Page 78 of Rocky Top

I was the one who wanted something I wasn’t sure I could handle. I was the one losing herself in the scent of him,in the memory of his mouth on mine. I was the one dreaming of teeth and touch and claiming like it meant salvation instead of surrender.

I didn’t want to be a shifter.

I didn’t want to want him.

But every inch of me ached for both.

I headed back to the house, feet dragging like lead, my mind a damn battlefield. And somewhere deep inside, beneath all the fear and frustration and fury... my wolf stirred.

It was faint, but it was there.

And she wasn’t running.

She was watching.

Waiting.

And wanting, just like me.

Eliza had drifted off to to sleep, her tea still half full on the coffee table. I envied her for the way she could sleep. For how she’d figured out how to live with this secret, with this... life. She made it look easy. Made loving someone like Knox look natural. Like a damn romance novel with tattoos and fur.

I sat there long after, after Emma’s nightlight clicked off on the timer from the hallway. The moonlight pushed through the blinds, making stripes across my lap. And still, I sat.

Because how the hell do you make peace with your life changing forever? With your body becoming something new,something unknown? How do you look in the mirror and not flinch when you see something feral peeking back?

I didn't want to be scared, but I was.

Not just of what I'd become… but of how badly I still wanted him.

Rocky.

That man, that wolf, that maddening gruff biker with eyes like thunderclouds. He bit me. Changed me. And somehow, even knowing that, maybe because of it, I still burned for him. Like a match held to kerosene.

The thought made me groan and press the heels of my hands into my eyes.

“Get it together, Birdie Mae,” I muttered under my breath.

I didn’t sleep that night.

Instead, I lay in Eliza’s guest bed, staring at the smooth ceiling, wondering if I’d ever feel normal again.

Wondering if I even wanted to.

I didn’t plan on seeing him again that soon.

I sure as hell didn’t plan on showing up at the Wild Dog at noon the next Saturday, looking like I’d lost a fight with a wind tunnel and a laundry basket.

But there I was, stomping into that clubhouse with my heart in my throat and my favorite pair of boots laced up tight, ready to at least pretend I wasn’t crumbling inside.

The bar was quieter in the daylight, no thumping bass, just the low murmur of club business, and a few hungover brothers nursing greasy burgers and black coffee.

I spotted Knox first, sitting in the booth near the front with a laptop open and his phone to his ear. He looked up when I passed and gave me a nod, but didn’t say a word.

Smart man.

Because it wasn’t him I came to see.

Rocky stood at the pool table, one hand braced on the edge, the other chalking a cue like he didn’t have a care in the damn world. He wore his usual: black tee, dark jeans, his cut slung over his broad shoulders.

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