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

Nico

The Harley’s engine roars beneath me, a deep, throaty growl that vibrates through my bones, sending a jolt straight to my core.

“You good back there?” Raze hollers, his voice barely audible. “Don’t go getting any ideas. You jump off, you don’t wake up.”

“Got it,” I holler back, doing my best to keep my tone as neutral as possible.

I’m pressed against Raze’s back, my thighs gripping the bike, my hands clutching his waist like it’s the only thing keeping me from flying off into the night. The wind whips my hair, sharp and cold against my face, but it’s not enough to cool the heat building inside me.

Damn it, I can’t help it—the feel of the motorcycle, all power and rumble, is doing things to me.

And Raze? His strong, sturdy body, solid as a goddamn wall, isn’t helping.

His leather vest smells like smoke and danger, and every time he shifts, I feel the flex of muscle under my fingers. He’s hot as hell, no denying it, and my body’s betraying me, stirring in ways it shouldn’t when I’m one wrong move from a bullet.

As my cock grows and aches inside my pants, I can only hope and pray that this Wolf Rider asshole doesn’t notice.

I’ve heard how these Wolf Rider men treat boys, and the last thing I want is to end up as one of their playthings, passed around, used, and thrown away at the end of the night.

It might only be the fact that I’ve got information on the gang that ripped them off that’s keeping me from that fate as it is…

Fuck. This isn’t good.

I need to get my mind right.

This is serious—life-or-death serious.

I’m on the back of a Wolf Rider’s bike, heading to their clubhouse, caught red-handed with their stolen goods. These aren’t the lowlife punks I’m used to running with, guys like Snake and Tito who talk big but fold under pressure.

The Wolf Riders are the real deal, the kind of crew whispered about in dive bars, their name carrying weight like a blade. I’ve heard the stories—bodies left in ditches, rivals burned out of town, loyalty that runs deeper than blood.

And Raze? He’s their enforcer, the one they send to break bones and settle scores.

I saw it in his eyes back at the warehouse, that storm-dark glare that said I was already dead. My cocky grin and quick talk might’ve bought me a few minutes, but I’m not stupid enough to think I’m out of this yet.

But despite all this, my dick’s as hard as a piston and my mind is battling not to lapse into a fantasy where I’m at Raze’s mercy, made to be his submissive slave, trained to call him Daddy…

“Stop it, stop it right now,” I mutter under my breath. “Fucking focus.”

The highway stretches out, a black ribbon under a sky heavy with storm clouds. The bike’s vibrations pulse through me, and I shift, trying to ignore the heat pooling low in my gut.

My hands tighten on Raze’s waist, and I swear I feel him tense, just for a second, like he knows exactly what’s going through my head.

Focus, Nico.

I’ve been in tight spots before—dodging cops, outsmarting dealers, talking my way out of a bar fight with a guy who had fifty pounds on me.

I’m 21, been on my own since sixteen, bouncing from foster homes to the streets, living by my wits and my looks.

I’ve got a .38 tucked in my waistband, useless now with Raze’s crew flanking us, their bikes rumbling like a pack of wolves.

But I’m surprised Raze didn’t check me for a weapon…

the gun could come in handy later. And if I need to use it, I will.

Tank and Kash are behind us, hauling a trailer with the crates we— I —was supposed to guard. I’m the expendable kid, always have been, but this time? This time, I might’ve fucked up beyond saving.

We pull off the highway, tires crunching gravel as we roll up to a cinderblock fortress that must be the Wolf Riders’ clubhouse. It’s a squat, ugly building, windows barred, walls scarred with bullet holes and faded paint.

Bikes line the lot, gleaming under floodlights, and the air smells like gasoline and stale beer. A neon sign flickers over the door, half the letters burned out, but the wolf’s head emblem is clear, snarling down at me like a warning.

Dangerous characters are everywhere—guys in leather vests, tattoos crawling up their arms, eyes hard as steel. One’s cleaning a shotgun on a picnic table, another’s passing a bottle of whiskey to a guy with a face like a fist.

A boy with a shaved head and a knife strapped to his thigh glares at me as we pull up, like he’s sizing me up for a coffin. Jeez, this really is happening. Even for me, and everything I’ve seen over the years, it’s intense.

The Wolf Riders are everything I’ve heard—ruthless, tight-knit, and not fucking around…

Raze cuts the engine, and the sudden silence is deafening.

“Off,” he snaps, not looking at me.

I swing my leg over, my boots hitting the ground, and I try to keep my cool, but my heart’s pounding. He grabs my arm, his grip bruising but careful, like he’s holding back just enough to keep me in one piece. For now.

Raze drags me through the clubhouse door, past a bar littered with empty bottles and a pool table where two bikers are arguing over a shot. The place smells like sweat and smoke, with heavy metal blasting from a jukebox in the corner.

Eyes follow us—hard, suspicious, ready to pounce. I’m a rabbit in a wolf den, and every instinct screams to run, but I know better. Running’s a death sentence.

