Page 32 of Riot

Waiting all day to see Calvin had nearly broken me. Worth every second, though, to watch him fight his own pull toward me, losing that fight by inches. And it wasn’t the wolf that had started it. The spark had come first before any of that.

Everything about him got to me. Especially the way he’d cracked the door open on his fears without quite meaning to.

He had that kind of vulnerability that made something in me go quiet and dangerous at the same time.

I’d come close to kissing him more than once. Close enough that I could have. Close enough that it might have undone him.

But I wouldn’t do that. Not with his nerves still running hot and his walls only half down.

The clubhouse was coming up. I wanted to claim him—that want was a constant pressure behind my ribs—but tonight had a different purpose. Tonight was about the pack meeting my mate.

How Calvin would take it was anyone’s guess. The compound didn’t do subtle.

But today had been anything but clean. Mayhem was on his feet again, nothing left of the bullet wound but a tight little pucker of skin. Preacher, though, was still in it. He’d come out of the meeting with an order. Any Iron Vendetta found in our territory would not be leaving it. I hadn’t seen him that far-gone in a long time.

The auto repair building came into sight. All the bay doors were closed, a row of motorcycles lining the barbed-wire fence.

Calvin’s grip around my sides tightened. “You’re bringing me to your repair shop?”

Technically it was Preacher’s shop.

“Thought you could help me out,” I said over my shoulder while keeping a straight face. “You up for some late-night oil changes?”

“Not really. Tell me you’re kidding,” he said. “You’re not, though, because we’re here.”

We hit the lip of the entrance, and I fought back a laugh. Calvin sounded thoroughly disappointed, and I couldn’t honestly blame him.

The garage was L-shaped, one side for legitimate repairs, the other side home. From the outside, it read as one continuous structure, customer cars corralled inside our own fenced security lot.

In reality, it was a fortress dressed up as a body shop.

I parked beside Crowbar’s ride and cut the engine.

“Worst date ever,” Calvin muttered. “Your place, you said. I pictured a couch. Maybe a lamp. Not a body shop. Not that I’m judging you.”

He was totally judging me. “Let me show you something.” I held out my hand.

“I cannot believe he lured me all the way out here for free labor,” Calvin said under his breath, unaware I could hear him with my heightened senses.

My wolf’s tail had been wagging since I’d taken off to see Calvin. I’d spent half the time forcing it to heel.

“Trust me?” I kept my hand where it was, waiting to see what he’d do with it.

“To keep me safe? Sure. To not hand me a wrench? Not a chance.” He took my hand without a second thought, his palm solid and warm against mine.

Reaching the side entrance, I opened the door, arm raised like a bridge for him to pass under. My wolf softly growled as Calvin walked inside the pack home.

“What’s this?” Calvin glanced at the doors lining either side of the wall. “This isn’t a mechanic shop. It’s got oak doors.”

They were pack bedrooms. “Did you really think I would put you to work?” I asked from behind him. “Welcome to my home, Calvin.”

Hoping you make it yours too.

The clubhouse wasn’t a greasy biker crash pad, with empty pizza boxes or mattresses on the floor. It was a place that had been intentionally built to support a pack long-term with a secure perimeter, quality common spaces, and comfortable bedrooms.

An actual home.

He frowned, glancing at the row of doors. “I don’t get it.” He turned to look up at me. “I hear a television, men talking and laughing, and something smells really good. Do you have roommates?”