Page 4 of Arch (Wolf Rider MC Daddies #3)

Keegan

Arch’s voice is still ringing in my ears hours after he left me in that greasy garage, pinned against the wall like I was his to command.

“You want in with the Wolf Riders, you play by my rules.”

My skin’s still buzzing where he grabbed my shirt, his knuckles brushing my chest, his growl so low it felt like it sank into my bones.

I hate how much I wanted to push him further, to see if he’d snap and close that inch between us.

I hate how much I’m still thinking about it, sprawled on my motel bed, the ceiling’s cracks blurring as I replay every word, every look…

“ Urgh . I don’t need this shit in my life,” I grumble.

But I know that I need to face the situation head on…

Arch is offering me a shot with the Wolf Riders—family, purpose, a place to belong. It’s everything I’ve been missing since the Army spit me out.

But it comes with a catch: him .

Arch, with his steel-gray eyes and iron will, demanding I submit. The word alone makes my hackles rise. I’ve never been good at bowing to anyone, not my drill sergeants, not my CO, not even my own damn conscience.

But there’s something about Arch’s control, his certainty, that makes me want to try—just to see what it feels like to let someone else call the shots.

I sit up, raking a hand through my hair.

I can’t sit here all night, stewing like some lovesick kid.

Arch said to think about it, but I know what I’m doing. I grab my jacket, the leather worn soft from years of riding solo, and head out.

The Wolf Riders are having a hangout tonight, some low-key thing at their clubhouse on the edge of Willow Creek. I heard it from a guy at the garage, a youngster who wouldn’t shut up about the club’s legendary parties.

I’m not signing up yet, but I need to see what I’m getting into.

I need to see him again, even if I won’t admit it out loud…

The clubhouse is a fortress of cinderblock and steel, tucked behind a chain-link fence topped with razor wire.

Bikes line the lot, Harleys mostly, their chrome glinting under floodlights.

Music—hard rock, maybe Metallica—thumps from inside, mixed with laughter and the clink of bottles.

I park my bike at the edge, feeling eyes on me before I even dismount. A couple of junior looking members by the gate size me up, their Wolf Rider jackets unmarked, too clean, their stares saying I don’t belong when really it’s them who should consider themselves lucky to be here.

I flash a grin, sharp and reckless, and saunter past.

They don’t stop me, but I know they’re watching.

Inside, the air’s thick with smoke, beer, and the kind of raw energy that comes from men who live on the edge.

The place is packed—bikers in leather, boys in tight jeans, a few guys who look like they’re here for more than the booze.

The Wolf Rider emblem, that snarling wolf with crossed pistons, looms on the wall above a bar littered with empty bottles.

I did a little digging back at the garage, got some intel on the hierarchy. It doesn’t take me long to piece that information together in the flesh…

I spot Clay, the chief, holding court near a pool table, his arm around a guy who’s laughing like he owns the room.

Jace is nearby, quieter, his eyes scanning the crowd like he’s always ready for trouble.

And then there’s Arch, leaning against the bar, a whiskey in hand, his gaze cutting through the haze to land on me the second I step inside.

My pulse kicks up, but I keep my face neutral, grabbing a beer from a cooler and leaning against a wall to scope things out.

The bikers are rough, loud, loyal to a fault—you can feel it in the way they clap each other’s backs, the way they talk like they’d die for this club.

It’s a world I don’t fit into, not yet, and the weight of that makes me feel like a kid playing dress-up. I sip my beer, bitter and cold, and try to ignore the pull of Arch’s stare.

“ Keegan .”

Arch’s voice cuts through the noise, low and commanding, and I turn to find him right there, close enough to make the air feel charged. He’s in his element here, all leather and muscle, his silver-streaked hair catching the light.

“Didn’t expect you to show,” Arch continues.

“Figured I’d see what the fuss is about,” I say, keeping my tone light, though my heart’s hammering. “Nice place. Bit loud for an old man like you, though.”

Arch’s eyes narrow, but there’s a flicker of amusement in them.

“You’re here to talk shit, or you serious about what we discussed?” Arch asks, his eyes focused on me, despite all the chaos going on around us.

I shrug, taking a swig of beer to buy time.

“Depends,” I reply. “What’s it take to hang with you Wolves?”

Arch steps closer, his bulk blocking out the room, and I feel that same thrill from the garage—the sense that he could pin me down and make me like it.

“Commitment,” Arch says, voice low. “ Discipline . You prove you can handle the small stuff, we’ll see about the rest. Start with this.” Arch nods toward a row of bikes parked inside, their chrome dulled by dust and road grime. “Clean ‘em. All of ‘em. Now .”

I laugh, sharp and incredulous.

“Are you freakin’ serious?” I spit. “I’m not your fucking butler, Arch.”

I can see that Arch was probably expecting a reaction like this. So far, he’s been hard to out maneuver, and before I know it, Arch is telling me what I need to hear…

“You want to be more than a loudmouth drifter, you start where I tell you,” Arch answers, his tone hard enough to make me flinch. “Or you can walk out that door and keep screwing up your life. Your call, boy.”

