Page 3 of Wolf at the Door

I glance back at the man outside, still leaning against his bike, watching the street like he is waiting for something. He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave, and it strikes me that maybe—just maybe—he isn’t the same as Dylan. Sure, he looks the part, but there is a calmness about him, a kind of steady patience that is the opposite of Dylan’s erratic rage. And he hasn’t tried to force me to do anything. If anything, he is giving me a choice.

I make up my mind. I grab my purse and the small bag I’ve set by the door. The cookies I’ve brought for Gran are still in there, untouched. I turn to where she is laying asleep in the other room, her breathing steady but faint. She’ll be okay for a few hours without me, but if Dylan shows up again, I’m not sure I can handle him alone.

Writing a quick note telling her to phone me if she needs me I place it next to her bed. With a deep breath, I step outside. The biker’s gaze finds mine the second the door creaks open. I walk down the porch steps, and this time, I don’t hesitate.

“You’re still here,” I call as I approach.

He flicks the cigarette to the ground and crushes it under his boot. “Told you, didn’t I?” His voice is low, almost a growl. “That asshole’s not gonna give up.”

I nod, my chest tight with uncertainty. “If I come with you…you’ll make sure he stays away?”

His expression doesn’t waver. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t come near you. You have my word.” There is something about the way he says it—like it isn’t just a promise but a fact, a guarantee. It is the kind of conviction I hadn’t heard in a long time, and definitely not from Dylan.

I take a shaky breath, glancing one last time at Dylan’s car down the block. Then I step closer to the biker, meeting his gaze. “Alright,” I concede. “I’ll come with you. But just until he’s gone, okay?”

“Fair enough,” he replies, his lips twitching again, almost a smile. “Hop on.”

As I climb onto the back of his bike, I wrap my arms around his waist, feeling the solid muscle beneath the leather. His scent fills my nose—not the staleness of sweat and smoke I’d expected, but something cleaner, sharper. The engine roars to life beneath us, and as we speed down the street, I catch a glimpse of Dylan’s furious face in the rearview mirror, growing smaller as we ride away.

For the first time in months, I feel a flicker of hope, like maybe I’ve found someone who could actually keep the darkness at bay.

***

The ride was a blur of roaring wind and the deep, rhythmic thrum of the motorcycle beneath me. My arms are wrapped tightly around the biker’s waist, my cheek pressed against the cool leather of his jacket. Every muscle in my body is tense, caught somewhere between fear and adrenaline. I hadn’t even asked his name—hell, I didn’t know anything about him besides the fact that he’d just beaten the crap out of Dylan and offered to keep me safe.

But what did I really know about "safe" anymore?

We roar down back roads and narrow streets until the town fades away, replaced by stretches of open land and thick clusters of trees. The further we go, the rougher the road becomes, like we are riding into another world, one far removed from the sleepy little town I called home.

When we finally slow and turn into a gravel driveway, I see it—a sprawling, weathered compound with a metal gate and tall fences. The Road Killers MC emblem is displayed on a wooden sign at the entrance: a snarling skull and crossed wrenches. I’d heard about places like this, where bikers gather, and the rules are made and broken by the people inside. It doesn’t look like the kind of place a girl like me would ever end up, yet here I am.

The clubhouse itself is a rugged two-story building with a covered porch lined with old wooden chairs and bikes parked haphazardly out front. A couple of men are sitting on the porch, they look up as we pull in, their expression shifting fromcuriosity to wariness. It is clear that a woman arriving on the back of a brother’s bike isn’t a common sight.

The man cuts the engine and swings off the bike with a fluidity that doesn’t seem possible for someone so large. As I climb off, I hesitate, feeling the weight of their eyes on me, a stranger in a world I didn’t belong to.

“Who’s the chick, Wolf?” one of the men calls out, his voice gruff. He is older, his hair grey and his beard thick, with arms that look like they’ve seen more than their fair share of bar fights. A cigarette hanging from his lips, the smoke curling up into the air.

Wolf shoots him a look that says it wasn’t the time for questions. “She’s with me,” he replies simply, then jerks his head toward the clubhouse door. “Come on, we’ll talk inside.”

I follow him up the steps and through the door, stepping into a wide-open space that is a mix of a bar, a living room, and a war room. The walls are lined with old photographs, flags, and patches from other clubs. A pool table sits in one corner, and there is a bar along the far wall, stocked with more liquor than I’d ever seen in my life. The place smells like leather, smoke, and something faintly metallic—blood, maybe. Or it can just be my nerves making me imagine things.

Wolf walks behind the bar and grabs a couple of beers from the fridge, tossing one to me. I catch it, more out of instinct than anything else, but I don’t open it.

He cracks his own bottle and takes a long drink, then leans back against the bar, studying me like I am some kind of puzzle hecan’t quite figure out. “You got a name?” he asks, his voice as low and gravelly as ever.

“Bella,” I reply, feeling strangely self-conscious under his gaze. “And you?”

“Wolf,” he says simply, setting his empty bottle on the counter with a heavy thud. “And before you ask, yeah, it’s my real name as far as you’re concerned.” He gives me that almost-smirk again, as if daring me to challenge him.

I glance around the room, then back at him. “Why are you helping me?” The question has been burning in the back of my mind since he’d stepped in to protect me from Dylan. Men like him didn’t usually get involved in other people’s problems without a reason, and I couldn’t figure out what his was.

He shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Maybe I don’t like seeing assholes who can’t take no for an answer,” he says. “Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to put that prick in his place. Doesn’t really matter, does it?”

The way he said it, like it was just another day for him, makes me shiver. I can see now why the other men at the club looked at him the way they did—like they respected him but kept their distance. He has a kind of quiet authority, the kind that comes from doing things others won’t or can’t do.

“Look,” he starts, his tone softening just a fraction. “You stay here for the night, and I’ll make sure Dylan doesn’t come near you. You’re safe as long as you’re under this roof. After that, what you do is up to you.”

I don’t know if I believe him, but as I glance out the window and see the darkening sky, the thought of going back home and dealing with Dylan on my own feels even worse. Gran will be worried sick if I don’t come back, but I’m not going to help her by getting myself hurt—or worse.

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