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I try my best to ignore the longing and suppress that wild side of me, but it’s a part of who I am that can’t be tamed. It feels like an ongoing battle between my human self and the wolf inside, and I never know which one will come out on top.
Earlier today, I got into a scuffle with my youngest brother, Logan. His taunts about my mixed heritage cut deep; he called me little pup and asked if I was still struggling with my watered-down powers. I couldn’t take it anymore. My anger took over, and I threw caution to the wind and tackled him. Logan is bigger and stronger than me, but I refused to give up. I fought with all my strength, even when he threw me to the ground and my face landed in the dirt. The taste of soil mixed with the blood that filled my mouth. My other brothers stood around, laughing, and launching more insults my way. I glared up at them, my fists still clenched. They circled around me like a pack of wolves, but I refused to cower. I would never let them see me break, no matter how hard they tried to push me down. So, I got back up and continued fighting. Logan eventually grew tired of me and walked away, like I was nothing but a nuisance. After the fight, I left the group and made my way to the city, fueled by my anger.
My brothers don’t care that I’m family, and the rest of my pack doesn’t care either; they treat me like an outsider, not worthy of being part of their circle. They act superior in their rough and wild ways, running around in the woods and howling at the moon. They’re nothing but a bunch of rednecks chasing their tails and thinking they rule the world.
All I want now is a night of mind-blowing sex to calm my troubled mind, the kind that will make me forget everything else. The guys in our pack won’t dare touch me like that because they think I’m not “pure” enough—not a true wolf. No matter how hard my dad pushes me to find a mate, it won’t happen. But honestly, I don’t want them anyway. I prefer human men because they are less complicated and don’t come with all the supernatural baggage. Dealing with them is easier, and if they step out of line, I have the strength to kick them to the curb without worrying about any supernatural consequences.
I’m heading towards the den of the Wild Riders—a place where misfits like me find refuge. I don’t bother going to fancy clubs or bars because they aren’t my thing. I want something rough and unpretentious, a place where I can let loose and just be myself.
I arrive at the bar, taking a moment to appreciate the bikes lined up outside and the loud rumble of approaching motorcycles, drowning out any other sounds. The chrome bodies shine under the flickering neon lights, beckoning me to come closer and touch them. Each machine has its own personality and story, waiting to be unraveled by its rider. My heart pounds with excitement at the thought of being taken for a ride on one of them, feeling the wind on my face and the thrumming engine beneath me. Perhaps one of the owners will be willing to satisfy my needs and let me ride them in return.
The idea of being taken, hard and fast, on the back of one of those gleaming machines is exactly what I need.
With a grin, I step inside the bar, enjoying the eyes of the men on me as I make my way to the counter. The Wild Riders are a tough bunch; their laughter and rough voices fill the room, and one of them will be making me cry out in pleasure later—they just don’t know it yet.
The tension inside me is still building up like a storm, and I know what I have to do to get rid of it. I need a little liquid courage first to help loosen my inhibitions and let me fully enjoy the night ahead, so I raise my hand, signaling the bartender to give me a shot of whiskey. I down it in one gulp, feeling the warmth spread through my body. As I set the empty shot glass down on the bar, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the shelves of liquor. My hair is tousled and wild; my eyes are smoky and dark; and my lips are full and red. I look like I’m ready for anything, and I will get it before the night is over. The men in the bar don’t know I’m half-blood; they only care about the way I look and move.
Movement in the corner of the room catches my attention, and that’s when I notice him. He’s lounging at a table in the corner like he owns the damn place, watching me with brooding eyes that make my pulse race. He has a deadly air about him, with his dark hair and penetrating eyes that seem to see right through me.
He’s dressed in a suit, an open-collar shirt revealing a hint of skin that makes my fingers itch to touch, but I dismiss him with a shrug; he isn’t the kind of guy I’m looking for tonight. Still, I feel this gaze burning into me like a fiery trail of heat. When I look back up, he smirks, his lips curving into a filthy grin that sets my nerves on fire. He’s a predator, and I can’t deny the thrill that runs through me at the thought of being his prey. I want to feel his hands on me, to be at his mercy, and to let him consume me whole, but I push the thought away and order a second drink. I’m not interested in being hunted; I’m more inclined to be the one who does the hunting tonight.
I sip my drink and scan the room for potential, ready to pounce at any moment. There are quite a few attractive options, dressed in biker leathers and vests, with tattoos snaking up sinewy arms and piercings that glitter under the lights in the bar.
Unfortunately, my night turns to total shit...
See, I never set out to start a bar fight; I just want to have a couple of drinks, pick up a sexy man, and have my way with him, but even with the limited amount of werewolf blood coursing through my veins, I am dangerous when provoked.
A potbellied, unkempt biker swaggers up to me, his eyes lingering on me for a moment too long. He is the kind of man who wears his scars like badges of honor, his face etched with lines that speak of a life lived hard. His beard is a tangle of wild hair, dirty and disheveled like the man himself.
“Hey there, darlin’,” he slurs, his breath reeking of booze and cigarettes. “Can I buy ya a drink?”
I’m not one to shy away from rough-and-ready company, but I have standards when it comes to men. Basic hygiene isn’t too much to ask for.
“Thanks, but I already have a drink.” I hold up my glass in case he hasn’t noticed it before. “And no, I’m not interested.” I turn away, hoping he takes the hint and leaves me alone.
He leans in closer, his hand brushing against my arm. “Aw, c’mon now, darlin’, don’t be like that. I swear, I’ll take real good care of ya.”
“I said no,” I repeat, my voice firm.
He grabs my arm roughly, his grip like a vice. “I reckon once ya lay eyes on what I got in store for ya, you’ll be singing a whole different tune,” he chuckles, grabbing his crotch and squeezing it.
Fury courses through me like a wild river, its rapid current threatening to erode the banks of my self-control. My fangs ache to descend, to tear into his flesh, and to taste his blood. “This is your first and last warning; get your filthy hands off me or else.”
He throws his head back, loud laughter rumbling out of him. “Or else what?”
Before he can blink, I have him pinned against the bar, my silver knife poised to strike at the most sensitive part of his anatomy. The metallic glint of the blade is a warning, a message that I am not to be trifled with. I smell his fear; it ripples off him in waves, and I love it.
With a quick flick of my wrist, I nick the skin on his thigh through his jeans, drawing a thin line of blood.
“I warned you,” I snarl. “Now, back off, or I’ll make sure you never breed again.”
He whimpers, and his courage disintegrates. I push him away, my hands forcefully disengaging from his chest. The sudden loss of stability sends him careening backward, crashing into an unsuspecting biker. The collision jolts the biker, making him lose his grip on his glass. The glass flies into the air, splashing its contents in every direction. It’s like a slow-motion show, with droplets hanging in the air for a moment before gravity takes over.
The domino effect starts. The spilled drink is the spark that ignites the powder keg of the bar, and everything goes completely crazy. People glare at one another and start exchanging heated words, which quickly escalate into pushy and violent confrontations.
Bottles sitting on the bar shelves become weapons of destruction. They’re hurled through the air, smashing into walls, and breaking into countless pieces. The noise of shattering bottles adds to the already chaotic scene. Chairs are lifted and thrown without any regard, crashing into tables and people. The orderly arrangement of seating turns into a mess of overturned furniture, creating obstacles and barriers amid the raging fight.
Fists clench, landing blows on flesh and bones. The air fills with grunts, curses, and occasional screams of pain. Each punch lands with a sickening thud, leaving behind bruises and marks. Blood mixes with spilled drinks, creating a gruesome picture of the escalating violence on the floor.
