Claimed by Werewolf, page 10
I had my truth known, and Werewolf had his freedom.
Now all we had was each other.
Werewolf’s bike sat parked outside the old gas station at the edge of town. He leaned against the pump with his arms crossed, head tipped back toward the sky like he was trying to remember how to breathe. His cut was gone—just a plain black hoodie now.
I stood beside him, holding a paper cup of coffee from the station’s machine. It tasted like burnt dirt, but it was hot, and that let me know I wasn’t completely numb.
“You sure you want to go there?” he asked.
“I have to,” I said. I glanced up at him. “You don’t.”
He looked at me then, tired but steady. “I do.”
We made the ten-minute drive through town.
The cemetery sat at the edge of the woods behind a row of crooked iron fencing. The morning fog still clung low to the ground and curled around the stones.
I found Tyler’s grave halfway down the row. The grass was wet, and the soil still new enough to squish under my boots.
For a long minute, I couldn’t say anything. The silence felt too thick.
Werewolf stood a few feet behind me and let me have the space. His presence was a quiet weight that was solid and safe.
I kneeled in front of the tombstone and wiped the dew from the engraved letters.
“I got him, Tyler,” I whispered. “It’s done.”
The wind moved through the trees with a low hum like an answer.
I swallowed hard. “You were right. About everything. The club, the shipments, the rot underneath it all. They said you were a rat, but you were just trying to tell the truth.” My voice broke. “You were just doing what was right. It’s okay.”
I felt Werewolf come closer. His hand brushed my shoulder, warm and heavy.
“They’ll never say your name again,” I said. “Not in that clubhouse. Not like before. But I will. I’ll remember.”
Werewolf’s voice was low. “He was a good man.”
“He was my brother,” I said. “And they took him from me.”
He crouched beside me and looked at the grave. “You got justice for him, Demi.”
“Do we call it that?”
He hesitated. “It’s as close as you’ll get.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “What happens now?”
He stood and offered me his hand. “Let’s see where the road takes us.”
-
We drove with no destination.
I watched the world blur past: old barns, rusted mailboxes, a field of pumpkins left to rot after the harvest. Halloween decorations still dangled from porches even though the day had already passed. Ghosts that didn’t know the party was over.
Neither of us spoke much. We didn’t need to. The sound of the wind filled the spaces where words couldn’t reach.
After a while, I leaned forward and rested my cheek against his back. I felt the steady rhythm of his breathing under his hoodie. It wasn’t peace, not yet, but it was something close.
We stopped just before sunset at a rundown motel off the highway. The sign flickered “VAC NCY” in half-dead neon.
Inside, the room smelled like dust and cheap soap. One bed. A cracked mirror. A small table with a Bible in the drawer that probably hadn’t been opened in years.
I kicked off my boots and sank onto the bed. “Home sweet home for the night,” I said quietly. We both knew we needed to go back home to at least pack up my apartment, but right now just driving felt right.
Werewolf dropped his keys on the nightstand and leaned against the door. “Better than a clubhouse full of ghosts.”
I smiled softly. “That’s true.”
He watched me for a long moment before saying, “You know we’re going to have to go back. At least long enough to tie up loose ends.”
“I know. But not tonight. Tonight I just want you and this dusty, musty motel room.”
“It’s more than enough for me,” he said.
He crossed the room, sat beside me, and took my hand. The silence between us wasn’t heavy or uncomfortable. It felt right.
His thumb brushed over my knuckles. “You don’t have to keep running, Demi.”
“I’m not,” I said. “I’m choosing. I want to live whatever life I want in honor of Tyler. He wanted out of that town for a long time, and he never got to leave.”
He leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “So what are you choosing?”
I turned my hand and laced my fingers through his. “You.”
His breath hitched, and for the first time since last night, a real smile tugged at his mouth.
His hands found my face, and his thumbs brushed the corners of my mouth as if he needed to feel me breathe. His lips found mine and I closed my eyes. His kiss deepened into a slow burn that drew the air right out of the room.
My fingers slid up his neck and pulled him closer until every breath belonged to both of us.
Our clothes fell away piece by piece until there was nothing left but heat and the sound of our breathing.
He laid me back on the bed and hovered for a heartbeat while his eyes searched mine for the smallest hint of doubt. There wasn’t any.
