Lone Wolf by Anne Marsh

I don’t play well with other wolves. The pack needs muscle, and I provide it as their enforcer. My biker name is Gator—after the alligator that chewed my face up. Sure I can make a woman scream with pleasure, but the scars on my face? That’s truth in advertising right there. There’s not an ounce of pretty in me. I fight, I ride—and I do it alone. So chasing the gorgeous marine biologist who wanders into my bayou hunting for wolves is not my smartest move. She’s Beauty. I’m the Beast. That story’s already been told and life’s fresh out of happy endings.