Page 2 of Raze (Wolf Rider MC Daddies #4)

Raze

“Yo, Tank, what are you thinking?” I grumble, my mind focused on the task ahead, and my fists ready to do the talking too if it comes to that.

“I’m thinking some stupid assholes fucked with the wrong crew,” Tank laughs. “Same shit, different day. All I know is that I want to get this wrapped up so we can be back at the clubhouse in time for the playoffs…”

“Typical,” Kash laughs. “But… yeah… the playoffs would be pretty damn sweet. I think this could be our year.”

“Since when have you two been football fans?” I laugh. “You can talk about the playoffs as much as you want. But what I’m really hearing is that you two sonsofbitches want to get back home and see if any hot new boys are in town.”

The three of us laugh. But it’s time to get our minds off boys now and focus on task in hand…

I’m Raze, enforcer for the Wolf Riders MC, and revenge is my religion.

The word came down from Clay, our president, two days ago: someone’s been hitting our shipments, stealing goods we fought and bled for. Electronics, weapons, cash—doesn’t matter what.

You don’t cross the Wolf Riders and walk away clean.

My job’s simple: find the bastards, make them pay, and send a message that echoes through every back alley and dive bar in this town.

I don’t ask questions. I don’t hesitate. I get it done.

That’s why Clay trusts me, why the club counts on me to keep our name feared and our territory ironclad. This is Wolf Rider country, and any lowlife scumbag who thinks otherwise is operating on borrowed time as far as we’re concerned.

Tonight, I’m rolling with some Riders including Tank and Kash, two rock-solid brothers I’d trust with my life. Tank’s a mountain of a man, dark hair, knuckles scarred from too many fights. Kash is leaner, meaner, silver-haired with a scar across his cheek and eyes that don’t miss a thing.

The Wolf Riders MC is a bond for life, forged in blood and loyalty.

I’d risk it all for these guys, and they’d do the same for me.

We’ve spilled blood together, patched each other up, buried brothers who didn’t make it. This club is my family, the only one that’s ever mattered, and I’ll burn this town to the ground before I let anyone fuck with us.

We’re parked just outside a rundown warehouse on the edge of town, engines growling low under the sodium glow of a flickering streetlight. The tip came from one of our runners— some lowlife crew’s holding our stolen goods here, thinking they can play big.

Idiots .

The warehouse is a crumbling heap of concrete and rust, windows shattered, walls tagged with faded graffiti. It smells like piss and motor oil, even from out here.

I signal to Tank and Kash, and we dismount, boots crunching gravel.

My .45 is holstered at my hip, loaded and ready. Tank’s got his Glock, and Kash grips a crowbar, his favorite toy for sending the kind of message that doesn’t need a reply.

We lock and load, moving as one, silent and deadly, like the wolves on our patches.

The night air’s thick, heavy with the threat of a storm. My blood’s pumping, a familiar heat that comes before a fight.

I live for this—the hunt, the reckoning.

Whoever’s in there is about to learn what happens when you steal from us. I know I’m going to hell, but I’ve sent enough men there myself to know that this is the life we chose—and the life comes with risk and reward by the bucket load.

I kick the warehouse door open, the metal screeching as it slams against the wall.

The sound echoes like a gunshot, and we storm in, weapons drawn, eyes scanning the shadows.

The place is a maze of crates and rusted beams, lit by a single flickering bulb swinging from a frayed cord. It’s deserted. Or so I think.

“Fuckin’ empty,” Tank growls, his voice low, like he’s itching to break something.

“Hold up,” Kash says, nodding toward the back. His sharp eyes catch movement, and I see it too—a figure leaning against a stack of crates, casual as hell, like he’s waiting for a bus.

What the hell…

It’s just a kid.

He looks barely old enough to drink, all sharp cheekbones and defiant eyes that glint under the dim light.

The boy’s messy black hair falls into his face, and his leather jacket’s unzipped, showing off a tight black tee that clings to a lean frame.

He’s got our goods—crates stacked behind him, marked with our supplier’s code.

My first instinct is to end him right here, one bullet, clean and done.

Nobody steals from the Wolf Riders and lives to brag about it.

But something about his fearless grin, the way he stands there like he’s got the upper hand, makes my trigger finger hesitate. My blood’s running hotter than it should, and I don’t like it.

“Well, well,” the kid says, his voice dripping with cocky charm. “You boys lost? This ain’t the strip club. There’s no booty popping around here…”

Tank snorts, and Kash mutters,

“This kid’s got a death wish.” I don’t laugh.

My jaw tightens, and I close the distance in three long strides, boots heavy on the concrete.

Each step feels like a countdown, but to what, I’m not sure.

The kid keeps talking, spinning some bullshit about being a delivery boy, no clue what’s in the crates.

I’ve heard it all before, every lie in the book, but his confidence is something else.