“You’re mine,” he whispered.
“Claimed by Werewolf,” I laughed.
He leaned down and pressed a hot, searing kiss to my lips. “Damn fucking straight, babe. You’re good with that, right?” he murmured, voice low, rough.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “I’m more than good with that.”
Tomorrow, we’d decide where to go. Tomorrow, we’d talk about what it meant to start over.
But tonight, for the first time in a long time, neither of us were haunted by ghosts.
We were free.
Epilogue
Demi
Six months had passed since Halloween night. Since the gunshot that ended everything and started something new.
Now, mornings came slow with no roaring engines and no clubhouse walls humming with secrets. Just the rhythm of waves against the shore and the low hum of the old refrigerator in our rented beach house.
I sat on the porch wrapped in one of Werewolf’s hoodies, with my phone pressed between my shoulder and ear. My coffee had gone lukewarm, but I didn’t care. The salt air made everything taste a little better even when it was cold.
Mom’s voice crackled through the line. “So… you’re still there? By the water?”
“Still here,” I said and smiled. “It’s quiet. Peaceful.”
“Peaceful sounds foreign coming out of your mouth, Demetria Cross. You’re shacked up with a tattooed biker. Wolf?” she teased.
I laughed softly. “He wants to go by Jake now, Mom.” I had told her that more times than I could count.
She huffed. “I know, but I like ‘Wolf’ better. Sounds mysterious.”
“Mysterious isn’t exactly what we’re going for these days.” Even though I still called him Wolf, too.
“Well, mysterious or not, I’m just glad you’re both alive and not living out of a motel room anymore.”
I smiled and glanced toward the beach. Wolf was out there barefoot in the sand, with his jeans rolled to his knees, helping a kid from the neighboring rental untangle a kite. The kid laughed when it caught the wind again, and Wolf lifted a hand in triumph like he’d just won a race.
“Yeah,” I said softly. “Alive’s pretty damn good.”
Mom went quiet for a second. “I heard some talk around town,” she said finally. “About the club.”
My chest tightened a little. “What kind of talk?”
“That they’re changing things. Cleaning house. Someone said there’s new leadership. That it’s… calmer now.”
Calmer. That was a word no one had ever used for the Broken Sons.
She continued, “People are saying it’s not what it used to be. That maybe the old days are finally over.”
I didn’t answer right away. It was crazy to watch Wolf with the kite, with the sunlight shining, and think about all the ghosts we’d left behind.
“Maybe they are,” I said quietly. They certainly were for us.
“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” she asked, her voice just shy of suspicious.
I smiled. “Me? I’m just a beach girl now, remember? I happened to fall in love with a sexy biker, and we ran off to the ocean together.”
She laughed softly. “Just teasing. I’m just glad to hear your voice without sadness hanging in it.”
“Me too, Mom.”
We talked for another twenty minutes about the neighbor’s new dog, about my cousin’s engagement, and about her latest attempt to quit caffeine again.
When she asked if Wolf and I had set a date yet, I groaned. “Mom.”
“What? You think I can’t ask? You’re not getting any younger, and neither is he,” she lectured.
I laughed. “We’re not there yet.” Wolf and I were just enjoying life. We both knew it would happen… someday.
“Well, maybe get a hop on it because I’d like to be able to dance at your wedding without a walker. That’s all I’m saying.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “I will let Wolf know.”
“Do that.” She sighed contentedly. “Alright, I’ll let you go. Love you, baby.”
“Love you too.”
Werewolf trudged up the sand toward the porch with his bare feet dusty and wet. “Your mom asking when the wedding is again?” he asked with a grin.
“Of course. I think she’s got a Pinterest board for it already. And I had to remind her again you want to go by Jake.”
He dropped into the chair beside me and stole my mug. “She’s persistent. I’ll give her that. And you know I only like you to call me Wolf.”
“I know, and you have no idea how persistent she is. You always seem to disappear when she calls.”
He took a sip, grimaced. “Cold.”
“You could’ve come back sooner, and it would have been warm.”
“I was helping out there,” he said, and gestured toward the beach. “Kid almost lost his kite to the sea.”
“Tragic,” I muttered.
He laughed and set the mug down. “Your mom have anything exciting to say?”
