Ken closed his eyes, imagining the smell of sizzling steak. Oh, screw the fucking carrots and broccoli. He deserved a damn treat. Ken couldn’t remember his last cheat day. “On second thought, pile on the mashed potatoes and fries, and one beer please.”

“Coming right up,” Lionel said.

He wouldn’t go as so far as to eat meat. No, Ken would keep some of his dignity and control, thank you. Lionel gave him a look as he downed the bottle instantly, then shook his head when another customer called him over to order. Closing his eyes, Ken let the amber ambrosia slide down his throat. Liquid courage tasted like heaven, although it took awhile for werewolves to get drunk. Either way, Ken hollered for another, and guzzled his third when Lionel placed his dinner in front of him.

“Take it easy,” Lionel muttered, giving him a look of sympathy before moving away.

“Celebrating something, pup?” a deep unfamiliar voice asked.

Shoving a forkful of mash potatoes into his mouth, Ken glowered at the stranger, before doing a double-take. He nearly spat the chunk of potato out, but chewed slowly instead. Normally docile, Ken’s wolf leapt to the surface of his skin, making him feel slightly feverish. The sounds of the crowd and the county music faded as the world narrowed its scope to Ken and the gorgeous stranger next to him.

Sexy as sin, domineering and crude, Van Walker sat next to him, seemingly amused by his discomfort. Ken looked left and right, wondering if Van made a mistake, but he kept iron-grey eyes trained on his. Men like Van didn’t hit on sad nobodies like him for a reason. Ken didn’t know Van well, aside from the fact his two brothers were mated to Sal and Toby. The Walker brothers belonged to a group of transfers when their old pack disbanded. Bloody rumors circulated around them. Everyone knew they did the dirty work of their old pack, and didn’t care much for safe and sane.

Still, looking was free. Ken’s gaze lingered on his face first, roughly handsome except for his nose, which looked like it had been broken a few times and the faint scars marring his face. Dark stubble covered his cheeks and jaw, drawing Ken’s attention to the cruel curve of his lips.

Lower, his gaze went, moving to Van’s broad shoulders, the solid planes of his chest, hidden underneath his leather jacket and plain white tee. Something poked through the left pectoral of his shirt—a nipple ring. He moved on quickly, swallowing at the huge bulge pressing against the denim of Van’s faded jeans. Unable to help himself, Ken wondered who Van sported the boner for, certainly not him.

“Look me in the eye when I talk to you, pup.”

Much to Ken’s chagrin, he did, glowering at Van who chuckled.

“Answer my question,” Van said, nodding to his plate.

“I’m not celebrating shit. I eat when I’m fucking depressed. Happy?” Ken couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. He shoved another forkful of potatoes into his mouth, hoping Van would be disgusted by his eating habits and leave. No such luck.

Lionel pushed a plate in front of Van. Rib-eye with potatoes and slaw, and the smell of meat made Ken’s stomach grumbled.

The stupid, inconsiderate meat-eater cut large portions of his steak. Van ate with relish, licking at the juices down his finger, and wharfing his food down like he hadn’t eaten in a week. The pig. Ken matched him, trying to outdo him.

“I like a pup with a healthy appetite,” Van said idly.

Cheeks heating at Van’s assessment, Ken swallowed, not tasting the food. It was Van’s sinful lips he imagined, claiming his, and Van’s callused fingers trailing down the length of his body, curling around his dick and holding it captive.

Christ. Why was he harboring erotic thoughts about a stranger he just met in a bar? Okay, technically Van was a fellow pack member, and his best friends were mated to Van’s brothers. Some would say they were practically extended family, but Ken highly doubted Van fantasized about him in his hoodie and sweat pants, going at his steak like there was no tomorrow.

“Don’t you have something else better do?” This had to be some cruel game. Van’s buddies might be out there somewhere, videotaping all this. Snipe the fatty, tease the chubby pup—he heard it all. Usually, Ken let it go. Better to not give his bullies and tormentors more ammunition to work with, but tonight, Ken was mad. He hurt, and needed to lash at someone else.

“Like what?” Van asked, voice the same.

“Work your magic on some poor sad sucker who would fall for your tricks?”

A growl tickled out of Van, the sound more animal than human, making Ken jump on his stool. Catching sight of Van’s pupils turning wolf-yellow, Ken’s heart began to hammer in fear. Everyone knew provoking dominant wolves equated to suicide and Ken fell on the lowest rung of the pack ladder.

“Everything all right here?” Lionel asked, shooting Van a look.

“Yeah, this pup’s just being rude when all I fucking want is to be friendly,” Van explained, flashing his slightly sharpened canines.

Ken pushed his finished plate aside. “I’m in no mood for games, bastard. I already broke up with one asshole, and I don’t want another chasing after me who’s out to get a good laugh on my account.”

Van snorted, and then looked at Lionel as if they shared a private conversation. “See? Defiance tastes fucking delicious on a pup.”