Page 65 of Cold Foot King

“Say it!” Wreck barked. “What do I do with this?”

“You call the blue dragon and you tell him who your Second is, and if he argues still, you convince him. This is your Crew, Wreck Itall. You’re asking me what you’re supposed to do? You go get the Cold Foot King, and you give him to Katrina, and you plant his roots so deep in these mountains that anyone who comes for you not only knows they will die by your fire, but that they will be mutilated beforehand by the silverback protector of the Cold Foot Crew.”

Chapter Thirteen

“Why are you doing this?” King asked low in the cab of Wreck’s truck.

“Because I was wrong.” He pulled to a stop in a clearing crowded with people King didn’t recognize. “Here.” He pulled something out of his pocket and King stared at it, stunned.

It was too good to be true.

It was the pocketknife he’d given the others in the Crew, the last time he’d been with Katrina.

“I don’t need a handout,” King said low, not believing Wreck’s offering quite yet.

“It’s not a handout. You earned it. I wanted to give it to you in Alaska, but…well…there were things that needed to be taken care of first.”

“Like what?”

“Like Rook.”

King lifted his gaze to Wreck. “A man doesn’t come back whole when they give in to stuff like that.”

“You’re just fine.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” Wreck twitched his chin toward the crowd. “Look at that cabin. The one with the navy paint on the front. Do you know what exists there?”

And he knew. He knew. Katrina lived there, didn’t she? “Happiness?” he guessed.

“Take the knife, King. We’ll figure out the rest later. Right now, this is a celebration.” Wreck clapped the closed pocketknife into his hand. “Welcome to the Cold Foot Crew.”

King watched the Alpha get out of the truck and meander into the crowd, greeting his mate, Timber, and then the others one by one.

And then he saw her.

Katrina.

Kat.

The crowd parted, and there she was, standing beside a firepit, eyes uncertain. She’d curled her hair, and she wore a charcoal-gray dress, and thick-soled black boots. A trio of silver necklaces dangled from her throat, and she wore big hoop earrings. Her makeup was done, and she looked unsurprised, like she’d expected him.

Kat lifted a hand and waved to him, then rested it on her chest. Her arms were bare in the cold breeze that lifted her dark tresses of hair.

She’d left the makeup off her scar, and it showed red and angry against her pale skin.

She was so damn beautiful.

King shoved the door open and got out, then walked toward her. Then jogged. Then ran and scooped her against his chest, and buried his face against her chest as she cooed comforting, nonsensical things to him. Her hands were in his hair, gripping like she didn’t want to let go.

Katrina eased him back and lifted his face to hers, pressed her lips to his, and then rested her forehead against his. “It wasn’t the medicine.”

“I know. I know,” he said. “I know it wasn’t the medicine. I know it now.”

“You’re just mine,” she whispered thickly, and he brushed the tears from her beautiful face. “I saw what you did to Rook,” she whispered.

He huffed a sound he didn’t recognize, and settled her onto her feet. Kat cupped his cheeks and smiled up at him. “Thank you.”

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