The word boy hits like a spark, igniting a mix of resentment and something hotter.

I want to tell him to fuck off, to shove his bikes and his rules.

But those eyes, gray and unyielding, hold me in place, daring me to step up or back down. And damn it, I want to prove Arch wrong. I want to show him I’m more than the screw-up he thinks I am.

“Fine,” I mutter, tossing my beer into a trash can. “But don’t expect me to kiss your ass while I’m at it.”

His lips twitch, almost a smile, but it’s gone fast.

“Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty of time for ass kissing later,” arch replies, drawing a chuckle of appreciation from Clay as he walks by. “Now get to work. I’ll be watching.”

“You got it,” I say, more than a note of sarcasm in my voice—but not quite enough to draw out a response from Arch. He’s got the upper hand right now, and he knows it too.

I grab a rag and a bucket from a corner, my jaw tight as I start on the first bike.

It’s grunt work, the kind of shit they give pledges to break them, and every swipe of the rag feels like a test.

The clubhouse buzzes around me, but I keep my head down, ignoring the snickers from a few prospects who think I’m some chump.

Arch stays at the bar, flanked by Clay and Jace, his gaze a weight on my back, and I hate how much I want to impress him, how much his approval matters.

I’m halfway through the second bike when two guys approach, both younger than Arch, early twenties, similar to me. One’s blond, built like a surfer, with a grin that screams trouble. The other’s darker, leaner, with a quiet intensity that’s kind of cool.

Both guys are wearing Wolf Rider cuts, but there’s something different about them—less rough, more… settled .

“You’re Keegan, right?” the blond says, offering a hand. “I’m Dylan. This is Caleb. Heard you got Arch’s attention. That’s no small feat.”

I wipe my hands, shaking Dylan’s hand, then Caleb’s.

“Yeah, well, he’s got a funny way of showing it,” I say, nodding at the bikes. “What’s your deal? You guys riders?”

Dylan laughs, nudging Caleb.

“We’re Clay and Jace’s boys,” Dylan says. “Been with the club a while now. Trust me, Arch’s bark is bad, but he’s got a big heart under all that leather.”

“ Boys ?” I raise an eyebrow, catching the implication. The Daddy/boy vibe Arch keeps pushing makes more sense now, and I’m intrigued by how easy Dylan and Caleb seem with it.

They’re happy, comfortable, like they’ve found their place in this chaos.

“So, what, you just… do what Clay and Jace say?” I ask. “No questions?”

Caleb snorts, his voice soft but sharp.

“It’s not like that,” Caleb says. “It’s about trust. They’ve got our backs, we’ve got theirs. You’ll see… if you stick around.”

I glance at Arch, who’s deep in conversation with Clay now, his profile all hard lines and silver charm.

The idea of trusting someone like that, letting them lead—it’s foreign, but seeing Dylan and Caleb, it doesn’t look weak. It looks… right .

“Maybe,” I say, noncommittal, but my mind’s spinning.

Before I can dig deeper, a shout cuts through the music…

Tank’s at the door, his face grim.

“Arch! Clay! We got a problem,” Tank roars. “Vipers tagged our lot—graffiti, big as hell, right by the fucking gate.”

The room shifts, the party vibe replaced by a tense edge.

Arch is on his feet in a second, striding toward Tank, Clay and Jace right behind.

I drop the rag, following without thinking, drawn to the action.

Outside, the floodlights show the damage…

A giant snake, the Vipers’ mark, spray-painted across the asphalt, bold and mocking.

“Fuckers,” Clay growls, but Arch’s already moving, crouching to inspect the paint, his eyes scanning the lot like he’s reading a battlefield.

“Still wet,” Arch says, voice calm but cold. “They were here less than an hour ago. Why the hell was no one watching? Whatever. Well deal with that later. Tank, check the cameras. Jace, get a crew to scrub this shit off before it sets. We’re not letting this stand.”

I watch as Arch stands, his gaze sweeping the crowd, landing on me for a beat.

“Keegan, back to work,” Arch says, but there’s no heat in it, just focus.

I nod, heading back to the bikes, but I can’t tear my eyes off him.

Watching Arch, it’s clear that he’s in complete control, every move precise, his mind three steps ahead.

It’s not just power—it’s strategy, the kind that keeps this club alive. And damn if it doesn’t make me want him more, want to be part of whatever he’s building.

As I scrub the next bike, my defiance from earlier feels small, childish.

Arch’s sternness, his rules—they’re not just about control.

They’re about protecting this family, this world.

And for the first time, I wonder if I could fit into it.

What if I could let him guide me, not because I’m weak, but because I want to be strong for him?

The thought scares me, but it’s there, burning brighter than my pride.

Arch might not be the total asshole I assumed he was—and if that’s the case, then who knows what will happen between us…