“She mentioned the Sons,” I said. “She’s heard rumors. New leadership. Less chaos.”
“Yeah. Coup called last week. Prez stepped down for good. Mac’s taking over with a smaller crew. He said it’s not the same.”
“Good.”
He nodded. “They asked if I’d ever come back.”
I turned toward him sharply. “And?”
He looked at me with his hair windblown and his eyes calm. “And I told them no.”
Relief loosened something in my chest I hadn’t realized was still tight. “You mean that?”
He reached over, tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “You and me, we buried that life, Demi. Not going back.”
I smiled. “Good. Because I’m not trading sunsets and bad coffee for bullet holes and bar fights.”
“Hey, the coffee’s not that bad.”
“Liar.”
He laughed softly. The kind of laugh that still surprised me sometimes, like I hadn’t believed he was capable of it before.
We sat like that for a long time, just watching the water. The tide crept closer, and the waves stretched up the sand until they almost touched the porch steps.
“I think of him when I look at the water,” I said quietly.
“Tyler?”
“Yeah.”
“Every day.” I looked out at the lapping water. “But it’s not the same anymore. Used to be so sad. Now it feels like… memory. Like I can breathe when I think about him. You helped me get that, Wolf.”
He nodded. “I get that, babe. I’m glad you could find some peace.”
“I love you, Wolf,” I whispered.
He didn’t whisper it back. He said it loudly. Proudly. “I love you too, Demi. Forever.”
As the sun started to drop, the sky turned pink and gold. His hand found mine, and our fingers threaded together.
And then it hit me.
I’d never been trapped by being claimed.
I’d been saved by it.
Coming Soon
November 17th
Property of Prime
December 16th
Fallen Star
About the Author
Wall Street Journal and USA Today bestselling author Winter Travers is a devoted wife, mother, and aunt turned author who was born and raised in Wisconsin. After a brief stint in South Carolina following her heart to chase the man who is now her hubby, they retreated up North to the changing seasons, and to the place they now call home.
Winter spends her days writing happily ever after, and her nights being a karate mom hauling her son to practices and tournaments. She also has an addiction to anything MC related, puppies, and baking.
Winter loves to stay connected with her readers. Don’t hesitate to reach out and contact her.
Check out the first chapter of Property of Anchor
Chapter One
Anchor
Skull Island came alive after sunset.
It came alive in the very real, very loud way that only a haunted house and ghost boat tour run by a motorcycle club could—screams, boat horns, the smell of kettle corn, and the sound of fake chains dragging across wooden floors.
From the main dock to the haunted house perched near the edge of the bluff, every inch of the north side of the island was crawling with wide-eyed visitors and fake blood. Fog machines hissed. Chainsaws roared. Actors in torn clothing lunged at teenagers who were more excited to record it on their phones than to actually be scared.
And me? I was doing crowd control with a cup of stale coffee and a front-row view of the chaos.
The haunted house stood like an old Gothic manor, all faux weathered wood, black wrought iron accents, and windows that flickered with timed LED candlelight. Behind it, tucked further back into the trees, was our real home: the clubhouse.
Long, low, and built like a fortress, the clubhouse stretched out behind the haunted house in a rough L-shape under the cover of trees. The center of the building was the common area, a massive open space with a bar, couches, a pool table, and our Church room where club meetings went down. To the left of that were six bedrooms, mine included. To the right? Seven more. Every patch holder on the island lived there, and every one of us worked the business.
Kings of Anarchy, Michigan Chapter.
We ran Skull Island. The haunted house. The ghost boat tours. The money that rolled in. All of it. Ours.
This was our territory. Our kingdom. Our show.
And every night, we gave the people exactly what they came for.
“Anchor!”
I looked up from my spot near the dock entrance. Skull, my Vice President, approached with his usual scowl and a fresh streak of stage blood across his jaw.
“We’re short three actors on the boat rotation,” he said. “Pull got hung up at the front gate breaking up some fight, and Wannabe’s still puking from whatever mystery meat he ate for lunch.”
“Send Lost in his place,” I said. “And tell Bob to fill in until we get through the first round.”
“Copy that.” Skull peeled off, already barking orders at anyone within earshot.
I took another sip of my coffee and scanned the dock. The members of the club were the vital moving parts of the island, but we also had about fifteen actors and workers that made the island run smoothly. They did their job of scaring visitors, and then they were off the island, too.
