Page 2 of Arch (Wolf Rider MC Daddies #3)

Keegan

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck ,” I grumble, kicking the dirt beneath me.

The night air bites my face as I take one more kick at the ground and then straddle my bike outside The Ring, the gravel lot lit by the bar’s flickering neon sign.

“That asshole thinks he can push me around…” I growl. “He ain’t seen the last of me, that’s for damn sure.”

My knuckles sting from the fight, blood crusting where I split the skin, but the pain feels good—sharp, real, something to anchor the storm in my chest.

I wipe my lip, tasting copper, and replay that moment when he stepped in… the so-called Wolf Rider. Arch. The silver fox with eyes like steel and a voice that could make the devil sit up straight.

Damn I wish I didn’t even know his name. I didn’t ask, or want to know. But I wasn’t about to swing at the old timer who gave me the details on the way out like he was trying to help me out.

I should be pissed.

This supposed Wolf Rider called me boy , like I’m some punk who needs saving.

But the way he loomed over me, all six-two of hard muscle and leather, his growl low and dangerous— “You’re in my town, Keegan” —it’s stuck in my head, looping like a bad song.

I hate how he thought he could boss me around, but fuck if I’m not drawn to it, to him .

That danger, that power.

The way his jaw clenched when I called him Daddy , half-joking, half-daring him to do something about it.

“Hey, you,” a voice snaps me out of it.

It’s one of the locals, a wiry guy with a trucker hat, leaning against a pickup a few feet away. He’s got that nervous look people get around trouble—like he’s half-expecting me to swing again.

“Name’s Keegan,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “What do you want?”

He glances at the bar, then back at me.

“Word of advice? Steer clear of Arch,” he says, a serious expression in his eyes. “And the Wolf Riders. They don’t play nice with outsiders. Especially not hotheads like you.”

I snort, firing up my bike.

The engine roars, a deep growl that vibrates through my bones.

“Thanks, pops, but I don’t scare easy,” I say. “Between you and the other old timer in the bar, I think I’ve had just about enough warnings about Arch and his little wolf posse.”

“Have it your way, asshole,” the older timer fires back, evidently unimpressed with my sass.

I flash a grin, the kind that says I’m more trouble than he wants, and peel out of the lot, leaving him—and everyone else—in a cloud of dust.

Willow Creek’s streets unroll under my tires, dark and quiet except for the occasional streetlight buzzing like a dying insect.

I gun the engine, weaving past sagging storefronts and boarded-up diners, the town’s decay a mirror to the mess inside me.

I’ve been back three days, and already I’m picking fights, stirring shit, trying to feel something other than this gnawing emptiness.

Why did I come back to this place?

I knew I should have headed West.

Or maybe even overseas. But it’s not like I had much of a choice…

Dishonorable discharge. The words burn like acid. Two years in the Army, thinking I’d found a place to belong, only to get kicked out for mouthing off to the wrong officer.

One punch, one bad call, and my life’s in the ditch.

Willow Creek’s got nothing for me—no family, no friends, just memories of being the kid who never fit.

Too loud, too wild, too much for anyone to handle.

I thought the military would tame me, give me purpose—hell, that’s what everyone else said it would do for me.

Instead, it spit me out. And now I’m twenty-two, aimless, with a chip on my shoulder the size of Texas and no clue what’s next.

“Fuck it,” I growl, dropping down a gear and flying around a corner way faster than I should, just for the hell of it.

The road stretches ahead, a long ribbon of asphalt cutting through the outskirts.

I open the throttle, the bike screaming as I push it harder, faster, like I can outrun the mess in my head.

But no matter how fast I go, I can’t shake him .

Arch.

His face keeps flashing—those gray eyes, sharp as knives, the silver streaking his dark hair, the way his leather jacket hugged his broad shoulders.

He’s old enough to be my father probably, but nothing about him feels safe or soft. He’s danger wrapped in control, and I hate how much I want to test that control, see how far I can push before he snaps…

Back in the bar, he stopped that fight without lifting a finger.

