Page 1 of Wolf at the Door

Chapter 1

I’ve been called a lot of things in my life. Bastard, delinquent, menace—hell, you name it, I’ve probably answered to it. But when the Road Killers patched me in and gave me the name “Wolf,” that one stuck. It wasn’t just because of the way I fought—like a rabid dog with nothing to lose—but because of the way I lived. I was a predator by nature, always hunting for the next fight, the next rush, the next thrill that would keep the darkness at bay.

The club was my pack, the only family I’d ever known that didn’t throw me out with the trash or look down on me for the tattoos inked deep into my skin. Each mark told a story of blood, betrayal, and survival. They weren’t just decoration; they were a history written in black and blue. The skull on my right arm was for the first man I’d put in the ground—a lowlife who thought he could muscle his way into our turf without paying respect. The wolf inked across my back symbolized everything I was—wild, fierce, and loyal to the bone.

In the world of one-percenters, the line between right and wrong was thin as cigarette smoke, and you walked it knowing any slip could end you. As the enforcer for the Road Killers, it was my job to make sure that line stayed clear for anyone who dared cross us. That meant putting people in the ground when needed, breaking a few bones when asked, and carrying out whatever dirty work the club required.

Joining the Road Killers wasn’t some grand decision. It wasn’t about rebellion or living fast and free like the stories most people tell themselves about the biker life. No, for me, it was about survival. I didn’t grow up dreaming about motorcycles or leather jackets. Hell, I barely grew up at all.

My old man left before I could walk, and my mom wasn’t far behind. She stuck around long enough to get hooked on meth and bring a string of boyfriends through the door, each worse than the last. The trailer park we lived in was a shithole, and everyone knew it, but when you’re a kid, you don’t get a say. You just take the hits life throws at you and hope you’re still standing when it’s done.

I learned early that people would kick you when you're down if you let them. So, I fought back. It started small—scraps with the other kids who tried to push me around at school or the scumbag boyfriends who thought they could throw their weight around. Everything changed when I turned sixteen. It happened during a particularly bad fight behind the school, when three guys cornered me with chains and brass knuckles. The pain and fury triggered something primal inside me, something I couldn't control. My bones cracked and shifted, my skin erupted with fur, and suddenly I wasn't just an angry kid anymore—I was a predator. A wolf. The transformation terrified me as much as it empowered me. I had no one to turn to, no one to explain what I was or how to control it. The foster system wasn't exactly equipped to handle a teenager who could turn into a beast. So I learned to hide it, to contain the wolf until I could find somewhere to let it run free.

Eventually, I realized I was good at fighting, better than I was at taking orders or sitting through class. So, I dropped out when Iwas sixteen and took whatever jobs I could find. Bouncing at a dive bar, working the docks, hustling on the streets—anything to keep the lights on and the fridge full.

The Road Killers came into my life by chance, or maybe fate, if you believe in that kind of thing. I was working the door at a bar just outside of town. It was the kind of place where the drinks were cheap, and the fights were even cheaper. One night, a couple of guys in leather kutts came in, throwing back shots and making trouble like they owned the place. I didn’t know much about motorcycle clubs back then, just that they were bad news if you got on their wrong side.

A brawl broke out—over what, I don’t remember, but I wasn’t about to let them tear the place apart. I waded in, swinging hard and knocking guys down left and right. By the time the dust settled, I was still on my feet, and the club members had a look in their eyes that wasn’t anger—it was interest.

One of the guys, a grizzled old-timer named Cutter, who had an iron beard and a voice like gravel, slapped a hand on my shoulder and grinned. “You’ve got some fight in you, kid,” he said. “Ever thought about putting that to good use?”

I’d heard stories about the Road Killers—how they controlled the town’s underground scene, how you didn’t mess with them if you valued your life. But I’d also heard they looked out for their own, and that was more than I could say for anyone else I’d ever known.

I met with Cutter and the club’s president, Razor, a week later. Razor was the kind of man who could command a room withoutsaying a word. His presence was heavy, his eyes sharp, and the scars on his knuckles told you everything you needed to know about him. He didn’t waste time sugarcoating anything.

