Page 1 of Wild & Wanted

CHAPTER ONE

WOLF

Control is a luxury when your livelihood is built on muscle, precision, and a multi-million-dollar front for a motorcycle club. And tonight, I’m entirely out of stock.

I stand in the center of the vast, echoing warehouse, the harsh overhead fluorescent lights casting long, jagged shadows across rows of floor-to-ceiling shipping crates. The air smells of diesel fuel, metal, and cold coastal rain, a scent that usually grounds me. Tonight, it does nothing to settle the low, dangerous hum buzzing beneath my skin.

I’ve spent the entire day drowning in spreadsheets, manifests, and logistics schedules, capped off by a heavy, closed-door meeting with Stryker. The President of the Rebel Kings MC is losing his patience, and I can't blame him. The club is clean. King’s Logistics is our golden goose, the completely legitimate front that pays our taxes, employs the locals, and keeps the feds at arm's length. But someone is playing dirty in our backyard.

The recent string of hijacked shipping lines and deliberate town vandalism has escalated from a minor nuisance to an existential threat. We’ve managed to isolate a single, agonizingly vague breadcrumb: an unregistered, custom logo stamped directly onto double-walled shipping crates—crates that I know, with absolute certainty, originated right here inside this warehouse.

Someone is using our distribution network to move dangerous cargo under our noses. And as Vice President, every failure in these walls rests squarely on my shoulders.

I pace the concrete floor, my heavy boots echoing against the high steel girders. At forty years old, I'm built like a fucking warhorse: hard-bodied, stubborn, and focused on the attack. I narrow my eyes into slits as I scan the dark aisles from my office, running a hand through my perpetually windblown brown hair. The day shift is over, leaving the wide expanse mostly empty. Still, the threat lingers. In the silence. In the darkness.

A sudden, sharp metallic click shatters my inner monologue.

I snap back into the present, my hand reflexively dropping toward the waistband of my jeans before I catch myself. The heavy oak door to my private office, positioned on the elevated mezzanine overlooking the warehouse floor, swings open.

It’s eight o'clock on a Tuesday night. The day shift left hours ago.

I pivot on my heel, a harsh reprimand already forming on my tongue… and then my throat locks up. Air leaves my lungs in a sharp, ragged gasp.

Standing in the doorway is a young woman with warm brown eyes and a smile far too innocent for a place like this.

She looks like she’s stepped straight out of a fever dream and onto my oil-stained warehouse floor. The woman is all soft curves and sunshine, with a figure that squeezes my heart into a vice. Even though she’s only wearing a simple knit sweater, it stretches across her chest and clings to her generous hips. A thick halo of rich, vibrant red hair frames a delicate face dotted with freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her wide, brown eyes are luminous under the flickering fluorescent bulbs, fixed on me with a hopeful, tentative smile.

I can't breathe. My heart hammers against my ribs like a caged beast. An angel, my brain supplies before I can violently slap the thought down. And she’s way too damn young.

She looks twenty-two, maybe twenty-three at most. Innocent. Untouched by the gritty, dangerous world I live and breathe in. Every cynical, hardened instinct I possess goes into complete structural failure. My gaze drags down the soft line of her throat, over the lush curve of her chest, down to her hips, and back up to those wide, trusting eyes.

A wave of possessive, territorial heat slams into my gut so hard it makes my head swim. It’s irrational. Sudden. Terrifying. And it goes against everything I’ve internalized about relationships in my forty years.

Family is a joke to me. My old man drowned his life in cheap whiskey and an endless rotation of volatile, mean-spirited girlfriends in a rotting trailer, leaving me to learn early that relationships leave you worse than they found you. Locking your heart behind an iron vault is the only way to survive. The club is my only exception. But this woman…

I’m so wildly out of whack that my defensive walls slam up with the force of a sledgehammer. I cross my massive arms and steel over my features, growling in a low voice, "Who the hell are you?"

The sweet smile on her face falters instantly. She curls in on herself slightly, taking a tiny, reflexive step backward.

A sharp spike of self-loathing slices through my chest. I hate myself the second the words leave my mouth. But before I can soften my posture, she catches her balance, pulls her shoulders back, and squares up.

"I'm Hadley," she says, her voice smooth, clear, and surprisingly grounded. "I'm the new employee."

I stare at her. My razor-sharp mind, usually capable of tracking forty freight routes simultaneously, grinds to a screeching halt.

New employee?

Hadley waves a small, delicate hand at me, stepping farther into my office. "Um... are you okay?"

I realize, with a sudden flash of heat crawling up my neck, that I’m standing there slack-jawed, staring at her like an idiot.

I’d forgotten about the night-shift data entry hire. That isn't like me. I might be unpredictable and snarky at times, but I've always had a meticulous handle on the details and day-to-day workings of King’s Logistics. The club routinely posts night-shift data entry positions to help out college kids needing extra cash or local folks going through a rough patch. It’s a simple, mindless job of logging manifests and tracking inventory codes. High turnover, zero risk. It’s a community lifeline.

But this woman?

My eyes lock onto her curves again. This gorgeous, soft, unattainable, and now totally off-limits woman, is my new night-shift clerk?

"You've got the wrong address," I grunt, barking the words out to hide the sudden tremor in my breath.