Page 2 of Wolf at the Door

As I reach the front gate, I sense someone watching me. Glancing over my shoulder, half expecting to see nothing but the empty street behind me. Instead, I see him—a big guy on a bike, parked a few houses down. He looks like trouble, with dark hair cut short, a jaw that looks like it can cut glass, and muscles that strain against the fabric of his leather jacket. Tattoos curling up his neck, and when his gaze meets mine, I feel it like a jolt straight to my spine.

I turn back to the gate, my heart beating a little faster than I’d like to admit. That’s when I hear it—a voice that makes my skin crawl.

“Bella.”

I freeze. Dylan.

He steps out from behind the bushes, a scowl plastered across his face. He has that look again, the one he got whenever I told him to back off. “You think you can just ignore me?” he snaps.

“I told you, Dylan,” I reply, keeping my voice steady. “It’s over. I’m not going to say it again.”

He takes a step closer, his face twisting with anger. “You think you’re too good for me now? Running errands for your old lady while you dress like you’re trying to catch someone else’s eye?”

I could smell the staleness of beer on his breath, the acrid scent of cigarettes clinging to his clothes. He hadn’t changed at all since I’d kicked him out of my life six months ago—same greasy hair hanging in uneven strands around his face, the same hollow eyes that were always either glazed over or twitching nervously.

His jawline, which could have been strong and handsome, was always marred by a permanent five o'clock shadow, not the kind that made a man look rugged, but the kind that made him look like he hadn’t bothered to clean himself up for days.

There had been a time when I thought he was charming, when his boyish grin and crooked smile seemed endearing, but that was before I’d seen what lurked beneath the surface. The anger issues, the jealousy—those came out early, but I was too naïve back then to recognize them for the warning signs they were. It wasn’t long before his sweet words turned sour, before the playful teasing became biting remarks meant to cut me down.

Dylan had a mean streak that ran deep, and it didn’t take much to bring it out. The first time he called me a “stupid bitch” because I didn’t answer his texts fast enough, I brushed it off as him just having a bad day. But then it became a pattern. He would lose his temper over the smallest things—a guy looking at me for too long, me talking to a male friend, even something as simple as me wearing a dress that showed a little more skin thanhe thought appropriate. He was possessive, like he thought I was something he owned instead of someone he was with.

And then there were the drugs. It wasn’t just the occasional joint or a night out drinking—no, he had a taste for harder stuff, the kind that made him unpredictable, volatile. I’d wake up some mornings to find him passed out on the couch, a half-empty baggie of white powder on the coffee table. He’d make promises to clean up, to get his life together, but those promises were worth less than the air he used to say them. I’d tried to help him at first, but it didn’t take long for me to realize you can’t save someone who doesn’t want saving.

When he started pushing me around during his fits of rage, grabbing my wrist hard enough to leave bruises, I knew I couldn’t stay. I wasn’t going to be the kind of girl who made excuses for a guy like him. I wasn’t going to let him drag me down into the darkness he lived in. So, I broke it off, told him to get out of my life for good.

But here he was, showing up at my gran’s house like he had some claim on me. The nerve of him, standing there with his faded leather jacket that reeked of smoke and stale sweat, the kind of man who thought the world owed him something just because he’d had it rough. I’d seen the worst of him, and I didn’t want any part of it anymore.

Before I can answer, the rumble of a motorcycle engine interrupts us. I look up to see the biker from before, riding up slowly, his eyes locked on us. He doesn’t say a word as he parks his motorcycle, climbs off his bike and strolls over, but there is a dangerous calm about him that makes Dylan hesitate.

Chapter 3

I wasn’t sure why I did it. Maybe it was the way that asshole was talking to her, like she was nothing. Maybe it was the way her eyes darted from him to me, like she wasn’t sure who was the bigger threat. But the second I saw him take a step towards her, I knew I wasn’t gonna let it slide.

“Hey,” I call out, my voice low and steady. “The lady told you to back off.”

Dylan sneers, looking me up and down like he thinks he has a chance. “This is none of your business, man,” he spits. “Why don’t you ride off before you get hurt?”

I crack my neck and roll my shoulders, letting the tension bleed out. “Why don’t you try me, and we’ll see who gets hurt?”

The fight is over before it starts. I’ve taken down tougher guys than him with one arm tied behind my back. A couple of punches and a knee to the gut later, Dylan is gasping on the ground, clutching his stomach. I step over him and glance at her, she is staring at me with wide eyes.

“Get your stuff,” I tell her, jerking my head towards the bike. “You’re coming with me.”

I stare at him, my pulse racing in my ears. “What? I can’t just leave. My gran is sick—I need to check on her.”

The biker’s expression doesn’t change. His eyes are hard, a blue so intense they seem to see right through me. “You can’t stay here,” he says, his voice gruff but steady. “That piece of shit isn’t going to leave you alone. It’s only a matter of time before he’s back.”

I swallow hard, feeling the weight of his words sink in. The man who stood before me, towering over my small frame, has a dangerous look about him. Leather jacket, tattoos, the kind of rough exterior that makes you think twice before crossing him. It is easy to lump him in with Dylan—just another biker who rides too fast, drinks too much, and lives his life with one foot in the grave. The kind of trouble that leaves scars, not just on the body, but on the soul.

“Look, I appreciate the help,” I say, taking a step back, “but I don’t even know you. For all I know, you’re just like him.” I glance at his bike, then back at his leather kutt, with the club’s name emblazoned on the back: Road Killers MC. It wasn’t exactly the mark of a good Samaritan.

The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “I’m not like him,” he promises. His voice is quiet, but there is an edge to it, as if daring me to challenge him. “But suit yourself. If you think you’re safer here, then stay.”

With that, he turns away and walks back to his bike, the low rumble of its engine cutting through the silence as he fires it up. I watch as he pulls out a cigarette, lights it, and takes a drag, leaning against his motorcycle like he has all the time in the world.

I shake my head and hurry up the porch steps, pushing the door open. Gran’s house smells like it always did—faintly of lavender and the old wood that makes up the walls. The cozy clutter of blankets on the worn-out sofa and the ticking clock on the mantel gives me a moment of calm, but it is shattered the second I peek out the window.

There, down the block, is Dylan’s beat-up car. He is parked at the curb, staring straight at the house, his hands gripping the steering wheel. A shiver runs down my spine. He isn’t going anywhere, and I know what that means. Dylan didn’t take no for an answer, and the look on his face says he is more determined than ever.

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