Just his voice, his presence, and those locals backed off like whipped dogs.

I should’ve walked away too, but I couldn’t.

There was no walking away, not when he looked at me like he saw something worth noticing.

Not when he stepped so close I could smell the whiskey and leather on him, his growl— “Keep pushing, boy, and you’ll find out what I’m capable of” —sending heat curling through me.

I threw that Daddy line to mess with him, but the way his eyes darkened, like he was two seconds from pinning me to the wall… fuck, I wanted him to.

I shake my head, the wind whipping my hair as I lean into a curve.

This is stupid .

He’s a Wolf Rider, probably runs half this town with that crew of his. I heard the whispers in the bar: They don’t mess around. Cross them, you’re done.

I don’t need that kind of trouble.

I’ve got enough trouble of my own.

But even as I tell myself to steer clear, my mind’s back on him, on that moment when I leaned in, my breath grazing his jaw, and said, “Maybe I want to find out.” His eyes flared, and for a second, I thought he’d do it—grab me, shove me against something solid, show me what happens when you poke a real wolf.

The road climbs toward the bluffs, the town shrinking behind me.

I ease off the throttle, pulling over at a lookout where the valley sprawls dark and endless. My bike idles, a low rumble under me, and I light a cigarette, the flame flaring briefly before the night swallows it.

I exhale, watching the smoke curl upward, and let my thoughts drift back to Arch.

He’s not just some biker thug.

There’s something sharp about him, like he’s playing chess while everyone else is throwing punches.

The way he sized me up, like he could see right through my bullshit.

I don’t know what he saw. I’m just a screw-up with a bad temper and a worse record. But the way he looked at me… it wasn’t pity, wasn’t just lust. It was like he saw potential, something worth taming.

And that scares me more than his size or his Wolf Rider patch.

I’ve never been good at following orders, at fitting into someone else’s mold. But with Arch, part of me wants to try—just to see what it’d feel like to let someone else take the wheel.

I flick the cigarette away, the ember arcing into the dark, and rev my bike.

Enough of this.

I need to move, to ride so hard and fast I leave Arch and his steel-gray eyes in the dust. I tear back onto the road, the engine’s roar drowning out my thoughts. The speed’s a rush, the world blurring into streaks of black and silver, but it’s not enough.

But Arch is still there, in the back of my mind, that growl, that smirk, that promise of something I’m not sure I’m ready for.

The road loops back toward town, and I slow as I hit the main drag.

The Ring’s still lit up, a few bikes parked out front, but I don’t stop. I can’t. If I go back in there, I’ll look for him, and I’m not ready to face what that means.

Instead, I head for the motel where I’m crashing, a dive with peeling paint and a bed that sags like my prospects.

I park, cut the engine, and sit there, the silence heavy after the bike’s roar.

My phone buzzes—a text from some guy I met at a gas station, asking if I’m up for a drink.

Screw that.

I ignore the message.

I don’t want a drink, or company, or anything that isn’t… him .

Fuck. I rake a hand through my hair, frustrated. This isn’t me. I don’t get hung up on people, especially not some biker twice my age who thinks he can order me around.

But I can’t stop picturing Arch—his hands, rough from years of riding, gripping my jacket. His voice… low and commanding, telling me to behave. His eyes… seeing too much.

I swing off the bike, heading for my room, but pause at the door.

Willow Creek’s got nothing for me, not really. I could leave tomorrow, hit the highway, find a new town to tear up.

But I won’t.

Not yet.

Because as much as I hate admitting it, Arch is a puzzle I want to solve. A challenge I want to take. And maybe, he’s the one thing in this shithole town that could make me feel alive again.

Pah , who am I kidding?

I unlock the door, the room dark and musty, and flop onto the bed, staring at the cracked ceiling.

My pulse is still racing, not from the ride but from him .

I close my eyes, and there he is, leaning in, his breath hot, his growl a promise. “Keep pushing, boy.”

I smile, sharp and reckless, because I know I will.

I’ll push, and I’ll see how far we can take this—how far I can take him —before one of us breaks.