Page 17 of Wolf at the Door

“You really think this is going to end well for you?” he taunted, his voice dripping with false bravado.

I didn’t answer. Words were wasted on men like him. Instead, I charged, taking out one of his guards with a shot to the chest before slamming into the other with a force that sent him sprawling. Dylan’s grin faltered as he backed away, the predator in him finally recognizing he was prey.

“You think she’s yours?” Dylan spat, his voice rising in desperation. “You think you can just take what you want?”

“She was never yours,” I growled, my voice low and lethal. “And you’ll never touch her again.”

He lunged at me, wild and reckless, but I was ready. My fist connected with his jaw, the force of the blow sending him crashing into the metal railing behind him. He scrambled to his feet, swinging wildly, but his punches were no match for my precision. I dodged, countered, each strike calculated to break him down piece by piece.

Blood dripped from his nose, his lip split and swollen. His breaths came in ragged gasps, but still, he fought, hisdesperation driving him beyond reason. I let him exhaust himself, absorbing his blows like they were nothing. He didn’t deserve a clean fight. He deserved to know fear, to feel the weight of his choices crushing him.

When he finally staggered, his body beaten and broken, I grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the railing. His eyes widened, the realization dawning too late.

“You don’t get to walk away from this,” I said, my voice a low growl. “You don’t get to breathe the same air she does.”

His protests were cut short as I delivered the final blow, my fist driving into his chest with enough force to send him crumpling to the ground. He didn’t move again.

The fight was over, the warehouse eerily quiet except for the sound of heavy breaths and the occasional groan of the injured. The brothers regrouped; their faces bloodied but victorious. Rocco clapped me on the shoulder, his grin sharp.

“That was a hell of a show,” he said. “Dylan didn’t stand a chance.”

“He never did,” I replied, my voice flat. The rage that had fuelled me during the fight lingered, simmering beneath the surface.

The aftermath of a fight was always the same: chaos, blood, and the grim task of cleaning up. As the adrenaline began to fade, the brothers moved like a well-oiled machine, their roles defined by experience.

“Axel,” I called out, spotting the lean, wiry figure near the entrance. Axel was the club’s cleaner—the guy who made sure noevidence remained after the dust settled. His sharp eyes darted over the carnage, calculating, assessing. He gave me a nod, already pulling on gloves.

“We’ve got at least a dozen bodies,” Axel said, his voice calm and detached. “Two of them might still be breathing. What’s the call?”

“Take the wounded,” I said. “Dump them far enough away that they can crawl back to whoever’s left to take them in. Make sure they remember who put them down.”

Axel grinned, a flash of white teeth in the dim light. “And the rest?”

“Burn it,” I said, my tone leaving no room for argument. “This place goes up tonight. No bodies, no evidence. Make it clean.”

Axel nodded and got to work, motioning for two other brothers to start dragging the bodies. He moved with practiced efficiency, his hands steady even as the weight of what we’d done filled the air. This wasn’t his first time, and it wouldn’t be his last.

Ironhead approached me, his face splattered with blood and sweat. “That’s one way to send a message,” he said, his voice carrying a note of approval. “Dylan’s crew won’t forget this.”

“They’d better not,” I replied, watching Axel and the others work. The fire in my chest was fading, the fury that had driven me during the fight replaced with cold resolve.

Ironhead leaned against a crate, folding his arms. “You feel better now?” he asked, his tone teasing but curious.

I thought about it, the weight of Dylan’s lifeless body still fresh in my mind. “It’s a start,” I said. “He’s gone, and Bella’s safe. That’s what matters.”

Ironhead grunted, his expression thoughtful. “Funny thing about fury. You think letting it out will fix things, but it’s like a fire. You’ve got to let it burn itself out, or it’ll just find something else to consume.”

I glanced at him, his words striking deeper than I wanted to admit. Ironhead wasn’t just muscle—he had a way of seeing through people, even me. “Maybe,” I said. “But tonight, it’s done.”

“For now,” he said, pushing off the crate. “Go for your run. Clear your head. We’ve got it handled here.”

I nodded, grateful for his understanding. “Keep them in line,” I said, gesturing to the others.

Ironhead smirked. “Always do.”

The forest stretched out before me, a wall of shadows and possibilities. I walked slowly at first, my senses heightened, every step deliberate. The air was cool, filled with the earthy scent of moss and pine. The moon hung high above, its silver light filtering through the canopy like a blessing.

Shifting wasn’t just a physical act; it was a release, a surrender to the beast within. I stripped off my shirt, next I kick off my Harley boots and finally dispose of my low cut jeans, letting the cool air bite at my skin. My breath came faster as the anticipation built, my wolf stirring just beneath the surface.

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