Page 35 of Goose's Wren

The bastard looks back at him, gives a slight nod like he’s just been informed the price of steak at a fancy restaurant and decided it wasn’t worth the trouble.

Prez motions to Blood and Torque.

The guys disappear into the trailer and return a minute later carrying two duffel bags stuffed full of what I know is meth and whatever the hell else Tim was dealing in.They walk right up and drop the bags at the man’s polished leather shoes like garbage left on the curb.

His goons immediately step forward, unzip them and check the contents.One gives a small nod, and the well-dressed man turns back toward his car.

But Timber isn’t finished.

“This is the only warning I’m gonna give you,” he says, voice raised now, loud enough to carry across the trees.“Stay the fuck out of White Summer.This is our town.You send drugs through here again, we won’t be polite next time.We’ll burn your whole operation to the goddamn ground.”

The man pauses.His lip curls just a little.Like he wants to laugh but knows better.He doesn’t say a word.Just slides into the back seat of his car.

The doors slam shut, and the convoy pulls away in silence.Black tires spitting gravel as they disappear down the road just as our own SUVs come into view.

For a long moment, no one says anything.

Just the sound of Wren breathing behind me.I turn to look at her.Her face is pale.She’s shaking again, though she’s trying to hide it.She meets my eyes, and there’s still fear there, but something else too.Strength.

Prez walks up behind me and claps a hand on my shoulder.

“Get her out of here,” he says quietly.“Take her home, Goose.We got the rest.”

Chapter 9

Wren

The ride back to thecabin is mostly a blur.I don’t remember getting into the truck.I don’t remember the winding turns of the road or the way the trees blurred past us in the fading light.What I do remember is Goose’s hand on mine.The way he never let go.

Even now, as he helps me into the bathroom of his cabin, his touch is steady.Careful.Like he’s afraid I’ll shatter if he moves too fast.

I lower myself onto the closed toilet lid, sore everywhere, my body buzzing with exhaustion and pain.

My hands are scraped and raw, my stomach aching from where Tim kicked me.My cheek pulses with a dull throb, and I know the bruises are only just beginning to show.

He kneels down in front of me without a word, a towel draped over his shoulder and a bowl of warm water in his hands.He sets it on the floor beside him and dips a washcloth into it, wringing it out slowly.

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