The rumble of a bike pulls me out of my twirling thoughts. I stroll up to the curb, anticipation quickening my heart rate. Focusing on the far end of Main Street, I spot a black blur approaching. As the rider gets closer, for a minute, I think I’ve found my wolf. There’s the familiar build on top of the dark bike.

But then I realize two things.

The biker has a shaved head.

And I can see this because he’s not wearing a helmet.

Definitely not Warner. If it were, I’d have more to say to him than sorry.

As the rider passes by, I realize it’s Warner’s older brother, Roderick. We’ve never officially met, but Warner pointed him out to me. The brothers are shaped similarly with broad shoulders and lithe forms. Roderick has the advantage of a couple of inches, and his sheared hair, paired with a perpetually stern expression, sits him firmly in the intimidating biker category.

Good thing I’ve decided to never let men intimidate me.

Plus, there’s something about the way he holds himself that’s familiar. I realize he reminds me of someone I know. Someone I love.

And I don’t mean Warner.

Roderick pulls into the gas station a block down. I head his way, certain he’s my next best lead.

As I walk toward him, I consider my approach. If I’m right, then Roderick might share a similar personality with my oldest brother, Abram.

Stoic. Stern. Unerring sense of responsibility.

Best way to get them to do what you want is call on their honor.

Strategy solidified, I find myself smiling.

Time for an introduction.

27

RODERICK

The woman living in the Gunner cabin smells like my brother.

Not enough to designate her as his mate. She only has a hint of him on her skin. As if they spent time together recently. Time where he touched her. Held her.

I find this curious and potentially disconcerting.

Warner enjoys the act of the playboy, but he’s stopped following through these past few years. He smiles. He flirts. He goes home alone.

Until this woman. The one who keeps her eyes on me as she approaches. She smiles as if I were her friend. There is no fear or hesitation on her face, nor do I smell it on her. Even with the gasoline fumes rising from my tank, I should be able to discern the acrid scent of fright.

Nothing.

“Hello. I’m Zoey Gunner. You’re Roderick Jameson.” Even though she doesn’t frame it as a question, the woman waits for me to acknowledge the statement. She stands just on the other side of my bike, watching me expectantly.

I nod, but only barely.

“Do you know where Warner is?”

After a moment, I offer another silent nod. Nothing more. And I wait, expecting her to get annoyed at my refusal to offer up the information.