Page 7 of Wolf.e (The Soldiers of Bedlam #1)
I instantly recognize two of them from last night in Savannah. The one with the Enforcer patch and the other with the Gunnar patch. They’re big men, the Gunnar has wavy hair pulled back in a type of man bun that looks anything but dainty.
Two more get off their bikes and pull their helmets off—one is skinnier, older, and has spiky blonde hair and his patch says Road Runner.
My eyes move to…the largest man in the group. As he pulls his helmet off I’m stricken, yet I can’t look away. He’s the closest to me, and he was definitely not in Savannah last night.
My palms instantly start to sweat as he hangs his helmet from his grip with his large, sculpted hands. He faces my direction and looks around, scanning the area like he’s the arriving king, watching for any threat.
I glance up again, watching him move with a heavy grace, struggling to keep my mouth closed as I drink him in, almost in slow motion. He’s tall, maybe six-foot-four or six-foot-five and he’s wide and solid. He’s a real Jason Momoa type—part Khal Drogo, part outlaw.
Normally, I would do the proper thing and turn my eyes from a man like this. I’ve been trained since the age of twelve about the kind of man who would be right for me and the kind of man who would hurt me, but something about him transfixes me.
He isn’t just existing, it’s like the world rotates around him .
He wears a thin white T-shirt under what appears to be his leather club vest, his powerful arms strain against the fabric. Dog tags peek out from the neckline, glinting in the sunlight that suddenly feels so much warmer.
He’s military? I did not expect that.
From what I can see, his body is a vast landscape, a terrain of rippled muscle, and, apart from his face, he’s covered in ink.
The bold tattoos creep up his neck, over his hands, forearms, and fingers. A portrait of a woman done in a Day of the Dead style on his forearm is haunting and I wonder who she is before imagining all the ink I can’t see because of his clothes.
His dark brown hair is pushed back, it doesn’t seem overly long but what is there is secured at the nape of his neck, a few wisps have gone astray. His beard is a shade darker than his hair and groomed but gruff—like everything he does is on purpose.
His face turns to mine as he pulls off his sunglasses and strides up onto the sidewalk in front of me.
I wish my pair was shielding my eyes instead of sitting on top of my head so I could watch him without shame.
His cheekbones are high and straight, his jaw, wide and square.
His eyes start at my sandals as he moves, slowly raking over me in the few seconds he glances at me.
When they meet mine, I notice they’re startling, almost inhuman and the lightest shade of gray I’ve ever seen.
It’s almost like time stands in a suspended still.
His gaze is hot, like a branding iron held too close to my skin, and he stares at me without regret, like he has the right to know exactly who I am and why I’m here.
I cross my leg over the other and force myself to break the trance he holds me in, doing my best to be casual and focus on the mural wall of the coffee shop, pulling my sunglasses down and willing my heart to stop beating so fast.
The group of them is close now and one of the other men speaks to him.
I feel it pull his stare away. I breathe out deeply as he moves out of my direct sight.
I can’t hear what they’re saying but there’s no question to me that the man I can’t keep my eyes off of is in charge.
He commands everyone’s attention and as he talks to the other men at the vacant building next door.
I can smell his leather and spice scent mixed with a hint of smoke.
I eye the patch on his chest when he isn’t looking.
President.
The president’s voice is deep and steady.
They spend the next few minutes talking to a man in a suit while I drink my coffee and pick at my blueberry muffin.
They move as they talk about the exterior of the buildings.
When I see that they’re heading inside, I stand and gather my purse to escape as fast as I can into the dress shop next door.
I blow out a breath and try my best to push the president’s startling presence from my mind. Any questions I have about him will probably always go unanswered because I’ll never ask them out loud.
He looks like the kind of dark mystery I would drown in.
I sift through the aisles and select some dresses for trying. As my breath returns to normal, I tell myself maybe I’m building these people up in my mind.
My parents didn’t force a sheltered life on me, but they definitely preyed on fear to keep me safe. Fear of God, fear of unsavory people, fear of my own choices. Probably to keep me away from Hounds of Hell members or people like them.
I don’t know why on earth I do it, but I listen to Layla and go with a light blue dress, almost the color of my eyes.
It’s off the shoulder with long billowy sleeves structured at the waist where it flairs outward and lands at my mid-thigh.
It’s shorter than I’d normally choose for my life in Atlanta but I feel sexy in it…
and screw it, I have no one to appease but me.
It’s just the kind of dress Evan would have said is “a little inappropriate” and something about that makes me want it even more.
The best part is the back, it’s wide open to almost the center, and I hold my hair up in the mirror to see how it would look if I wear it up.
I select another for the rehearsal dinner, equally as short and revealing, but this time it’s pale yellow and strapless, it makes my breasts look amazing and has a chiffon-like feel to it and a high-low hemline.
I thank the cashier and internally cry over the fact that the two dresses cost over two hundred and fifty dollars I don’t really have. I remind myself that’s looking up, since I might have just scored a job and maybe can fix up my dad’s old truck to sell.
I push the front door open, stuffing the receipt into my purse, making a beeline for my car.
I glance around but don’t see the bikes or the bikers that were talking beside the coffee shop anymore.
It’s probably a good thing. As captivating as he was, something about his eyes shook me to my core.
The last thing I need, for my safety and my heart rate, is to be on the radar of the Hounds of Hell president.