Off-Limits: Iron Wolves MC

Marie’s POV

“He proposed!” My mom holds her hand out across the kitchen table, the new diamond catching the morning light. “I’m getting married, Marie!”

Her smile is so wide it looks like it hurts.

“You’re going to have a dad again, sweetheart.”

“Stepfather, Mom.”

Her smile falters. “Marie…”

“I’m happy for you,” I add quickly.

Her face softens.

“I know losing your dad was hard. For both of us. And we’ll never forget him. Or what happened to him.”

She looks down at the new ring on her finger, smiling through the tears gathering in her eyes.

Then her other hand rises to the chain around her neck. Dad’s wedding ring hangs from it.

She curls her fingers around it for a second before quickly wiping the tears from her cheeks.

“But we have to keep living, sweetheart.” She shakes her head slightly. “I… I want to be happy again. And I want you to be happy too.”

She reaches across the table and brushes a strand of hair from my forehead.

“Of course, Mom. Whatever makes you happy.”

That brings her smile back. “I thought you’d be a little more excited, though.”

“About what?”

“Frank’s son.”

My fingers tighten around my spoon.

“You remember Dean.”

Yeah.

I remember Dean.

“You two were inseparable when you were kids,” she says. “And now, technically, he’s going to be your stepbrother.”

Stepbrother.

The word lands harder than it should.

Maybe I would’ve been excited.

If Dean Harrison hadn't spent the last ten years frozen in my memory exactly as I'd last seen him — outside my father's funeral, refusing to look at me, saying this was all his fault.

He never told me what he meant.

Mom never found out about it.

She just wants to be happy.

So whatever happened back then can stay buried. 

Mom deserved this.

***

By the next afternoon, we’re crossing the state line in a U-Haul packed with half our lives.

“You okay over there?” Mom asks, catching my eye.

“Peachy.”

“You’ve been quiet for the last hour.”

“Millhaven inspires quiet.”

She laughs—that real, breathy laugh I’d trade pieces of my soul to hear these days—and pats my knee.

I look out the window just as the rusty green sign flashes past.

Welcome to Millhaven.

Population: my entire unresolved childhood.

***

Here is what I know about Frank Harrison, as of yesterday at 6:47 p.m.: he owns a garage. He's a widower. He's sweet, according to my mother, in the specific way men only get described as sweet by women who've already decided to marry them.

And he has a son.

Here is what I know about Frank Harrison's son, as of ten years and change ago: everything. What he takes in his coffee. The exact rasp his voice got right before it finished dropping. The fact that he used to walk two blocks out of his way to cut through my street on the way to school for no reason either of us ever said out loud.

Here is what I know about him now: nothing.

Besides the fact that his name still hits my bloodstream like pure adrenaline.

“You’re doing the thing,” Mom says.

“What thing?”

“The thing where you go somewhere else behind your eyes.”

“I’m fine.”

“Marie.”

“I said I’m fine.”

It comes out sharper than I mean it to, and she flinches.

Shit.

“Sorry.” I sink back against the seat. “Long drive.”

She watches me for another second before turning back to the road.

“We’re almost there.”

My stomach drops.

Which is ridiculous.

I’m twenty-six now. Whatever hold he had on me back then is long gone. I can see him, say hello, and move on with my life.

I can handle him.

***

Frank’s house sits at the end of a long gravel driveway—a massive white house with black shutters, surrounded by towering pines. Around the back, under a long metal carport, sits a row of heavy, customized motorcycles gleaming in the afternoon sun.

Mom checks her lipstick in the truck’s side mirror.

“How do I look?”

“Like a knockout.” I squeeze her hand. “Frank’s a lucky man.”

“Thank you for doing this,” she says quietly. “I know Millhaven isn’t easy for you.”

“It’s a town, Mom. Towns aren’t hard. People are hard.”

She gives me a look like she knows exactly what I mean and isn’t going to push.

Then she gets out, smoothing her dress as she heads toward the house.

I stay in the truck a second longer than I need to.

Jesus, Marie. Snap out of it!

I step onto the driveway just as the front door opens.

It’s not Frank.

It’s him.

Dean steps onto the wraparound porch, and the world narrows down to the sheer, suffocating space he occupies.

He's broader than I remembered, towering and built like a brick wall. He’s in a fitted black t-shirt that clings to the heavy muscle of his chest and shoulders, sleeves pushed up to reveal dark ink creeping down his forearms. Heavy leather cuff on one wrist. Scuffed leather boots. Dark hair a little too long, falling into his eyes, and a jaw cut so sharp it looks lethal.

Nothing about him looks sixteen anymore.

His eyes sweep over the driveway.

Then land on me.

Ten years disappear in a single second.

He walks down the steps.

I should look away.

I don’t.

He comes toward me until he's standing close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. He smells like cedar and leather and something warm I can't put a name to.

Slowly, his gaze moves from my face to my mouth and back again.

"Hi, Ree-Ree."

His voice is lower now, rougher than I remember.

I want to slap him.

I want to grab his shirt.

I want to say Hi, Dean. I missed you so fucking much.

Instead, I force my chin up.

"Harrison."

Something shifts in his expression. His jaw tightens, just slightly.

He steps aside to let me pass, but as I walk by, his forearm brushes mine.

I stop myself from reacting.

He doesn't.

He leans down, close enough that his voice is meant for me alone.

"Try not to run away this time."