Raze hauls me down a dim hallway, his boots echoing on the concrete floor.

My boots scuff behind him, and I’m hyper-aware of his hand on my arm, the heat of it burning through my jacket.

Raze is all muscle and menace, and that low, commanding voice from the warehouse keeps echoing in my head— You made a big mistake, boy. That word, boy , hit me like a shot of whiskey, sharp and warm, and I hate how it’s still lingering, stirring something I don’t have time to deal with.

We reach a backroom, and he shoves the door open, revealing a stark space with a metal chair, a table bolted to the floor, and a single bulb swinging overhead.

I know what this place is.

It’s an interrogation room, no question, and my stomach drops.

I’m expecting a beating—fists, maybe that crowbar one of them was carrying—but Raze pushes me into the chair and steps back, crossing his arms. His leather vest pulls tight over his chest, and those storm-dark eyes lock onto me, peeling me apart.

“Talk,” Raze says, voice low and rough, like he’s holding back a storm of his own. “Who do you work for? Why’re you here?”

I lean back, forcing a grin, though my pulse is racing. I need to think fast, use my charm—but not too much. I need to deliver this just right or it might be all over before I get a chance to work my way out.

“Look, man, I’m just a small-time runner,” I say. “Got hired by some guys to watch their stuff, that’s it. I don’t even know what’s in the crates.”

Raze stares back at me, silent.

It’s a half-truth, my go-to play. Snake and Tito hired me a week ago, said it was easy money, just guard the goods until they set up a buyer. I didn’t ask questions—never do—but I knew it was hot.

Didn’t know it was Wolf Rider hot, though.

That’s the part I’m leaving out, and I’m betting Raze can smell the lie.

Raze steps closer, looming over me, and the air feels thinner, like he’s stealing it.

“Don’t play me, Nico,” Raze says, his voice low and calm. My name in his mouth sounds dangerous, like a warning wrapped in something else. “You’re not dumb. You knew those crates weren’t clean. So who’s pulling the strings? Names. Now .”

Raze’s voice is commanding, all gravel and steel, and damn if it doesn’t stir something in me, a heat that’s got no business being here.

I shift in the chair, trying to ignore the way my body reacts, the way his presence fills the room like a physical force. I’ve talked my way out of worse, I remind myself. I’ve charmed cops, dealers, even a judge once.

But Raze? He’s not buying my shit, and those eyes say he sees right through me.

“Alright, alright,” I say, raising my hands like I’m surrendering. “I work for a guy named Snake. Small crew, nothing big. Like, nothing compared to you guys. They didn’t tell me who they ripped off, I swear. I’m just the hired help.”

Another half-truth.

Snake’s a nobody, a middleman who brags too much, but I’m not about to give up the whole game. Not yet. I need to keep Raze talking, buy time to figure out my next move...

Raze leans in, hands braced on the table, close enough that I can smell leather and that sharp, dangerous edge of him.

“You’re lying,” Raze growls, and it’s not a question. “You’ve got one chance, boy. Spill everything, or you’re done. No games.”

That word again— boy —hits like a spark, lighting up something reckless in me.

I’m not ready to die, not by a long shot, so I play along, leaning forward, matching his intensity.

“I’m telling you what I know, Raze,” I say, doing my best to not sound petrified while at the same time letting him see that I am vulnerable, that in all likelihood I am the unlucky na?ve lowlife who got caught out of his depth.

“Snake’s the guy. Runs with a dude named Tito, couple others.

They’re out trying to sell the stuff now. I don’t know more than that.”

It’s enough to sound convincing, not enough to screw me over. I hope.

Raze straightens, his jaw tight, and I can’t tell if he’s pissed or thinking.

The bulb overhead swings, casting shadows across his face, highlighting the scars on his knuckles, the lines etched around his eyes. Raze is older than me, but it only makes him more intimidating, like he’s seen shit I can’t even imagine.

And yet, there’s something about the way he’s looking at me, like he’s torn between breaking me and… something else. Maybe he did feel my achingly hard cock against him on the motorcycle. Maybe his cock was hard too…

It’s messing with my head, and I need to stay sharp.

“Here’s the deal,” Raze says finally, his voice cutting through the silence. “You give me everything—names, places, plans—and maybe you walk out of here. Lie to me again, and you’re done. Understand?”

I nod, my grin gone, replaced by a tight smile.

“Got it.”

I’m playing along, but I’m starting to think Raze sees right through me, past the charm and the lies, straight to the part of me that’s scared shitless and, worse, turned on by the danger.

As much as I’d rather be anywhere else than here, all I can think of is what I would do—how I would react—if Raze was to tear my clothes from my body, bend me over this chair and fuck my brains out right here and now…

Would I confess everything then?

Would I cum with his dick planted deep inside me?

Would I call Raze my Daddy?

I’m in deep, and the way he’s watching me, like a wolf sizing up its prey, says I’m not getting out of this easy.

Maybe not at all…