one
. . .
Ryker
I'ma violent man who's made peace with that fact. Someone's gotta be. The world is full of wolves, and the only thing they understand is when a bigger wolf shows his teeth. That's why I'm perfect for bouncing at this shithole bar three nights a week—just enough to keep my reflexes sharp after walking away from the MMA circuit. Been standing in this same dark corner for six months now, watching, waiting. Mostly watchingher.
The Dive Bar isn't much to look at. Sticky floors, dim lights that hide the worst of the grime, and a clientele that's one bad day away from starting something stupid. Perfect for a man like me. I don't talk unless I have to. Don't smile unless there's blood involved. The owner pays me to stand here, arms crossed over my chest, scars visible, looking like the threat I am.
My eyes drift to her again. Can't help it. They always do.
Amanda.
Tiny little thing behind that bar. All soft curves and gentle movements. Honey-blonde hair falling in waves when she bends to grab a bottle. Big doe eyes that make my chest ache when she smiles at the regulars. She's sunshine in this dark pit, and I'vebeen burning for months. Just watching. Never approaching. What would someone like her want with a beast like me?
I adjust my stance, rolling my shoulders back. My knuckles are scarred from years of fights—professional and otherwise. The tribal ink covering my arms disappears into my tight black t-shirt. At six-five, I tower over most men who come through that door. They take one look and reconsider whatever bullshit they were planning.
Something shifts in the air tonight. Can feel it before I see it. Animal instinct. My body tenses before my mind catches up.
The front door swings open, and I know this fucker is trouble before he takes three steps. Average height, wiry build, eyes that dart around looking for weakness. But it's the way he moves—like he owns something in here—that sets off alarms in my head. I straighten up from the wall, watching as he scans the room.
Then his eyes lock on Amanda, and I see it. Possession. Anger. Threat.
My blood runs cold, then hot. Volcanic. The predator in me recognizes another one immediately.
Behind the bar, Amanda freezes. The bottle in her hand stops mid-pour. Even from here I can see her knuckles whiten. But it's her eyes that do it. The flash of pure, naked fear that crosses her face punches me in the gut. She knows him. He's hurt her before.
And just like that, something primal clicks into place inside me. A switch flipping that can't be undone.
Defend her.
I move through the crowd, silent despite my size. Practice makes perfect. Twelve years in the ring teaches a man how to approach without telegraphing his intent.
The piece of shit is already at the bar, leaning over it, invading her space. His voice is low, but I catch fragments.
"...thought you could just disappear..."
"...not finished with you..."
"...know where you live now..."
Each word is a hammer blow to my restraint. I've never spoken to Amanda—not really. A nod here, a gruff "thanks" when she slides me the occasional free beer. But in this moment, I know with absolute certainty that I would kill for her.
She backs up against the liquor display, nowhere to go. Her chest rises and falls too quickly. Prey breathing. I've seen that look too many times—in the eyes of men I've faced in the ring, right before I break them.
"Please leave," she whispers, but it carries to me like she shouted it. A plea in the dark.
He laughs. Actually fucking laughs at her fear. "Not until we finish what we started. You owe me, Amanda."
I'm behind him now. The air around me vibrates with controlled violence. Three patrons nearby sense it, scrambling away from their stools without looking back.
One fluid move and I'm between them. My back to Amanda, my front a wall of muscle and rage facing her tormentor. I can feel her warmth behind me, the slight brush of her breath against my back. It takes everything in me not to reach back and touch her, to check she's okay.
Instead, I focus on the threat.
The guy startles, blinking up at me. I've got at least five inches and sixty pounds on him. All of it muscle. All of it weapon.
"What the fuck? Move, man. This isn't your business." His voice tries for confident but cracks at the edges.