Page 1 of Storm

ONE

STORM

This wasit.

Finally.

It had only taken him five long months to find the right one. Storm wasn’t normally indecisive, but something about this had him tied in knots. Every time he walked into another showing, he found a reason to dislike the place—a crack in the foundation, a kitchen layout he couldn’t stand, or just a vibe that felt…off.He’d started to wonder if he was sabotaging himself, finding excuses to avoid making an offer. But now, standing here, staring at the house before him, he knew he’d made the right choice.

It was time.

After living at the Shadowridge Guardians’ compound since joining the club at eighteen, the walls had started closing in on him. He needed his own space, his own sanctuary. Otherwise, he’d never find peace again. The past year or so had been absolute chaos—squealing Littles, giggling Littles, crying Littles, stomping Littles, toys scattered everywhere, glitter explosions, and animated movies playing on a loop. The compound had transformed from a rugged clubhouse into a boisterous play space for grown women with pigtails and pacifiers.

He loved his brothers, loved what they’d built together, but it wasn’t justthemanymore. Their women—their Littles—had become permanent fixtures in the clubhouse. And with every laughter-filled movie night and every pastel-colored prank, Storm was reminded of one shitty truth: he was alone. And he always would be.

Swinging his leg over the seat of his Harley, Storm fastened his helmet on and took one last look at the house before heading to his realtor’s office. The white exterior, the gray-blue shutters, the meticulously kept flower beds—it wasn’t what he’d imagined himself choosing. It was so… traditional. The kind of house you’d expect to see on a cheery, festive postcard, complete with a golden retriever named Buddy and a smiling family hosting themed birthday parties on the front lawn.

None of those were in Storm’s plans. He didn’t do golden retrievers. He didn’t do birthday parties. The flowers would be dead within a month of him moving in. And he sure as hell didn’t dofamily.

But damn, if this house didn’t feelright.

The moment he’d stepped through the front door, something had clicked into place. For the first time in months, he wasn’t searching for flaws or picking apart the details. It was like this house was waiting for him, calling to him in a way that was impossible to ignore. He couldn’t explain it, but the second he’d walked in, he knew it was his home.

As the roar of his Harley filled the quiet street, a spark of excitement shot through him—unfamiliar and almost jarring. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so hopeful. His breath was visible in the crisp air as he picked up speed, the icy wind biting at his skin. It was the kind of weather that would keep most riders off the road, their bikes stored away until the warmer months returned.

Not Storm.

Riding was his therapy, his escape. It always had been. Since the first day his dad had put him on his bike as a kid, nothing else had come close to giving him the same sense of freedom. While other people might pour their hearts out to therapists or write in journals, Storm let the rumble of the engine and the hum of the tires on the asphalt carry his thoughts away.

As he sped toward his realtor’s office, the image of the house lingered in his mind. He could hardly believe he’d said yes to it.

Despite how brisk it was outside, people still wandered up and down Main Street, going in and out of diners, shops, and other businesses. That was the norm in the picturesque town of Shadowridge. A mix of tourists and locals were always buzzing about.

After finding a parking spot about a block from the real estate office, he hooked his helmet on the handlebar and put a quarter in the parking meter. A small kid with a blue cast on his right arm stopped in front of Storm, looking up at him in awe. The woman walking with him paused when the kid tugged on her hand.

“Wow,” the boy breathed, his gaze fixed on Storm’s Harley with wide-eyed awe.

The boy’s mother, looking visibly tired, offered a weary smile as she ruffled his messy hair. “No motorcycles for you, sweetie. I barely survived you getting hurt on yourbicycle. My heart can’t handle something more powerful.”

Storm’s lips twitched as the scene tugged at a memory of his own childhood. His mom used to say things like that when he was a kid; her voice tinged with equal parts exasperation and love. He still felt a twinge of guilt when he thought about how daring—and reckless—he’d been. Broken bones, scrapes, bruises; he’d had more than his fair share growing up. It was a miracle she hadn’t wrapped him in bubble wrap or suffered a heart attack from the stress. By the time he hit his teenage years,though, she’d given up trying to rein him in, finally accepting her son’s need for adrenaline.

Still, as he got older, Storm had noticed that his need for the rush was fading. It wasn’t gone entirely, but it didn’t burn as brightly as it once had.

“I like your motorcycle,” the boy said, his gaze glued to the shiny black paint and chrome, his voice filled with wonder.

“Thanks,” Storm replied, reaching into his saddlebag. From inside, he pulled out a small, brown stuffed bear, one of many he and his brothers carried for situations just like this. He crouched slightly, extending the toy toward the boy. “Here. This little guy needs a new friend.”

The boy’s face lit up with pure joy as he accepted the bear with his uninjured arm, cradling it like treasure. He looked up at Storm, his expression a mix of blind adoration and gratitude that made the biker’s chest tighten. It was damn cute. Despite the boy’s mother’s protests, Storm was certain this kid would be tearing through town on his own bike in the future.

“Say thank you,” the woman prompted, nudging her son gently.

The boy’s toothless grin spread wide, lighting up his face. “Thanks. One day, I’m going to be like you.”

Storm grunted, caught off guard by the declaration, and shot an apologetic smile at the mother, who was now glaring daggers at him. Whoops.

“You make sure you listen to your mom, okay, bud?” Storm said, softer this time as he ruffled the boy’s hair.

The kid glanced up at her and nodded earnestly. “I will.”

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