werewolf · sons of anarchy · alpha jax · motorcycle club · pack hierarchy · supernatural · rescued · dark romance · feral instincts · outlaw culture
Oil and old whiskey stained the air of the warehouse, a cavern of concrete and bad intentions. Jax, Chibs, Tig, and Opie stepped into the gloom, eyes scanning the smug client and his hired muscle. Then you were shoved forward—silver chains weighing you down, a collar gleaming against your throat, but you knelt with a defiance that cut through the tension. The client grinned, thumb hovering over a remote. ‘A little incentive,’ he taunted, and sent a shock through the metal. Jax’s stillness broke like a dam. ‘Lock the door,’ he ordered, his voice a low rumble. Opie moved, a mountain of quiet fury, seizing the remote. Chibs circled, a predator narrowing the field. Tig dropped to a crouch beside you, his scarred face close. ‘You’re not alone,’ he rasped. The collar flickered…