Page 10 of Raze
I don’t spell it out, but they get it.
The Wolf Riders know my type—defiant boys who push buttons, who need a firm hand. I’ve never mixed that with club business, but Nico’s different. He’s under my skin, and I hate it as much as I want it.
Clay raises an eyebrow, his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smirk.
Jase leans back, exhaling smoke, his eyes glinting with amusement.
“You’re saying you wannahandlehim, Raze?” Jase asks, the innuendo clear. “Play Daddy and see if he talks?”
I shoot him a glare, but there’s no heat in it. He’s not wrong, and that’s the problem.
“I’m saying he’s not gonna break with fists,” I reply. “He’s scared, but he’s cocky, too. Thinks he can charm his way out. I can use that, get inside his head.”
And maybe somewhere else, a voice in my mind whispers, but I shut it down fast.
Clay takes a slow sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving mine. He’s thinking, weighing the risk. The club’s been hit hard lately—three shipments in a month, our reputation taking a beating.
We can’t afford to let this slide, but we also can’t afford to waste time on a dead end.
“You sure about this?” Clay asks. “Kid’s a liability. We could end it now, send a message.”
“I’m sure,” I say, and I mean it.
Killing Nico would be easy, clean. But it wouldn’t get us the names we need, the ones behind the thefts. And, yeah, maybe I don’t want him dead. Not yet.
“Let me work him,” I say, a hint of a smile on my face. “I’ll get the truth, one way or another.”
Clay and Jase exchange another look, longer this time, and I can almost hear the unspoken question:Is Raze losing his edge?
But Clay nods, setting his glass down with a clink.
“Do what needs to be done,” Caly says, his tone final. “But don’t let him play you, Raze. We need answers, not a new pet.”
Jase chuckles, low and rough, but I ignore him.
I finish my beer, the bottle cold against my palm, and head back toward the hallway. The clubhouse is louder now, a fight breaking out by the pool table, someone shouting about a bad call.
I don’t look back.
My focus is on the kid, on the answers he’s hiding, and on the heat that’s been simmering since I felt him against me on the bike. I don’t do this—mix pleasure with business—but Nico’s pushing buttons I didn’t know I had, and I’m about to push back.
The hallway is dim, the concrete walls swallowing the noise from the bar. My boots echo, heavy and deliberate, as I reach the interrogation room.
I pause outside the door, my hand on the knob, and take a breath.
Nico’s in there, tied up, probably still mouthing off, thinking he’s got a way out. He doesn’t. Not unless I say so. But the truth is, I’m not just here for answers. There’s something else, something reckless and dangerous, pulling me toward him. I felt it when he pressed against me, when his voice cracked with that petulant edge. He’s scared, but he’s fighting it, and that fight is what’s got me hooked.
I push the door open, and there he is, slouched in the chair, wrists red from the zip ties. His hair’s a mess, falling into hiseyes, and his jaw’s set, but there’s a flicker of something—relief, maybe?—when he sees me.
The boy’s trying to hide it, but I know fear when I see it, and I know want, too. Nico’s eyes track me as I step inside, shutting the door behind me. The bulb overhead swings, casting shadows across his face, highlighting those sharp cheekbones, that defiant mouth.
The boy is trouble, and I’m about to make it worse.
“You ready to talk, boy?” I ask, my voice low, deliberate, letting the wordboyhang between us.
His eyes flicker again, and I know I’ve got him, at least a little. He’s not as untouchable as he thinks.
“Already told you everything,” Nico says, but his voice wavers, just enough to betray him.