Three boats were loading now with full tours, packed with tourists from out of town. Each one would cruise across the narrow stretch of water toward the far end of the island while the island history and a ghost story played through speakers. Over there, we had a full-scale ghost town set up. Broken saloons. Collapsing mine shafts. Actors dressed as everything from colonial ghosts to feral mutants lurked in the shadows, ready to terrify anyone who stepped off the boat.
They’d walk the path through the ghost town and come back wide-eyed and screaming.
It was all fake.
And all profitable.
I turned to head back up toward the haunted house and stopped short at the sound of awkward giggling. My eyes tracked the noise until I spotted two teenagers, probably sixteen or seventeen, groping each other like they’d just discovered skin for the first time.
They were backed up next to one of the garbage cans behind the snack stand, half-hidden in the shadows, hands under shirts and lips locked in some sloppy tangle.
I sighed.
“Alright, break it up,” I called out and walked toward them.
The girl jumped and let out a squeak. The boy turned red instantly as he adjusted his jeans and tried to look innocent.
“This ain’t that kind of tour,” I said and crossed my arms. “You want to play adult, do it somewhere other than next to the dumpster.”
“S-sorry,” the boy stammered.
They nodded quickly and scurried off into the crowd.
I shook my head and kept walking. My boots crunched over gravel as I made my way back toward the haunted house.
Inside, the actors were rotating for the next wave. Screams echoed down the halls, speakers blared thunder and ghostly whispers, and the smell of fog fluid hung thick in the air. Piney stood near the entrance to the torture corridor, his makeup half-rubbed off, leaning on a prop skeleton.
“You good?” I asked.
“Had some kid scream so hard he pissed himself,” he said proudly. “Think I found my calling.”
“Try not to traumatize the guests too much. I don’t need parents suing.”
He grinned and ducked into the next hallway.
I took a slow lap through the house. Themed rooms lined the interior: cobwebbed dining halls, cursed nursery sets, flickering sconces, dripping red paint. The crew worked it like a well-oiled machine. Every jump scare was timed, every corner built to lead visitors into a scare zone.
Now all we had was each other.
Werewolf’s bike sat parked outside the old gas station at the edge of town. He leaned against the pump with his arms crossed, head tipped back toward the sky like he was trying to remember how to breathe. His cut was gone—just a plain black hoodie now.
I stood beside him, holding a paper cup of coffee from the station’s machine. It tasted like burnt dirt, but it was hot, and that let me know I wasn’t completely numb.
“You sure you want to go there?” he asked.
“I have to,” I said. I glanced up at him. “You don’t.”
He looked at me then, tired but steady. “I do.”
We made the ten-minute drive through town.
The cemetery sat at the edge of the woods behind a row of crooked iron fencing. The morning fog still clung low to the ground and curled around the stones.
I found Tyler’s grave halfway down the row. The grass was wet, and the soil still new enough to squish under my boots.
For a long minute, I couldn’t say anything. The silence felt too thick.
Werewolf stood a few feet behind me and let me have the space. His presence was a quiet weight that was solid and safe.
I kneeled in front of the tombstone and wiped the dew from the engraved letters.
“I got him, Tyler,” I whispered. “It’s done.”
The wind moved through the trees with a low hum like an answer.
I swallowed hard. “You were right. About everything. The club, the shipments, the rot underneath it all. They said you were a rat, but you were just trying to tell the truth.” My voice broke. “You were just doing what was right. It’s okay.”
I felt Werewolf come closer. His hand brushed my shoulder, warm and heavy.
“They’ll never say your name again,” I said. “Not in that clubhouse. Not like before. But I will. I’ll remember.”
Werewolf’s voice was low. “He was a good man.”
“He was my brother,” I said. “And they took him from me.”
He crouched beside me and looked at the grave. “You got justice for him, Demi.”
“Do we call it that?”
He hesitated. “It’s as close as you’ll get.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “What happens now?”
He stood and offered me his hand. “Let’s see where the road takes us.”
-
We drove with no destination.
I watched the world blur past: old barns, rusted mailboxes, a field of pumpkins left to rot after the harvest. Halloween decorations still dangled from porches even though the day had already passed. Ghosts that didn’t know the party was over.
