Page 4 of Wild & Wanted

I gather my bag and slip out into the chill of the morning.

As I walk the dark blocks back toward the motel, a prickly sensation crawls up the back of my neck. I glance over my shoulder, the shadows stretching long under the flickering streetlights. I shake my head, scolding myself for letting exhaustion play tricks on my mind.

When I finally reach the motel, I pause by the metal stairs to scan the deserted parking lot. Out of the corner of my eye, I swear I see a dark, shadowy figure dart quickly behind a concrete pillar before vanishing into the night.

My heart leaps into my throat, but I force myself to unlock my door and step inside, convincing myself I'm just seeing things. I collapse onto the lumpy mattress, setting an alarm for forty-five minutes. It’s barely enough time to sleep before my morning shift as a maid begins, but it will have to do. As my heavy eyelids finally drift shut, the only image I see in the dark is Wolf's intense green eyes.

CHAPTER THREE

WOLF

The air in the Rebel Kings clubhouse smells like stale beer, woodsmoke, and twenty years of bad decisions, which is right at home for us.

We’re gathered around the heavy oak table in the back room, a familiar scene spread out before me. Stryker sitting at the head of the table with a permanent scowl carved into his face, Phoenix leaning against the wall with his arms folded like an immovable wall of stone, and Onyx tapping a heavy ring against the wood.

At the center of it all is the problem: a blown-up, glossy photo of an unregistered, custom logo stamped onto the side of a double-walled shipping crate we know originated straight out of King’s Logistics.

"I ran it through every database known to man," I say, dropping a thick folder onto the table. "Customs manifests, federal freight logs, commercial registries, black-market indices. Nothing. There are no registered trademarks for this stamp, no LLC attached to it, no subsidiary paper trail. Whoever’s using our routes is a ghost."

Stryker lets out a low, venomous curse, scrubbing a hand over his face. "If the feds trace that logo back to our warehouse before we find the leak, they’re going to tear King’s Logistics apart brick by brick."

I take it all in stride. This is who I am for Stryker. As the Vice President, my job is to absorb his volatile moods, slice through the panic, and help him see straight when the fog rolls in.

Looking at him now, my mind flashes back fifteen years. We were just two angry punks on the street with zero purpose and nowhere to go. I wanted out of my old man's suffocating trailer park, away from his toxic girlfriends and failing kidneys, thanks to the liquor he used to numb his broken heart. Stryker bounced around the foster care system, a feral teenager fighting and looting just to feel like he existed.

When I started hanging around the Rebel Kings, trying out life as a pledge, Stryker watched the shift in me. He saw how the club gave me a spine, an identity, and a family that didn't abandon you when things got messy. We patched in together. Years later, when our former President drank himself into an early grave, Stryker stepped up to lead us through the fire. I stood right by his side, taking the VP patch the day he was unanimously voted in as the new President.

We’ve bled for this club. We’ve built a fortress out of broken pieces. Which is exactly why this smuggling setup feels like a blade between the ribs.

Onyx suddenly slaps a heavy hand against my back, jarring me violently out of the memory. "Earth to Wolf. You still with us, man?"

We spend another hour banging our heads against the wall, running through dead ends and hypothetical suspects, but the trail is cold. I check my watch, realizing it’s pushing 7:30.

Straightening up, I reach for my leather cut. "I gotta run,” I mumble under my breath, hoping no one asks follow-up questions. No such luck.

Phoenix narrows his eyes, a flicker of skepticism crossing his hard features. "Where to?"

"Training the new employee," I say casually, adjusting my cuffs.

Onyx lets out a bored snort, already looking away. But Stryker doesn't look away. He fixes me with an unreadable, razor-sharp stare.

"You can stay for a bit," Stryker says, nodding toward the door. "The warehouse is right next door. You've got time."

"I have to run an errand," I mutter.

Stryker raises a single, knowing brow. "An errand."

I let out a low breath, knowing there's no use dodging it with him. "I need to make sure she has a ride. It's no big deal. I just... I don't want her walking alone in the dark."

The words hang in the air, and instantly, I curse myself. I think back to stumbling out of my office earlier that morning, waking up with a heavy wool blanket draped across my chest and Hadley nowhere in sight. I'd cursed myself for falling asleep, and then cursed myself ten times over when I realized she walked back to that seedy, roach-infested motel all alone before sunrise.

Phoenix lets out a sudden, barking laugh. Onyx groans, shaking his head. "A ride? Since when does the VP moonlight as a personal taxi service for data entry clerks?"

Phoenix crosses his arms, grinning like a shark. "Sounds like somebody’s got a soft spot."

I ignore the two asshats entirely, rolling my eyes as I lock my gaze on Stryker. He just sits back, a slow, cocky smirk spreading across his face.

"Just because you fell hard and fast for your woman, doesn't mean I'm going to do the same," I snap, pointing a finger at him.