Iron Fangs MC The Alpha's Mate Dilemma

Midnight Run

The moon hung fat and heavy over the desert highway, its silvery light catching on the chrome of two dozen motorcycles thundering through the night. Blaze Carson led the pack, his wolf stirring beneath his skin with each mile they devoured. The creative accounting that made the Iron Fangs MC look legitimate on paper called him "club president," but his true title was carved into his bones – Alpha. He ruled with a no mercy mindset, and he didn't care who thought him heartless. He also didn't have a mate yet, and he wasn't really looking. If he found her, he wanted to reject her because his life was how he wanted it. He didn't want to answer to someone else, especially a mate.

Also he liked fucking to much to stick to one woman.

Behind him, leather cuts emblazoned with the snarling wolf's head of the Iron Fangs rippled in the wind. To the human world passing by, they were just another MC running the roads they owned. None of them would notice how his riders' eyes caught the moonlight like struck matches or how their shadows stretched too long and lupine across the asphalt. Nobody noticed how terrifying they all were. They put fear in many and did care one bit.

Blaze downshifted as they approached Dead Man's Curve, the familiar rush of adrenaline mixing with something else tonight – an restlessness he couldn't shake. His wolf was agitated, had been for days now. Something was coming. He could feel it in his blood, taste it on the wind that whipped past his face. He felt a change was coming, and he didn't like it.

"Boss!" The voice crackled through his helmet comm. Tank, his VP, pulled alongside. "Rivals up ahead. Blood Moon riders." He sighed, annoyed.

Blaze's lip curled. The Blood Moon MC was newer money, cocaine dealers playing at being wolves. But they'd been pushing boundaries lately, testing the Iron Fangs' borders. He could smell them now – the chemical stink of their product mixing with what passed for wolf scent among their kind. They were pieces of shit that needed wiped out. They sold dirty product and were responsible for many young deaths in packs and humans. This drug was an instant death for many.

He raised his fist, their signal to form up. The Iron Fangs moved like water, falling into the arrowhead formation they'd practiced for decades. Some of these riders had run with him since before they earned their patches, before they'd even earned their first full shift under the moon. They all had a strong bond.. the family bond that makes you a strong pack.

Through the comm came the low growl of his enforcer, Ghost. "Five of them, Boss. Looking for trouble."

"Then let's not disappoint them." Blaze's voice was gravel and authority. He felt the surge of energy through the pack bond as his wolves responded to the steel in his tone. This was what he lived for – the perfect fusion of man and wolf, machine and magic, individual and pack.

The Blood Moon riders came into view, and their bikes spread across the highway in a weak attempt at intimidation. Their leader, a weasel of a man who called himself Fang, raised his hand in mock greeting.

Blaze didn't slow down. Neither did his pack. They drove straight through. Blaze would show bo weakness.

At the last possible moment, as Fang's smirk began to falter, Blaze let his eyes shift. The world sharpened, colors bleeding away as his wolf vision took over. He knew his irises were burning amber now, a king's eyes. A challenge and a warning.

The blood moon riders scattered like leaves, their formation breaking as the Iron Fangs thundered through. Their fear-scent was sweet in Blaze's nostrils. Behind him, he heard the satisfied rumble of his pack's laughter. They just made them look like the pussies they are. Blaze knew they ran, and it made him feel powerful.

But the victory felt hollow. That restlessness was still there, clawing at his insides. The moon pulled at his blood, whispering of change on the horizon. His wolf knew something was coming – something that would shake the foundations of everything he'd built. It would change him and he didn't like that.

Roxy would be waiting at the clubhouse. The thought should have settled him. She was everything a wolf in his position could want – politically connected, respected in their world, beautiful in that dangerous way that turned heads at every MC gathering. The VP's sister, raised in their world, understood the delicate balance of power that kept supernatural turf wars from spilling into the human world.

The smart play was to make things official with her, cement the alliance that had been brewing for years. The pack expected it. The club needed it. Plus her pussy wasn't bad and she gave good head. Yes at times he grew tired of her so he fucked the club whores and didn't feel regret

So why did his wolf howl against the very idea?

The desert wind carried a new scent then, something wild and sweet and electric. Blaze's hands tightened on his handlebars as every instinct he possessed suddenly snapped alert. His wolf surged forward, clawing at his control, desperate to chase down that scent.

He swallowed hard and throttled up instead, putting distance between himself and whatever fate was trying to hunt him down. He had responsibilities. A pack to lead. A club to run. He couldn't afford to appear weak and a mate would make him fucking weak.

He didn't have time for destiny's games. He had a club to run and pussy to fuck. Money is what kept them going and he needed more.

The moon watched him run, silent and knowing, as Blaze Carson, Alpha of the Iron Fangs, president of the most powerful supernatural MC in three states, fled from the one thing every wolf both craved and feared:

He wanted to go back, but he didn't.

The scent of his mate.