Neither of us spoke much. We didn’t need to. The sound of the wind filled the spaces where words couldn’t reach.
After a while, I leaned forward and rested my cheek against his back. I felt the steady rhythm of his breathing under his hoodie. It wasn’t peace, not yet, but it was something close.
We stopped just before sunset at a rundown motel off the highway. The sign flickered “VAC NCY” in half-dead neon.
Inside, the room smelled like dust and cheap soap. One bed. A cracked mirror. A small table with a Bible in the drawer that probably hadn’t been opened in years.
I kicked off my boots and sank onto the bed. “Home sweet home for the night,” I said quietly. We both knew we needed to go back home to at least pack up my apartment, but right now just driving felt right.
Werewolf dropped his keys on the nightstand and leaned against the door. “Better than a clubhouse full of ghosts.”
I smiled softly. “That’s true.”
He watched me for a long moment before saying, “You know we’re going to have to go back. At least long enough to tie up loose ends.”
“I know. But not tonight. Tonight I just want you and this dusty, musty motel room.”
“It’s more than enough for me,” he said.
He crossed the room, sat beside me, and took my hand. The silence between us wasn’t heavy or uncomfortable. It felt right.
His thumb brushed over my knuckles. “You don’t have to keep running, Demi.”
“I’m not,” I said. “I’m choosing. I want to live whatever life I want in honor of Tyler. He wanted out of that town for a long time, and he never got to leave.”
He leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “So what are you choosing?”
I turned my hand and laced my fingers through his. “You.”
His breath hitched, and for the first time since last night, a real smile tugged at his mouth.
His hands found my face, and his thumbs brushed the corners of my mouth as if he needed to feel me breathe. His lips found mine and I closed my eyes. His kiss deepened into a slow burn that drew the air right out of the room.
My fingers slid up his neck and pulled him closer until every breath belonged to both of us.
Our clothes fell away piece by piece until there was nothing left but heat and the sound of our breathing.
He laid me back on the bed and hovered for a heartbeat while his eyes searched mine for the smallest hint of doubt. There wasn’t any.
“You’re mine,” he whispered.
“Claimed by Werewolf,” I laughed.
He leaned down and pressed a hot, searing kiss to my lips. “Damn fucking straight, babe. You’re good with that, right?” he murmured, voice low, rough.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “I’m more than good with that.”
Tomorrow, we’d decide where to go. Tomorrow, we’d talk about what it meant to start over.
But tonight, for the first time in a long time, neither of us were haunted by ghosts.
We were free.
Epilogue
Demi
Six months had passed since Halloween night. Since the gunshot that ended everything and started something new.
Now, mornings came slow with no roaring engines and no clubhouse walls humming with secrets. Just the rhythm of waves against the shore and the low hum of the old refrigerator in our rented beach house.
I sat on the porch wrapped in one of Werewolf’s hoodies, with my phone pressed between my shoulder and ear. My coffee had gone lukewarm, but I didn’t care. The salt air made everything taste a little better even when it was cold.
Mom’s voice crackled through the line. “So… you’re still there? By the water?”
“Still here,” I said and smiled. “It’s quiet. Peaceful.”
“Peaceful sounds foreign coming out of your mouth, Demetria Cross. You’re shacked up with a tattooed biker. Wolf?” she teased.
I laughed softly. “He wants to go by Jake now, Mom.” I had told her that more times than I could count.
She huffed. “I know, but I like ‘Wolf’ better. Sounds mysterious.”
“Mysterious isn’t exactly what we’re going for these days.” Even though I still called him Wolf, too.
“Well, mysterious or not, I’m just glad you’re both alive and not living out of a motel room anymore.”
I smiled and glanced toward the beach. Wolf was out there barefoot in the sand, with his jeans rolled to his knees, helping a kid from the neighboring rental untangle a kite. The kid laughed when it caught the wind again, and Wolf lifted a hand in triumph like he’d just won a race.
“Yeah,” I said softly. “Alive’s pretty damn good.”
Mom went quiet for a second. “I heard some talk around town,” she said finally. “About the club.”
My chest tightened a little. “What kind of talk?”
“That they’re changing things. Cleaning house. Someone said there’s new leadership. That it’s… calmer now.”
