Wolf at the Door

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.

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 from curiosity 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 he can’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.

“Alright,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll stay. Just for tonight.”