The Werewolf Motorcycle Club

ALARIC

I settle into the sticky comfort of my leather bike seat between my thighs and lean my head back a moment to feel the rushing wind under my visor.

Roaring down the highway on my classic Harley cruiser is second nature for me—almost as good as loping through the forest in the body of my wolf.

On a cloudy and depressing day like this, I really should be out in the woods; Donatello loves all the smells that emerge just before the rain. But instead, I have to go and meet with the president of the Lost Angels MC to try and barter some peace.

Clive Richardson is a fat, balding prick who just happened to found a motorcycle club a few years back right at the border of Wolves MC territory. Naturally, he doesn’t know of our little secret; to him, Wolves MC is just another rival.

If it wouldn’t expose and risk us all, Goddess knows I’d love to show him otherwise. He could use humbling, and his men are more like animals than we are half the time.

The diner where we’re meeting is technically in a neutral zone, but it’s closer to Lost Angels territory, and I know Clive’s guys are in and out of there all the time. I don’t like it; it gives him the upper hand.

Why did I let Clive choose the meeting spot in the first place? Well, that’s a question for my beta, Johnson, who apparently just agreed without thinking. He’ll be getting an earful later.

As I pull up, the deafening roar of my engine doesn’t even get a head turn from the patrons inside.

The parking lot is already filled with bikes, though the Lost Angels all ride smaller sport bikes, not in the same class as my Harley. Not that I’m here to gloat or anything.

I leave my jacket on the seat as a test of sorts, to see if Clive’s men will know to respect what’s mine during this meeting.

While peace would be nice, disrespect isn’t something I can ignore, and I’d rather know sooner rather than later how willing they are to change their ways.

After all, my men aren’t the problem. We’d much rather ignore the Lost Angels’ existence if they didn’t keep trying to steal our shit.

Ditching the jacket leaves most of my tattoos exposed down my arms, and I wear every single one with pride.

My favorite, though, will always be the huge picture of a gray wolf engraved on my chest, right over the spot where I can feel Donatello beneath my skin.

Speaking of my wolf, he’s practically leaping inside me as I cross the threshold of the diner. I sniff the air, trying to understand what’s set him off, and immediately get a whiff of something that’s far too perfect to be real.

“MATE,” Donatello yells at me internally, but I already guessed it from the sweet smell of cloves and cinnamon filling my nostrils, reminding me of Christmas with my folks back in the day.

My mate is here in this diner, and I’m determined to find out where.

Following my nose, though, takes me to each table in turn, all of them equally redolent with that enticing scent.

It’s as if every single one of them has been influenced or touched by her, making it hard to find the one true source. Could she be a server?

No, I’ve been here before, I know all the waitresses, and I can’t imagine having one of those idiots paired with me for life. The Moon Goddess isn’t that cruel.

Clive, looking just as dumpy and sleazy as ever, and Murphy, the middle-aged blond guy who owns this place, walk up to me shoulder to shoulder.

I know I should greet Clive and represent my pack’s interests, but instead I continue to sniff around the tables like some sort of animal... with my mate on the line, my image isn’t exactly my biggest priority.

“My mate is here!” I shout. One of them, I can’t tell who, puts his hand on my shoulders, and I fling it off with vigor.

My mind is so foggy that I forget they won’t even know what “mate” means, and I can’t explain without revealing way more secrets in the process.

“Son, I think maybe you should just leave,” Murphy says to me, and my wolf growls fiercely inside of me at the suggestion.

Does this presumptuous human dare keep my mate from me a moment longer, after Donatello and I have both been waiting nine years already?

Donatello would kill them first, all of them. But this thought is unacceptable enough to clear my head a little. I won’t kill anyone. I let Murphy show me none-too-gently to the door, and then make my way hastily into the woods.

Yes, I’ve left my bike in the parking lot, and my jacket will almost certainly be stolen now that I’ve shown weakness in front of the Lost Angels.

But that’s the least of my concerns for now. Donatello needs to be free, free to howl out his frustration over what I’ve just left behind me inside of that diner. My mate.

Could she have known I was there? Is she a wolf, or a human?

If she were like me, she probably would’ve just made herself known as soon as she caught me following her scent. And besides, if she were part of someone else’s pack I’d have smelled that; pack affiliations are obvious.

This makes her either a rogue, packless wolf, or a human. I couldn’t give a fuck as long as I find her. I will find her.

I just need to clear my head a bit and return tomorrow with a calm mind and more of a plan. My wolf would have us go back there right now with no delay, but I’ve done enough damage already.

Soon I will have her, and I know that will be worth the wait.