Page 11 of Wild & Wanted

We both need the rest. Because tomorrow, the real fight begins.

CHAPTER SIX

HADLEY

My fingers twist together in a nervous knot, the fabric of my sweater bunching up in my palms as we walk across the gravel lot toward the Rebel Kings clubhouse. My stomach is performing aggressive, tumbling acrobatics. Walking into a motorcycle club headquarters to brief the President and his inner circle is not exactly on the standard career-path checklist for a data entry clerk.

Before we reach the heavy wooden door, Wolf stops. He sees the trembling of my hands, and without a word, he covers both of my hands with one of his large, calloused palms. The steady, radiating warmth of his hand acts like an anchor in a storm.

He steps in close, leaning down so his lips brush against the sensitive shell of my ear. "Hey," he whispers, his voice low and firm. "You are safe. I would never let anything happen to you. Look at me."

I nod, taking a shaky breath, and turn my head to meet his gaze. Our noses brush. The air between us shifts, heavy and electric, and he leans in. His lips graze softly against mine, a feather-light promise of things to come…

And then, with a loud click, the clubhouse door swings wide open.

A giant man steps out onto the porch, folding a pair of massive, tattooed arms across his broad chest as he looks us over.

"Just an employee, eh?" The man flashes a good-natured, teasing smirk, despite his utterly imposing frame.

Wolf rolls his eyes, immediately tucking me firmly against his side and wrapping a heavy hand around my hip to anchor me right where he wants me. "My employee," Wolf corrects, tightening his hold.

The man chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound. "Technically, that makes her my employee, then."

Wolf lets out a low, warning growl.

The giant throws his head back and barks out a laugh. “Relax, I’m just giving you shit.” He steps forward, offering me his hand. "Stryker. President of the Rebel Kings."

Before I can shake his hand, Wolf practically swats it down.

Stryker's amusement vanishes, replaced by a sharp, warning glare. Fearing an all-out turf war between the two biggest, scariest men I’ve ever met, I immediately jab Wolf hard in the ribs with my elbow.

"Ah, what was that for?" Wolf mutters, wincing.

“You’re being rude to the President!” I whisper-shout. Stepping around him, I hold out my hand to Stryker with a polite, shaky smile. "I'm Hadley. Nice to meet you."

Stryker glances sideways at Wolf, a flicker of a grin hitting his mouth, before giving me a respectful nod. "Hadley."

The President leads the way inside, with Wolf and I trailing behind. “You’ve got a sharp elbow,” Wolf says, covering his ribs and pouting dramatically. “Gotta get that registered as a weapon.”

“I’m no doctor, but I think you’re going to be fine,” I tell him with a playful eyeroll.

Wolf grins at me, throwing his arm over my shoulders and pulling me close. “You can play doctor with me all you want, beautiful.”

I turn my head to look at him, my eyes narrowing as my cheeks heat up with the implication. “Impersonating a doctor is a crime,” I answer with a smirk on my lips.

“Then maybe you can kiss it better.” Wolf’s tone is gravelly, his hand slowly moving from my shoulder to the small of my back. My eyes widen at his request, but I can’t help the soft giggle that escapes. Wolf smiles at me as if he just won a prize. “Mission accomplished,” he murmurs, kissing my temple. “You were so tense, but now you’re a little more relaxed, right?”

I’m about to answer when Stryker interrupts. “Back room’s this way.” His dark eyes narrow at Wolf, though the formidable President can’t hide his smirk. His face says it all: I told you so.

Once we’re in the back room, or the “church” room, as I’ve been informed, Wolf introduces me to the core group. Sitting around a large table are Phoenix, Viper, Onyx, and Stryker. The intense, evaluating stares of five hardened club officers focus entirely on me, making me squirm under their collective weight.

Sensing my immediate panic, Wolf steps up, taking control of the room. He explains to the others how our recent findings point to an active smuggling pipeline running contraband right through their legitimate front. He lays out what I uncovered: the glitch showing identical tracking numbers assigned to different freight runs with huge weight disparities.

As the men lean over the projected computer screen, talking over one another with sharp, tactical precision, I slowly slip out of my chair and step backward. I take in the dynamic between the five officers, acutely aware of how out of place I am. They are important men making high-stakes, dangerous decisions.

A tiny, painful ache blooms in my chest. Even when I’m working my fingers to the bone, paying bills, and keeping my family afloat, a part of me still feels like a little kid pretending to be an adult. I never really got a childhood; I was always the responsible one, the dependable one forced to find solutions to impossible problems. Standing here among these heavyweights, I feel small.

Unnoticed in the heated debate, I slip out the side door, wandering across the gravel lot toward the familiar, comforting shadows of the warehouse. Maybe I can get some work in and be productive in my own way while Wolf handles the bigger problems.