of his ear.”

She waved that off like I’d just pointed out the color of the sky. “That’s Chunk. He’s the alpha.”

“The alpha ,” I repeated flatly. “Jesus Christ.”

“He’s sweet! And they’re part of my TikTok content.”

I rubbed my temples. “You’re tellin’ me you film yourself feedin’ porch possums for the internet?”

“Raccoons,” she corrected, tossin’ a marshmallow to one like she was Snow White and this was just her enchanted Appalachian kingdom. “It’s called raccoon core . Very on-trend right now.”

I blinked at her, deadpan. “What the fuck is a raccoon core?”

She giggled, the sound damn near makin’ me forget how unsanitary this whole situation was. “It’s aesthetics, Rocky. Vibes. People love woodland chaos. You mix a little neon text, some slow-mo edits—boom. Millions of views.”

I stared at her like she’d grown antlers.

She leaned against the porch railing, hair messy from the ride, cheeks flushed from laughter, and said, “I have a confession.”

Here it comes.

“Part of why I was campin’ out alone that night…” Her voice trailed off and her shoulders slumped. “I was tryin’ to get some video. Y’know, for the account. I was gonna splice together a little raccoon-core-meets-cozy-camping thing.”

I took a slow step up beside her. “You were out there in the woods. Alone. Tryin’ to film trash pandas?”

She winced. “Okay, when you say it like that … and no, other critters.”

I looked down at the biggest one—Chunk, apparently—who was lickin’ marshmallow goo off his freakishly human-like paws. “Sunshine, I don’t know whether to kiss you or call animal control.”

She snorted, then got quiet.

“It’s just… hard sometimes,” she murmured. “I know I make it look like I’ve got it all figured out, marketing manager, social media, but it’s a hustle. I’ve got bills. I send my mom in Nashville money when I can. I’m tryin’ to build a side thing. Something that’s mine.”

I stared at her, chest goin’ tight in a way I didn’t expect.

“You’re tellin’ me folks pay you for this? Like… raccoon footage?”

She nodded, brushing hair outta her face. “Sponsors, donations, brand collabs. People love weird forest stuff. But I might need a chaperone next time, y’know, in case Chunk gets ideas.”

I chuckled. “You think I’m gonna let you out in them woods again alone after what happened last time?”

“No,” she said, soft but stubborn. “But maybe if you were there… ”

I stepped closer, real close, till the tip of her nose nearly touched my chest. “How ‘bout this? I got a run tomorrow night. Gotta drop some ‘shine to Chevy’s contact up by Shady Grove.”

Her eyes lit up. “I wanna come.”

I raised a brow. “It ain’t secret club business. Just shine and backroads.”

“Perfect.” She yawned then, a dainty little thing that made my whole damn wolf twitch.

She turned toward the door, already diggin’ her keys out of that ridiculous glittery purse.

“Hey,” I said, grabbin’ her hand before she could disappear inside. “Wait.”

She looked up, brows raised.

And I kissed her.

Not gentle. Not sweet.

Hungry.

She tasted like marshmallows and mischief, like porchlight summer nights and secrets I wanted to unwrap slowly.

When I finally pulled back, she was breathless, her fingers still grippin’ my cut.

“Rocky,” she whispered, dazed. “That was…”

“Mine,” I muttered. “You’re mine, Birdie Mae.”

She blinked once.

Then she smiled.

And walked into the house like she already knew it.