Calmer. That was a word no one had ever used for the Broken Sons.
She continued, “People are saying it’s not what it used to be. That maybe the old days are finally over.”
I didn’t answer right away. It was crazy to watch Wolf with the kite, with the sunlight shining, and think about all the ghosts we’d left behind.
“Maybe they are,” I said quietly. They certainly were for us.
“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” she asked, her voice just shy of suspicious.
I smiled. “Me? I’m just a beach girl now, remember? I happened to fall in love with a sexy biker, and we ran off to the ocean together.”
She laughed softly. “Just teasing. I’m just glad to hear your voice without sadness hanging in it.”
“Me too, Mom.”
We talked for another twenty minutes about the neighbor’s new dog, about my cousin’s engagement, and about her latest attempt to quit caffeine again.
When she asked if Wolf and I had set a date yet, I groaned. “Mom.”
“What? You think I can’t ask? You’re not getting any younger, and neither is he,” she lectured.
I laughed. “We’re not there yet.” Wolf and I were just enjoying life. We both knew it would happen… someday.
“Well, maybe get a hop on it because I’d like to be able to dance at your wedding without a walker. That’s all I’m saying.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “I will let Wolf know.”
“Do that.” She sighed contentedly. “Alright, I’ll let you go. Love you, baby.”
“Love you too.”
Werewolf trudged up the sand toward the porch with his bare feet dusty and wet. “Your mom asking when the wedding is again?” he asked with a grin.
“Of course. I think she’s got a Pinterest board for it already. And I had to remind her again you want to go by Jake.”
He dropped into the chair beside me and stole my mug. “She’s persistent. I’ll give her that. And you know I only like you to call me Wolf.”
“I know, and you have no idea how persistent she is. You always seem to disappear when she calls.”
He took a sip, grimaced. “Cold.”
“You could’ve come back sooner, and it would have been warm.”
“I was helping out there,” he said, and gestured toward the beach. “Kid almost lost his kite to the sea.”
“Tragic,” I muttered.
He laughed and set the mug down. “Your mom have anything exciting to say?”
“She mentioned the Sons,” I said. “She’s heard rumors. New leadership. Less chaos.”
“Yeah. Coup called last week. Prez stepped down for good. Mac’s taking over with a smaller crew. He said it’s not the same.”
“Good.”
He nodded. “They asked if I’d ever come back.”
I turned toward him sharply. “And?”
He looked at me with his hair windblown and his eyes calm. “And I told them no.”
Relief loosened something in my chest I hadn’t realized was still tight. “You mean that?”
He reached over, tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “You and me, we buried that life, Demi. Not going back.”
I smiled. “Good. Because I’m not trading sunsets and bad coffee for bullet holes and bar fights.”
“Hey, the coffee’s not that bad.”
“Liar.”
He laughed softly. The kind of laugh that still surprised me sometimes, like I hadn’t believed he was capable of it before.
We sat like that for a long time, just watching the water. The tide crept closer, and the waves stretched up the sand until they almost touched the porch steps.
“I think of him when I look at the water,” I said quietly.
“Tyler?”
“Yeah.”
“Every day.” I looked out at the lapping water. “But it’s not the same anymore. Used to be so sad. Now it feels like… memory. Like I can breathe when I think about him. You helped me get that, Wolf.”
He nodded. “I get that, babe. I’m glad you could find some peace.”
“I love you, Wolf,” I whispered.
He didn’t whisper it back. He said it loudly. Proudly. “I love you too, Demi. Forever.”
As the sun started to drop, the sky turned pink and gold. His hand found mine, and our fingers threaded together.
And then it hit me.
I’d never been trapped by being claimed.
I’d been saved by it.
Coming Soon
November 17th
Property of Prime
December 16th
Fallen Star
About the Author
Wall Street Journal and USA Today bestselling author Winter Travers is a devoted wife, mother, and aunt turned author who was born and raised in Wisconsin. After a brief stint in South Carolina following her heart to chase the man who is now her hubby, they retreated up North to the changing seasons, and to the place they now call home.
Winter spends her days writing happily ever after, and her nights being a karate mom hauling her son to practices and tournaments. She also has an addiction to anything MC related, puppies, and baking.
Winter loves to stay connected with her readers. Don’t hesitate to reach out and contact her.
