The Ashwood clubhouse smells like motor oil, whiskey, and testosterone.
I'm trying to focus on the scent instead of the rage building in my chest—the kind that wants to rip through my skin and paint the walls red. My fingers dig into the scarred wooden table, nails threatening to shift into claws.
Not now. Not here.
River's hand finds my thigh under the table, a warning squeeze. He feels it too—the destroyer wolf clawing at my insides, begging to be let loose.
"Easy," he murmurs, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear.
I want to snap at him. Want to tell him I don't need his control, his touch, his—
Cade's fingers brush my wrist on the other side, gentle where River is firm. "Breathe, baby."
And I hate that it works. Hate that their touch is the only thing keeping me from com
