4 Rider Novels & Stories

"Last month they took four of ours. Two didn't come back." The fire popped. Somewhere behind me, Dalisay had shifted in her sleep. The Red Bone Riders, the outline whispered in the back of my mind. Not exactly them. But the same architecture. Different clan, same method. "How many," I said. "Fifteen in the main group. Seven in the camp they've set up two li east. Their leader has genuine mid-rank cultivation. The rest are standard fighters." He finally met my eyes directly. "I'm not asking you to fight them. I don't even know if you can."

I kept glancing back and kept feeling eyes on me that weren't there. Rylan noticed. “You're jumpy.” “I'm tired,” I said. “That's what you're telling yourself?” I didn't answer. An hour in, we saw them. Riders. Five of them. Moving fast, fast enough that they were kicking up dust. Their armor caught the weak morning light. Torin recognized the insignia before I did. “Kade's scouts,” he muttered. Rylan grabbed my arm and pulled me off the road. We ducked behind a rocky outcrop, pressing flat against the cold stone. Kaelen dropped beside me, his breathing shallow. Torin crouched at the edge, watching.

Jaxon’s gaze lingered on me for a split second. A second too long. My stomach tightened. I swallowed. He cleared his throat. “Today is the day you’ve all been waiting for,” he said. “The final race. Our strongest riders, thirty-five in total, compete now for victory, honor, and the pride of their packs.” A roar of approval rippled through the crowd. “To the riders,” Jaxon continued, “you’ve proven strength, speed, instinct, and strategy. Today tests all of that and more.” Someone among the riders muttered, “Great. More. Because the last trials weren’t enough.”

“That’s a trap. Can't you see that?” “Maybe. But it is the only way to get my bike back,” Cassian said, his tone steady despite the storm that was brewing behind his grin. “He also added some spice to it too he said each team will have two riders. The route is through the city late night, heavy patrols. The catch? We have to get home without getting caught by the police and within a time limit.” I felt my heart sink. “That is not a race. That’s suicide.” Cassian chuckled darkly. “Welcome to the Viper’s playground.”

Lila fell asleep within four minutes of buckling in, exhausted from whatever four-year-old warfare had consumed her afternoon. I merged onto the main road, radio low, half listening as Maya launched into another chapter of her supply-closet dragon saga. "—and he only comes out at night because he's 'lergic to the fluorescent lights, Uncle Tristan, that's a real thing, Ms. Patty said—" That was when I caught the bikes in my mirror. Three of them. Matching black, riding closer together than casual traffic should allow. It was probably nothing yet I felt an itching sensation. Bikers rode in groups all the time, and this was a busy stretch of road in broad daylight, nothing that should have set

Nyra patted the neck of her mount, Ashwing; a coal‑black mare with flecks of silver in her coat. Kaelan vaulted up first. “I will scout ahead and send word by raven.” He swung into the saddle, and with a nod, spurred Ashwing across the courtyard. Dust kicked up in his wake. Selene mounted her mount, Nightfall, and Ryker mounted Stormbreaker, his warhorse. Nyra settled into Ashwing’s saddle. The five riders set out through the northern gates, banners snapping in the evening breeze. The road wound through ancient oaks whose branches arched overhead. Moonlight filtered through the leaves, casting shifting patterns on the moss‑covered path. Crickets chirped, and an owl called from the canopy.

The twins are nine. Hunter is so serious about motorcycles that Knox had to institute a formal rule: shop time does not count toward homework. This rule exists because Hunter attempted to argue, at age seven, that troubleshooting an engine was applied physics and should be credited accordingly. He had a presentation. It was impressive. Knox said no anyway, but with the expression he gets when he's impressed and trying not to show it.

The final leaderboard for the first round updates on the monitor: Aldair (red) Beckett (blue) King (orange) Aldair (green) Sharpe (purple) Harrington (gold) Blake (silver) Carver (lime) Dalton (black) Winslow (navy) Fletcher (brown) Sinclair (violet-gray) Ellery (maroon) Vance (cyan) Danvers (yellow-black) Carstairs (teal) Grayson (olive) Hawthorne (peach) Owsinski (pink) Wright (indigo-red) “There you have it, folks! Thirty-four riders are trimmed to the top twenty! What a hell of a round!” the announcer exclaims. “And that was just round 1? Wow, this whole thing is crazy,” I comment while wiping the sweat off my forehead.

Tires crunching gravel. The sea of girls parted in awe as five motorcycles rolled in, headlights cutting through the dark. The lead bike slowed, flames etched across its black body. My chest caved in. I knew that design. Rhett’s bike. The rider killed the engine, swung a boot to the ground, and lifted off his helmet. Screams exploded. The air cracked with them. Rhett Voss. His dark hair damp with sweat, jaw like stone, eyes sharp as blades as they scanned the sea of girls like he owned them.

"Not back there. Come up here. Ever driven one of these before?" "Me? Drive it?" She asked incredulously. "Sure." I introduced her to the BF650, one of the bigger quads out there, a little high on the HP scale for a new rider. She also balked at putting on the helmet, even if it was only an old shorty that would sit on her head, rather than encase it.