“If you want to ride with us, you’re going to have to earn it,” Razor said, his voice steady as a blade. “We don’t hand out patches for free. You do the dirty work, you follow orders, and you show us you’re not afraid to bleed for the club. Then, maybe you get a shot.”

It wasn’t a warm welcome, but I wasn’t looking for one. I needed a purpose, a place where I wasn’t just some kid from a broken home with nothing but his fists. The first night at the clubhouse, I caught their scent—wild, primal, like my own. That's when I knew: they were predators too, shifters who understood what it meant to carry the wolf inside. The Road Killers weren't just another MC; they were a pack in every sense of the word. They offered me more than just membership—a way to be more than just a survivor, a chance to understand what I was, and finally, a way to belong to something bigger than myself.

So, I did what they asked. I ran errands, handled rough jobs, and kept my mouth shut when the shit hit the fan. The first real test came a few months in, when we had to collect from a guy who thought he could run a gambling racket on our turf without paying the club its cut. Razor sent me along with Cutter and a couple of other guys to send a message.

When we got to the guy’s place, things went sideways. He pulled a gun, and Cutter got hit. The others froze, but I didn’t. I lunged for the guy, knocked the gun out of his hand, and beat him down until my knuckles were bleeding. When I stood up, Cutter wasgrinning at me through the pain, like I’d just passed some kind of unspoken test.

“See?” Cutter wheezed, clutching his shoulder. “I told you he’s got the heart of an alpha wolf.”

The nickname stuck, and so did I. I earned my patch soon after that, becoming a full member of the Road Killers. It wasn’t the life I’d imagined, but it was the only one that made sense. Out here, on the edge of the law, where men settled their problems with their fists or their bikes, I found a kind of twisted freedom. There were rules, sure, but they were our rules. And for the first time in my life, I had something worth fighting for.

As the enforcer, I made sure our rules were respected. If someone crossed us, I made sure they regretted it. If someone threatened our brothers, I made sure they never got the chance to do it again. I took pride in the scars that marked my body—they were reminders of the fights I’d won and the men I’d taken down. The wolf tattooed on my back wasn’t just a symbol; it was who I was.

I was born a wolf— but later I became one.

That was my world—cold, hard, and covered in grease. Until today, the day I saw her.

It is just another morning. I’d rolled out of bed at the clubhouse, muscles stiff from the night before when a run-in with a rival MC had left me with a few new bruises. A couple of my brothers were still passed out in the main room, bottles of cheap whiskey and empty beer cans scattered around them.

I needed coffee, the kind that would kick my ass into gear, so I hit up the local café down the street. It was one of those places that tried too hard to look charming—checkered floors, an old jukebox in the corner, pastries lined up in a neat little row behind the glass. I never went there for the atmosphere. I went because they had a damn good cup of joe.

But then I saw her.

She stepped out of the café, a bag in her hand and a bright red jacket clinging to her curves like it was stitched onto her skin. Her hair was dark and cascaded over her shoulders in a way that made me think of ink spilling across paper—rich and fluid. Her eyes were sharp, flashing with life, a contrast to the usual glassy-eyed stares I got from the girls who hung around the clubhouse. She had this look about her, a mix of innocence and defiance, like she wasn’t afraid to tell the world to shove it but still carried a little bit of sweetness in her pocket.

I got hard just looking at her, I don’t know what came over me. I just know I have to follow her. It isn’t something I normally do—hell, most women come to me, not the other way around. But there is something about her that pulls me in, like a lure I can’t ignore.

She walks briskly, heading towards the outskirts where the houses got older, the fences rusted, and the lawns overgrown. I keep my distance, just enough to keep her in sight. Her red jacket stands out against the grey backdrop of the day, a beacon that seems to guide me like some kind of twisted fairy tale.

Chapter 2

Gran’s place isn’t much to look at, but it is home. A little cottage-style house that has seen better days, with chipped paint on the shutters and a front porch that creaks underfoot. She’s been sick lately, and I’ve been doing what I can to help. It isn’t much—just running errands, cooking meals—but it is better than leaving her alone to fend for herself.

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