The boy’s not scared, or if he is, he’s hiding it damn well. Those blue eyes lock onto mine, bold and unyielding, and I feel a pull I don’t want to name.

I grab his shoulder, hard, pinning him against the crate.

The boy’s breath catches, but he doesn’t flinch.

Up close, I can see the defiance in his face, the way his lips curve like he’s daring me to do something.

Scars on my knuckles brush against his jacket, and I smell leather, cheap coffee, and something faintly sweet, like trouble I don’t need.

He’s younger than I thought—maybe twenty-one—and too damn pretty for his own good.

It’s messing with my head, and I don’t do mess .

“You think you’re cute, kid?” I growl, my voice low, rough as gravel. “You’re holding our shit. That’s a death wish. But you already know that, right?”

He grins wider, like he’s enjoying this.

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

I don’t buy it. Not for a second.

His charm’s a weapon, sharp as any blade, and I’ve seen guys like him before—hustlers who think they can talk their way out of anything. But he’s in deep, and he knows it. My fingers tighten on his shoulder, just shy of painful, and I lean in, close enough to feel the heat off him.

“You got a name, delivery boy?”

“Nico,” he says, all casual, like we’re swapping names over beers. “And you are…?”

I let the silence hang, letting him feel the weight of my stare. Tank and Kash move closer, boxing him in. Tank cracks his knuckles, and Kash taps that damn crowbar against his palm, smirking like he’s ready to crack a skull.

They’re waiting for my signal, but I’m not ready to give it. Not yet.

This kid’s got answers, and I want them.

Who’s he working for? How’d a punk like him end up with our goods? And why the hell is my pulse kicking up, like I’m the one caught off guard?

“You made a big mistake, boy,” I say, the word boy low and deliberate. It hits him—I see it in the way his eyes flicker, just for a second. “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…”

His smirk falters, and I feel a grim satisfaction.

Nico’s not as untouchable as he thinks.

I let go of his shoulder, but I don’t step back.

“Tank, Kash, check the crates,” I order, not taking my eyes off Nico.

They move fast, ripping open the shrink-wrap, confirming it’s our haul—laptops, burners, and a few boxes of ammo we lost last week.

My blood boils. This isn’t just a theft… it’s a slap in the face.

Someone’s testing us, and this kid’s the key to finding them.

“You’re coming with us,” I tell him, grabbing his arm and hauling him toward the door. He stumbles but keeps that damn grin, like he’s still got cards to play. I’m not sure if I want to wipe it off his face or see how far he’ll push it. “ Move .”

“Okay, okay, I’m coming,” Nico grumbles, a slightly petulant tone to his voice that I don’t appreciate.

“I were in your shoes, I’d be acting a whole lot more humble,” I growl. “You’re in serious fucking shit here, boy. Don’t think for one second that you’re not.”

Outside, the air’s cooler, the storm clouds thicker overhead.

I shove Nico toward my bike, a black Harley that’s been my ride for a decade, scarred and reliable as hell.

“Get on,” I snap, climbing on in front.

He hesitates, just for a second, then swings a leg over, settling behind me. His hands hover, like he’s not sure where to put them, and I feel the heat of him pressed against my back.

It’s distracting, and I hate it. But judging from the package that Nico’s pressing into me, he doesn’t hate this anywhere near as much as he should. I might be taking him to his certain death for all he knows—but it seems like his dick very much hasn’t got the message.

I rev the engine, the roar drowning out whatever smartass comment he’s about to make.

“Hold on, kid,” I growl over my shoulder.

His hands finally land on my waist, light at first, then tighter as I gun it.

Tank and Kash fall in behind, their bikes rumbling like a war drum, moving slower than me as they pull the trailer of our stolen stash—now back in its rightful hands.

The warehouse fades into the night as we tear down the highway, the wind sharp against my face.

Nico’s grip is steady, his body too close, and I clench my jaw, forcing myself to focus.

This is business. He’s a lead, nothing more.

I’m gonna get the full lowdown on whoever he’s working for—names, places, plans.

I don’t care what I have to do to get it. Break his fingers, scare him shitless, whatever it takes.

But that grin, those eyes—they’re trouble, the kind that could make a man like me forget the rules.

Nico’s hot as hell, and he knows it too.

He’s probably imagining all the things he could do, all the promises he could make me in exchange for him walking away from this unscathed.

But that’s not the way I work. Nico ain’t met a Wolf Rider before.

The clubhouse is twenty miles out, a fortress of cinderblock and steel where we handle business like this.

Nico’s not getting out until I know everything .

And if he thinks he can charm his way past me, he’s about to learn how wrong he is. My hands tighten on the handlebars, the road stretching out like a promise of violence.

Revenge is sure as hell my religion, and tonight, I’m its preacher.

But as Nico’s fingers dig into my waist, I feel a heat that’s got nothing to do with vengeance, and it’s pissing me off. I tell myself it’s just the adrenaline, just the hunt.

But deep down, I know this kid’s already under my skin…