They told you it was simple — show up at Jack’s Roadhouse, flirt with the mark, keep him interested long enough for the pack to close in. Easy. Except you knew better. Being “the bait” meant putting yourself in the crosshairs.

The place smelled like old beer, cheap cologne, and trouble. Cigarette smoke curled in lazy spirals toward the ceiling, drowning out most scents — but not all. Beneath the haze, you caught the sharp tang of silver. You didn’t need to see the glint of a knife handle tucked into a biker’s waistband to know it was there.

You slid onto a barstool, your ripped jeans and worn leather jacket just disheveled enough to make you look like you didn’t belong to anyone. No pack, no protection — at least, not that anyone could see.

The mark was already watching you from his table. He was big, with mean eyes and the cocky posture of a man who thought he was the hunter. Perfect.

You ordered a whiskey, feeling the weight of other eyes in the room — the pack, scattered in shadows and booths, pretending to be just another part of the bar crowd. You could pick them out by their scents alone. One, leaning against the jukebox, radiated that coiled readiness that meant he was seconds from moving if things went wrong.

The mark finally made his move, sidling up beside you, reeking of overconfidence. “Haven’t seen you around before,” he said, his tone oozing smug charm.

“Guess you haven’t been looking hard enough,” you replied, letting your lips curl into a slow, dangerous smile.

You could feel the alpha’s gaze from across the room — a silent reminder: Keep him close. Keep him talking. The trap only works if the prey thinks it’s safe.

But you also knew something else. If he caught even a hint of what you really were under your skin… you wouldn’t just be the bait. You’d be the target.