Riders Of Tyr Book 6: Knock On Wood
Wood, an ex-SEAL haunted by the guilt of his past, has resigned himself to a life of emptiness, finding a fragile solace with the Riders. Nightmares and memories of war are his constant companions, and he believes he’s beyond saving. She, once a captive forced to endure unspeakable horrors, has become a hollow shell, surviving only to reclaim what she lost. When fate brings them together, Wood becomes her liberator, and she becomes his unexpected salvation. As two broken souls collide, their journey toward healing and redemption begins. But will love be enough to conquer the darkness that still looms over their lives?
Chapter 1
Riders of Tyr Book 6: Knock on Wood
WOOD
The morning finds me alone in the kitchen. Regardless of how late I’ve stayed up, or if what I do can even be classified as sleep, I always wake up at the same time. It’s a habit ingrained in me by a gruff sergeant during my SEAL training.
I’m gripping the kitchen countertop, trying to keep my world from spiraling out of control. Despite two hours at the gym and an hour of running, my body remains taut, as if a gun is pressed against it.
I shake my head, wiping my sweaty palms on my T-shirt. After washing my hands, I head straight for the fridge to gather the ingredients I need. I find a few more in the cupboards.
Cooking is the one thing that can calm me down. If my SEAL team could see me now, constantly cooking, baking, stirring pots and shit, they’d probably laugh. Or maybe not.
We’ve each found our own way to cope with the things we’ve experienced in the service. I ensure I have everything I need for a large quiche and focus on that. I can control the ingredients. I’m in charge of the recipe. I dictate the outcome.
I’m creating something. I’m at peace.
“Good morning, Wood,” a voice interrupts from behind me.
“Morning, Iris.” My voice comes out rougher than I intended.
“What are you making?” Iris asks, approaching me.
She’s wearing jean shorts, longer than what most women around the Riders wear, and a blue halter top that brings out the blue in her gray eyes. Her look is clear, open, honest.
It was that look that first drew me in. The petite woman approaching me with a genuine smile is the only one I’ve ever…
“I’m making a quiche.” I cut off my thoughts before they can wander too far.
“Quiche,” Iris repeats, looking at the counter. “Need help?”
I stiffen. Having her around is too painful. I wanted her, was ready to claim her as mine.
But she belongs to Rage. She has his tattoo on her back and his name on her ring finger. Rage has her name on his right hand and a single, striking blue iris over his heart.
She loves him. She chose him, not me.
“No, I’m good,” I manage to say, forcing a smile.
It’s so easy to put on a facade. In a way, Rage is the sane one. Everyone calls him a psycho, but he just lets his inner darkness show, not caring what others think.
I might be twice as messed up as him, but I hide behind a mask, terrified of letting people in.
I turn back to the counter. “So, what brings you to the clubhouse?”
“I still work across the street, Wood.” Iris begins to prepare coffee for everyone like she did every morning before moving in with Rage. “Work is getting busier, and more people are requesting me specifically.”
“You should do a worse job then,” I joke. “I hear people are coming from across the Bay to have you tune their cars.”
Iris chuckles, and it feels like a knife to my heart. I should have made a move when she first arrived.
I saw her light beneath the fear she was hiding behind. We were close then. She was new. I was still a thrall.
We spent hours together, me helping her out, her taking care of the Riders. I was such a fool.
“I got an offer from a NASCAR team,” Iris says quietly.
“Fuck! That’s great!” I drop what I’m doing to focus on her.
“I…I don’t know… I don’t want to leave the Riders.” Iris licks her lips, and I can’t help but follow the movement. “And I don’t know how Rage will take it.”
“You haven’t told him?”
“Not yet. Actually, you’re the first person I’ve told.”
Another stab to the heart. Iris has always trusted me, considered me a friend. Just a friend.
She was Rage’s even before they knew it. But it feels good that she trusts me. I can hold onto that, push everything else aside.
“Talk to him, Iris. Rage loves you”—he does, damn him—“and he wouldn’t stand in the way of your dreams.”
“Thanks, Wood.” Iris places a hand on my shoulder, and I suddenly feel hot. “It’s always good to talk to you.”
“Anytime, girl,” I manage to say, returning to my cooking.
Iris checks the fridge, unloads the washing machine, makes a few notes for the thralls, and then leaves.
“Have a good day, Wood,” she calls over her shoulder.
Doubt it.
“You too, Iris,” I reply, glancing over my shoulder.
Damn, she looks good. I know it’s messed up, but seeing Iris looking so stunning doesn’t help my throbbing headache.
She’s the perfect blend of innocence and sensuality. And she belongs to a brother.
I decide to take out my frustration on the eggs, and that’s exactly what I do.
