Page 9 of Raze
Raze
The boy Nico is still mouthing off as I shove the interrogation room door shut behind me, his voice sharp with frustration, all defiance and no sense.
“Yeah, yea, whatever,” I call back, my voice no doubt frustrating him further.
Nico’s tied to the metal chair now, wrists bound with zip ties, his leather jacket off and his t-shirt bunched up from struggling. Those blue eyes flash with a mix of fear and fire, and that cocky grin of his is long gone, replaced by a scowl that’s almost too pretty to be pissed. I offered him a deal—spill everything about his crew, or he’s done—and he gave me half-truths about some nobody named Snake and a guy called Tito.
It’s not enough.
Not even close.
He’s playing me, and I don’t like being played. But as I walk away, his cries echo down the hall, petulant and desperate, and something in my gut twists. Not just anger. Something hotter, messier. I clench my fists and keep moving.
The clubhouse bar is alive with noise—heavy metal pounding from the jukebox, glasses clinking, bikers laughing over a game of pool.
The air’s thick with smoke and the neon wolf’s head over the bar pulses like a heartbeat. This place is home, the heart of the Wolf Riders MC, where we plan, fight, and bleed for each other.
I’ve been with the club for fifteen years, since I was young, just like Nico running from a past I don’t talk about. The Wolf Riders gave me purpose, a family forged in blood and loyalty, and I’d die before I let anyone threaten that.
Right now, that threat’s sitting in our backroom, tied to a chair, and I’m supposed to break him.
Problem is, I’m not sure I want to—not the way I should.
I spot Clay at the bar, nursing a whiskey, his broad shoulders hunched like he’s carrying the weight of the club. He’s our president—smart, tough as hell, with eyes that miss nothing. Jase, his second-in-command, leans beside him, all lean muscle and sharp edges, his dark hair slicked back, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
They’re talking low, heads close, but they look up as I approach, their eyes reading me before I say a word. Clay’s the one who sent us to the warehouse, who trusted me to handle this shit. Jase is the one who’ll back whatever call Clay makes, but he’s got a mean streak that makes Kash’s crowbar look tame.
Clay and Jase have got their own boys, and as far as I can tell it is true love for them both. But if anyone thinks that love has made Clay or Jase soft, then that would be pretty much the biggest, gravest error you could make. If anything, the pair ofthem are more dangerous now than they’ve ever been… love works in all kinds of ways.
I trust them both with my life. But this conversation? It might be tricky.
“Raze,” Clay says, his voice gravelly from years of shouting over engines and bar fights. “What’s the word?”
I lean against the bar, signaling the prospect behind it for a beer. The kid—some cute new guy—slides one over, and I take a long pull, letting the cold burn settle my nerves.
“The boy’s name’s Nico,” I say, keeping my tone even. “Twenty-one. Typical kid who thinks he knows it all. Got ideas about being smart. Claims he’s just a runner for a small-time crew—guy named Snake, another called Tito. Says he didn’t know the goods were ours. Swears he’s just hired help.”
Jase snorts, blowing smoke. “Bullshit. Kid’s got our shit. He’s in it up to his neck.”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “He’s lying. Not about everything—Snake and Tito sound real enough, low-level punks whose names I’ve heard and Tank checked out and confirmed—but Nico’s holding back. He’s smart, though. A real hustler. Knows how to work a room, spin a story.”
I think of that grin in the warehouse, the way he stood there like he owned the place, even with my .45 in reach. It pissed me off, but it also… caught me. Those eyes, that mouth. Trouble I don’t need.
Clay’s staring at me, his gaze heavy, like he’s peeling back my thoughts.
“You think he’s gonna talk?” he asks, swirling his whiskey. “You think you need to get rough?”
I hesitate, and that’s a mistake.
Clay and Jase exchange a look, quick but loaded, the kind that says they know me better than I’d like. I’ve been their enforcer for years, cracking skulls, getting answers, keeping our territory clean.
Violence is my language, and I’m fluent.
But with Nico? I don’t think violence is the answer.
Not because I’m soft—fuck that—but because there’s something else at play. I felt it on the bike, his body pressed against mine, his hands gripping my waist, too tight, too warm. He was aroused, no question, his hard cock obvious even through his jeans. And I’d be lying if I said it didn’t stir something in me, too—a heat that’s got no place in a job like this.
“I think it needs something else,” I say finally, keeping my voice low. “Beating him bloody won’t get us the truth. He’s too slippery for that. Kid’s used to taking hits, you can see it in him. He’ll give us just about enough truth, but there will be an angle, a spin. The thing is, I think he’s… responsive. There’s an energy between us.”
