Page 2 of Raze
The roar gets louder, closer, and it’s not just one or two bikes—it’s a pack.
All around me, I hear the kind of sound that rattles your bones, like thunder rolling in with bad intentions.
I straighten up, brushing my hair out of my eyes, and edge toward the grimy window by the loading dock. My boots scuff against the concrete, stirring up dust that makes my nose itch.
Outside, a half-dozen bikes tear into the lot, kicking up gravel under the sickly glow of a sodium streetlight. The riders dismount, all leather and menace, moving like they own the ground they walk on. My stomach does a slow flip when I spot the patches on their leather—a snarling wolf’s head.
Fuck.
This isn’t good…
The Wolf Rider MC. Not some low-rent crew with more ego than brains. These guys are the real deal—notorious, dangerous, and definitely not here for a friendly chat.
And from what I know of these guys, they don’t typically do down and dirty rip-off jobs. And that means probably only one thing…
I’m caught red-handed with what’s gotta betheirloot.
The crates behind me might as well have their wolf patch branded on them. My brain spins through options faster than a slot machine…
Run out the back door? There’s a fire exit, but it’s probably rusted shut, and I’d be a sitting duck in the open lot.
Hide in the rafters? Tempting, but I’d have to climb over the crates, and these guys don’t look like they miss much.
Play dumb? That might just be my best shot.
I’ve been in these situations before—staring down pissed-off dealers, dodging cops, talking my way out of a bar fight with a guy twice my size. I can wrap these bikers around my little finger, same as always. A grin, a few quick words, and I’ll be out of here, no blood spilled.Probably.
I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and lean back against a crate, crossing my arms like I own the place. Confidence is key. My leather jacket’s unzipped, showing off the tight black tee underneath, and I know I look good—good enough to distract, maybe.
The warehouse door slams open, the sound echoing like a gunshot, and they storm in—six of them, big, mean, and armed. Pistols glint at their hips, tucked into waistbands or holsters, and one guy’s got a crowbar dangling from his hand, the kind that’s seen plenty of skulls.
They fan out, eyes scanning the room, but it’s the one in front who stops me cold.
He’s tall, broad as a damn truck, with a shaved head and a beard that’s more salt than pepper. His leather vest stretches tight over muscles that screamdon’t fuck with me, and his arms areinked with wolves and flames, the kind of tattoos you earn, not buy.
His eyes—dark, stormy, like they could burn holes through steel—lock onto me like I’m prey. This is the guy in charge, no question.
The air shifts when he moves, like he’s sucking up all the oxygen, and my gut twists, not just from fear. There’s something about him—something raw, commanding, that makes my pulse jump in a way I don’t want to think about right now.
I’ve dodged worse, I tell myself.
Guys like him are all bark, right?
But as he strides toward me, boots heavy on the concrete, I’m not so sure. This guy’s different. Dangerous in a way I can’t pin down.
“Well, well,” I say, flashing my best cocky grin, the one that’s gotten me out of bar fights and worse. “You boys lost? This ain’t the strip club. There’s no booty popping around here…”
The other bikers snicker, one of them—a wiry guy with a scar across his cheek—muttering something about me having a death wish.
But the big guy, the one with the storm in his eyes, doesn’t laugh. His jaw tightens, and he closes the distance between us in three long steps, each one like a countdown to my execution.
I’m ready to keep talking, to spin some bullshit about how I’m just a hired hand, no clue what’s in the crates. I’ve got a story ready—something about needing cash for a sick mom, maybe, or being forced into this by some asshole I owe. It’s worked before.
But before I can get another word out, his hand lands on my shoulder.Hard.
His grip’s like a vice, pinning me in place, and my breath catches. My skin prickles under his touch, and I hate how my body reacts—not just fear, but a spark of something else, something that makes my blood run hot.
Up close, I can see the scars on his knuckles, the faint lines around his eyes. He’s older—in his forties, maybe—and it only makes him more intimidating. His presence is overwhelming, like he’s not just a man but a force, all leather and heat and barely restrained violence.
