Page 1 of Arch (Wolf Rider MC Daddies #3)

Arch

Another night.

Another meeting.

We’ve got shit to do, and not enough time to do it…

The clubhouse smells like beer, smoke, and the faint tang of motor oil, a scent that’s been home for longer than I care to count.

I lean back in my chair at the head of the table, the Wolf Rider MC’s emblem—that trusted old snarling wolf framed by crossed pistons—etched into the wood beneath my elbows.

“Quiet down,” I roar, my voice carrying over the kerfuffle around me. “The sooner we do this, the sooner you sonsofguns can get back to partying.”

I cast a look to Clay, the chief Wolf Rider—he shoots me a knowing look. We’ve done this dance so many times.

Jace is here too, and he nods in my direction.

“Assholes! Shut the hell up!” Clay bellows, slamming his fist down on the table.

There’s no doubting it, the men are restless tonight, their voices a low rumble as they toss around half-baked plans to deal with the Vipers, the rival gang that’s been sniffing around Willow Creek yet again like buzzards circling a fresh kill.

“Arch, you got a read on this whole Viper thing?” Tank’s gravelly voice cuts through the chatter.

Tank is our enforcer, built like a goddamn bulldozer, but even he looks to me when the shit gets thick. Always has, always will…

I’m the brains of this outfit, the one who’s outsmarted the law, rival crews, and every trap set to take us down.

Forty-three years old, and I’ve never been caught. Not by cops, not by enemies. Not by anyone .

Except maybe by the itch I can’t scratch tonight.

I straighten, letting my gaze sweep the room. Eyes lock on me—some loyal, some twitchy.

The Vipers hit one of our stash houses last week, left two young guns bloodied and a message carved into the wall: This is our town now.

Ballsy, but sloppy.

They’re testing us, probing for weakness.

They won’t find it—not with me, Clay, and Jace leading the way.

“They’re pushing because they think we’re soft,” I say, voice low, cutting through the haze of cigarette smoke. “They hit the stash house to see how fast we’d bleed. We don’t hit back tonight, they’ll come for more. Ideas?”

Razor leans forward, his scarred knuckles gleaming under the fluorescent light.

“We roll up on their dive bar, bust some heads, show ‘em Willow Creek’s ours,” Raze says, to cheers from some of the other guys. “No one fucks with the Wolf Riders like this.”

I shake my head.

“Too loud,” I say. “Cops are already sniffing around after their last stunt. We need precision, not a brawl.”

My mind’s already spinning, mapping out their routes, their deals…

The Vipers are small-time, but they’ve got a new supplier, someone with deep pockets and deeper grudges. That’s the real threat, not their street muscle.

“Scout their warehouse on Route 17,” I say. “Find out who’s bankrolling them. No blood, no noise. Just intel. Tank, you and Jinx take point tomorrow night.”

Tank nods, but Jinx—our youngest full-patch member, all tattoos and nervous energy—fidgets.

“What if they’re waiting for us, Arch?” Jinx says, a hint of worry in his voice. “Heard they got new blood, some ex-military types.”

“Then you don’t get seen,” I snap, pinning him with a look that makes him shrink. “You’re a Wolf Rider, not a fucking high school kid. Act like it.”

The room falls quiet, the weight of my authority settling like dust.

They trust me because I’ve never led them wrong. I’ve outsmarted feds, dodged raids, and kept this club whole when lesser men would’ve let it burn.

But tonight, that trust feels like a chain.

I’m restless, hungry for something I can’t name.

Not blood, not power. Something rawer, something that burns hotter…

“Okay, that’s all,” I grumble, nodding as I raise my glass and take a gulp of beer to signify that it’s a wrap for now.

Meeting adjourned, the boys scatter—some to the bar, some to their bikes. I stay put, rubbing my temples, the faint throb of a headache creeping in.

Too many nights like this, planning moves, cleaning up messes.

I’m good at it—hell, I’m the best—but it’s a grind, and at forty-three, I’m starting to feel the weight of every year I’ve ridden hard and lived harder.

“All good?” Clay asks, a note of concern in his voice.

“Yeah, you know,” I reply, not in the mood for talking. “No need to worry about me, Clay.”

I grab my jacket, the leather creaking as I shrug it on, and head for The Ring, a dive bar a few blocks over where the whiskey’s cheap and the locals know better than to stare too long at a Wolf Rider.

I need a drink, maybe a fight, something to shake this itch loose…

The night air’s cool, the growl of my Harley vibrating through my bones as I ride. Willow Creek’s quiet tonight, the streets lined with sagging storefronts and neon signs that flicker like they’re on their last legs.

I pull into the Ring’s parking lot, the gravel crunching under my boots as I dismount. Inside, the jukebox wails some old country tune, and the air’s thick with booze, greasy fries, and musty cologne.

I’m halfway to the bar when I hear it—a sharp crack, glass shattering, followed by a string of curses that’d make a sailor blush. My head snaps toward the commotion…

“What the…” I mutter.

