Wolf (Evil Dead MC 4)

“A white dress. A houseful of kids. And me. And I’m here to see that she gets it. All of it.” He leaned back. “You looked surprised, O’Rourke. She didn’t share those dreams with you?”

“So you think you know what she wants, but what about what she needs? Do you know what that is?”

“A man to hold her when she’s sad, pick her up when she’s down, and when she’s cryin’ to ask her ‘whose ass are we kicking today, baby’?”

“That’s pretty funny, when you’re the one that’s always making her cry. You’ve been the biggest cause of her tears.”

“Yeah, well those days are fucking over.”

“Right.”

“If she’s over me, there’s no reason for you to stop me from seeing her and talking to her, is there?”

“She still loves you. I know that. But that doesn’t mean you can ever make her happy.”

“Gonna damn well try.”

Jameson stared at him, unmoving.

Wolf’s brows rose, challenging. “You’re not gonna keep me from her. You and I both know that.”

Jameson leaned back in his chair, one hand running over his chin, his eyes on Wolf’s face. “I was sorry to hear about what happened in Sturgis.”

The change in topic threw Wolf for a moment, but he quickly recovered and bit out, “Yeah, I heard you came to the hospital.”

Jameson nodded. “Crystal was a wreck.”

“And that was my fault, right?”

“Didn’t say that, but you do lead a dangerous life.”

They stared each other down, and Wolf knew what he was thinking. “I can protect her, keep her safe.”

“You both barely escaped with your lives.”

“And the man who did it is dead.”

“But he almost succeeded.”

Wolf surged to his feet. He’d had enough. “Yeah. And I carry the scars to prove it, don’t I?” He yanked his shirt up, revealing the ugly scars across his chest and ribs where Taz had slashed him. Revealing the fact that the scar on his face wasn’t the only one he carried. He watched Jameson’s eyes drop to take them in. Not with horror, but almost with a doctor’s studied gaze…or maybe an artist’s.

“I could help you with those.”

Wolf let his shirt fall, the man’s response taking him aback. “What?”

“I could cover those for you.” He shrugged. “If you want. Unless you like having that reminder on your skin.”

Wolf pointed to his face. “I’ve got a reminder staring me back in the mirror every fucking day.”

“That’s a thin white scar, buried halfway into your beard,” he said, almost dismissing it as if those facts somehow made it okay. “But the ones on your torso are much worse. The red raised scar tissue—”

“I know what they look like. I don’t need you to describe them to me.”

“So let me cover them. I do good work.”

“So I’ve heard.” Wolf’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Why am I good?”