Page 1 of Raze (Wolf Rider MC Daddies #4)

Nico

“Okaaaay…” I sigh, taking a look around. “So much time to kill, and no one to kill it with.”

Foster homes were my childhood—six of them by the time I was sixteen, each one a different flavor of disappointment. Cold dinners, locked doors, foster parents who looked at me like I was a paycheck or a punching bag.

It wasn’t an easy childhood. Far from it.

But I learned early to rely on myself, to charm my way through the cracks of a system that didn’t give a shit.

I had my looks, my cunning, and honestly it felt like I had so little to lose that I never minded taking a big risk.

After all, what was the worst that could happen to a kid who had already probably experienced it?

By sixteen, I was done .

I hit the road, drifting from town to town, earning money however I could—hustling pool in dive bars, running packages for guys who don’t ask for ID, lifting wallets when times get lean.

And I’m still doing that now.

I’m good at it, too.

Always have been, probably always will be.

People see my sharp cheekbones, my messy hair, and these big blue eyes everyone says could charm a snake, and they underestimate me. That’s their first mistake.

Their second mistake is thinking that I’m not as low down and dirty as they are.

The truth is that living the kind of life I’ve lived for so long, I know all the tricks in the book.

And I’ve probably invented a few new ones myself.

For every situation, I’ve got a play locked and loaded, ready to see me walk out on top.

But even with my looks and street smarts, I’m still living this life like the rest of the hustlers and schemers out there…

Right now, I’m slouched against a stack of crates in this rundown warehouse on the edge of town, babysitting a pile of stolen goods for some lowlife crew I barely know.

They’re not exactly a crew I’d be scared of, but they’ve got that wild don’t give a fuck attitude that makes them dangerous unless I keep my wits about me.

But there’s no danger of me slacking and getting caught though.

I’ve been running with assholes like this long enough to know how to move.

I’m here to get paid, get out, move on to the next job.

The crates are stuffed with electronics—phones, laptops, maybe some car parts, all shrink-wrapped and screaming hot . I don’t need to check the labels to know it’s stolen, probably swiped from some other dumbass crew who thought they could play big.

My job’s simple: sit tight, keep watch, and don’t ask questions.

The crew—guys with names like Snake and Tito, who smell like cheap beer and cheaper cologne—dumped me here while they’re out on the streets, no doubt setting up deals to move this junk.

I’m the expendable kid, the one they leave holding the bag.

Fine by me.

I’ve been in worse spots, and I always come out smiling. Usually .

The warehouse is a shithole, all cracked concrete and rusted beams, with shadows pooling in the corners like spilled ink. The air’s heavy, thick with dust and the faint hum of a flickering fluorescent light overhead.

A single bulb swings from a frayed cord, casting jagged light over the crates and the graffiti-scarred walls. Fuck the system , someone’s spray-painted in red, and I can’t help but smirk. Mood. Definitely a mood .

There’s a busted window near the loading dock, letting in a sliver of moonlight and the distant hum of the nearby industrial town. I’m fiddling with a loose thread on my ripped jeans, half-bored, half-wired from too much coffee, when the low growl of motorcycles snaps me out of it.

“Interesting,” I whisper, my voice low, my survival instincts kicking in.

My heart kicks up a notch, but I don’t panic. Not yet.

I’ve heard bikes before—plenty of crews roll through these parts, flexing muscle, making noise. I figure it’s just some wannabe gang scoping the place. I can handle that. I’ve talked my way out of tighter jams than this, using charm like a switchblade.

I’ve also got a gun… which hopefully I won’t need to use. But if it comes down to it, I’ll do whatever I need to do.

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 be their loot.

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 scream don’t fuck with me , and his arms are inked 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.

“You think you’re cute, kid?” His voice is low, rough, like gravel dragged over iron. It sends a shiver down my spine, and I’m not sure if it’s the threat or something else. “You’re holding our shit. That’s a death wish. But you already know that, right?”

I force my grin wider, even though my heart’s hammering so loud I’m sure he can hear it.

“ Your shit? Man, I’m just the delivery boy. Didn’t know I was stepping on any toes.” I tilt my head, letting my hair fall into my eyes, playing up the innocent act. “How about we talk this out? No need to get messy.”

His eyes narrow, and his fingers tighten on my shoulder, just shy of painful.

The other bikers circle closer, cutting off any chance of bolting.

I can feel their stares, like wolves sizing up a meal.

The guy with the crowbar taps it against his palm, smirking, and another one—a beefy dude with dark hair I hear being called Tank—cracks his knuckles.

They’re waiting for a signal, and I’m pretty sure it’s gonna come from the guy whose hand is still on me.

“You got a name, delivery boy?” he asks, his voice dripping with menace.

“Nico,” I say, keeping my tone light, like we’re just two guys chatting at a bar. “And you are…?”

He doesn’t answer, just stares at me like he’s peeling back my skin, looking for the truth underneath.

I keep my grin in place, but it’s starting to feel like a mask.

I’ve talked my way out of a lot—angry dealers, jealous exes, cops with too much time on their hands—but this? This might be the one time I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.

His glare says I’m already dead, and as he leans in, his face inches from mine, I smell leather, smoke, and something sharp, like danger itself.

“You made a big mistake, boy,” he growls, and the word boy hits me like a punch, low and hot. “Well, Nico. My name’s Raze. And we’re going to be getting to know one another very well indeed. And that’s about as far from a request as you can get…”

I swallow hard, my smirk faltering.

Yeah, I might’ve fucked up. Big time.