A young dude, maybe early twenties—is squared up against three locals, his fists balled, eyes blazing like he’s ready to burn the place down.

The boy’s lean, all sharp angles and coiled energy, with dark hair falling into his face and a smirk that says he’s looking for trouble and doesn’t care who knows it.

“Well what do we have here…” I say, a wry grin on my face.

One of the locals, a burly guy with a bad tattoo, swings a bottle. The boy ducks, fast, and lands a punch that sends the guy staggering.

The other two lunge, but the young guy’s already moving, grabbing a chair and smashing it across one’s back. It’s chaos, and he’s at the center, a wildfire in human form.

“Well, I’ll be damned…” I chuckle. “Things just got a whole lot more interesting around here.”

I should walk away.

This ain’t my fight, and I’ve got enough on my plate.

But something about him stops me cold. It’s not just the way he moves, all raw instinct and no fear. It’s the spark in his eyes, like he’s daring the world to break him. I’ve seen that look before, in the mirror, back when I was young and stupid and thought I could outrun everything.

“Enough!” My voice cuts through the din, low and hard, the kind that makes men freeze.

The locals back off, muttering, recognizing the Wolf Rider patch on my chest.

The boy, though, doesn’t flinch. He straightens, wiping blood from his lip, and meets my gaze with a defiance that hits me like a shot of whiskey—sharp, warm, dangerous.

“You got a death wish, kid?” I step closer, letting my height and bulk do half the talking. I’m six-two, broad from years of hauling bikes and breaking skulls, and most men shrink under my stare.

But not this one…

“Name’s Keegan,” he says, that smirk still in place, like he’s daring me to take a swing. “And I don’t need your help, old man .”

Old man.

The words sting more than they should, but I don’t let it show.

Up close, Keegan’s even more striking—green eyes that burn with something wild, a jawline sharp enough to cut, and a body that’s lean but strong, like he’s built for speed.

Twenty-two, maybe twenty-three.

Half my age, and twice as reckless.

“You’re in my town, Keegan,” I say, voice low, each word deliberate. “You start shit in my town, you answer to me.”

Keegan laughs, a short, sharp sound that’s half challenge, half invitation. “Your town, huh? Didn’t see your name on the sign.”

The bartender, a grizzled guy named Sal, steps in before I can respond…

“Arch, he’s new,” Sal says. “Just rolled in a few days ago. Ex-military, from what I hear. Likes to stir shit up.”

Military. T

hat explains the edge, the way he moves like he’s been trained to fight but doesn’t give a damn about rules.

I glance at Keegan, who’s still watching me, that smirk never wavering. There’s something in his gaze now, a flicker of interest that matches the heat pooling in my gut.

I’ve never been one for complications, but this kid—he’s a complication I didn’t see coming.

“Walk away,” I tell Keegan, stepping closer, close enough to smell the sweat on him. “Or I’ll make you.”

The boy doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. Just tilts his head, like he’s sizing me up. “You gonna make me, Daddy ?”

The word hits like a spark to dry tinder. It’s mockery, sure, but there’s an edge to it, a challenge that’s more than just bravado.

My blood hums, and for a second, I imagine pinning him against the wall, wiping that smirk off his face, showing him what happens when you poke a wolf.

But I don’t.

Not here, not now.

Instead, I lean in, my voice a growl only he can hear.

“Keep pushing, boy, and you’ll find out what I’m capable of,” I say, my voice full of serious intent.

In that moment, Keegan’s eyes widen, just a fraction, but he doesn’t back down. If anything, he leans closer, his breath warm against my jaw.

“Maybe I want to find out,” Keegan says.

The air between us crackles, thick with something I can’t name but feel in every nerve.

I’ve outsmarted every enemy I’ve ever faced, but this—this kid, this moment—feels like a chase I might not win. Not because I can’t, but because I’m not sure I want to…

“Get the hell out of here,” I say finally, stepping back, breaking the spell. “Before I change my mind.”

Keegan holds my gaze for a beat longer, then grabs his jacket from the floor, slings it over his shoulder, and saunters out like he owns the place.

The locals mutter, but no one follows.

They all know better.

I turn to Sal, who’s wiping down the bar like nothing happened.

“Keep an eye on him,” I say. “He’s trouble.”

Sal snorts.

“Pot, meet kettle,” Sal says, a knowing look on his face.

I don’t argue.

Sal’s not wrong.

I finish my whiskey, the burn doing nothing to cool the fire Keegan’s lit in me.

Outside, I hear the roar of a bike—not one of ours.

Keegan’s, maybe.

I picture him riding into the night, all wild energy and no direction, and something in me shifts. I’ve spent my life outsmarting traps, but Keegan? He’s a trap I might just walk into.

Outside in the cool night air, the Vipers’ threat lingers in my mind, but it’s Keegan’s smirk, his voice, that follows me onto my bike.

I gun the engine, the roar drowning out everything but the truth…

I’m not done with Keegan. Not by a long shot.