Page 53 of Pack Owned
“Damn it, Kayla,” I growl, knowing full well I’m ready to tear apart anyone who’s laid a finger on her. I don’t do vulnerable, don’t do scared, but for her, this unyielding urge to protect rears its head, fierce and uncompromising.
“Think, Ryker, think.” My boots are heavy against the polished floor.
The garage. I haven’t checked the fucking garage. With renewed purpose, I storm down the stairs, my pulse pounding in time with each step. If she’s not there, if?—
“Shut up, brain,” I snap aloud. Hope is a dangerous thing, and I’m not about to let it sink its teeth into me. Not now.
“Kayla!” My voice echoes through the cavernous space, filled with the scent of oil and metal—a comfort that’s always been mine. Now, it’s tainted with the sharp edge of dread. My gaze sweeps over the cars and the tools scattered across workbenches.
A cold sweat sticks to my spine, and the sickening churn in my gut is turning into a pounding headache that feels like it’s trying to split my skull open.
The clank of metal on metal sounds deeper in the garage and near my professional car jack station. My collection of bikes and cars gleam under the fluorescent lights, but their usual allure is lost on me now. I try to suck in a deep breath, but it’s like inhaling through a damn straw.
“Get it together, Ryker,” I growl to myself, but the edges of my vision blur, and a tremor racks my body.
The suffocating panic that’s been clawing at my insides eases for just a fraction when I spot her—Kayla, bent over the engine of my old Corvette, hands coated in grease, dark blonde hair falling like a curtain, hiding her focus.
“Fuck me sideways,” I mutter under my breath, the relief slamming into me so hard, I almost stagger. My fingers fly over the phone screen, texting Liam and Dane”
Found Kayla in the garage. She’s safe, and I’ve got her. Give us a few together to not spook her.
I pocket the device. Right now, I don’t want to share her with anyone.
“Didn’t peg you for a gearhead,” I say, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.
She doesn’t startle, just glances up with those ocean-deep eyes, the hint of a smirk on her lips. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“Clearly,” I say, taking in her pink lips starkly contrasting against the grime that mars her face. “How’d you learn all this?”
“From my dad,” she replies, her voice softening, a shadow crossing her features. “He was good with cars. Taught me everything before he...” She trails off, pain flickering through her eyes.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” And I mean it.
“Thanks.” She wipes her hands on a rag. “Cancer’s a bitch, you know?”
“Yeah.” We’re in a bubble, everything but us fading to a dull roar. I lean closer, drawn by the shared understanding of loss, of being alone with nothing but ghosts and engines for company. I can tell this bothers her, thinking of her dad dying, so I change the subject.
“So… grease monkey, what’s your verdict?”
“I’ve replaced your spark plugs. Somewhat tricky to get to. And your transmission is shot. Oh, and I replaced your alternator belt.”
“Impressive,” I admit gruffly. There’s admiration there, mixed with something else—a warmth stirring in my chest, something that has no damn business being there.
“Guess we both have our surprises,” she says, a challenge in her tone that has my lips twitching into a grin.
“Guess so.” For a moment, just one damn moment, I’m not an Alpha standing guard over his Omega. I’m just a man talking cars with a woman who gets it, who gets me.
I’ll be damned if that isn’t the most dangerous thing of all.
Her gaze drifts over to my bikes.
“Ever ride one?” I ask.
“Nah. But I hear it’s like flying.”
“Better.” I trace my hand down the side of the car. “How about I take you for a ride?” The image of her body pressed against mine has my cock suddenly alert and hardening.
“Really?” Her eyes are bright.