Check out the first chapter of Property of Anchor
Chapter One
Anchor
Skull Island came alive after sunset.
It came alive in the very real, very loud way that only a haunted house and ghost boat tour run by a motorcycle club could—screams, boat horns, the smell of kettle corn, and the sound of fake chains dragging across wooden floors.
From the main dock to the haunted house perched near the edge of the bluff, every inch of the north side of the island was crawling with wide-eyed visitors and fake blood. Fog machines hissed. Chainsaws roared. Actors in torn clothing lunged at teenagers who were more excited to record it on their phones than to actually be scared.
And me? I was doing crowd control with a cup of stale coffee and a front-row view of the chaos.
The haunted house stood like an old Gothic manor, all faux weathered wood, black wrought iron accents, and windows that flickered with timed LED candlelight. Behind it, tucked further back into the trees, was our real home: the clubhouse.
Long, low, and built like a fortress, the clubhouse stretched out behind the haunted house in a rough L-shape under the cover of trees. The center of the building was the common area, a massive open space with a bar, couches, a pool table, and our Church room where club meetings went down. To the left of that were six bedrooms, mine included. To the right? Seven more. Every patch holder on the island lived there, and every one of us worked the business.
Kings of Anarchy, Michigan Chapter.
We ran Skull Island. The haunted house. The ghost boat tours. The money that rolled in. All of it. Ours.
This was our territory. Our kingdom. Our show.
And every night, we gave the people exactly what they came for.
“Anchor!”
I looked up from my spot near the dock entrance. Skull, my Vice President, approached with his usual scowl and a fresh streak of stage blood across his jaw.
“We’re short three actors on the boat rotation,” he said. “Pull got hung up at the front gate breaking up some fight, and Wannabe’s still puking from whatever mystery meat he ate for lunch.”
“Send Lost in his place,” I said. “And tell Bob to fill in until we get through the first round.”
“Copy that.” Skull peeled off, already barking orders at anyone within earshot.
I took another sip of my coffee and scanned the dock. The members of the club were the vital moving parts of the island, but we also had about fifteen actors and workers that made the island run smoothly. They did their job of scaring visitors, and then they were off the island, too.
Three boats were loading now with full tours, packed with tourists from out of town. Each one would cruise across the narrow stretch of water toward the far end of the island while the island history and a ghost story played through speakers. Over there, we had a full-scale ghost town set up. Broken saloons. Collapsing mine shafts. Actors dressed as everything from colonial ghosts to feral mutants lurked in the shadows, ready to terrify anyone who stepped off the boat.
They’d walk the path through the ghost town and come back wide-eyed and screaming.
It was all fake.
And all profitable.
I turned to head back up toward the haunted house and stopped short at the sound of awkward giggling. My eyes tracked the noise until I spotted two teenagers, probably sixteen or seventeen, groping each other like they’d just discovered skin for the first time.
They were backed up next to one of the garbage cans behind the snack stand, half-hidden in the shadows, hands under shirts and lips locked in some sloppy tangle.
I sighed.
“Alright, break it up,” I called out and walked toward them.
The girl jumped and let out a squeak. The boy turned red instantly as he adjusted his jeans and tried to look innocent.
“This ain’t that kind of tour,” I said and crossed my arms. “You want to play adult, do it somewhere other than next to the dumpster.”
“S-sorry,” the boy stammered.
They nodded quickly and scurried off into the crowd.
I shook my head and kept walking. My boots crunched over gravel as I made my way back toward the haunted house.
Inside, the actors were rotating for the next wave. Screams echoed down the halls, speakers blared thunder and ghostly whispers, and the smell of fog fluid hung thick in the air. Piney stood near the entrance to the torture corridor, his makeup half-rubbed off, leaning on a prop skeleton.
“You good?” I asked.
“Had some kid scream so hard he pissed himself,” he said proudly. “Think I found my calling.”
“Try not to traumatize the guests too much. I don’t need parents suing.”
He grinned and ducked into the next hallway.
I took a slow lap through the house. Themed rooms lined the interior: cobwebbed dining halls, cursed nursery sets, flickering sconces, dripping red paint. The crew worked it like a well-oiled machine. Every jump scare was timed, every corner built to lead visitors into a scare zone.
