Emblem Harley Hyper Novels & Stories

he said, a hint of pride in his voice. I looked at the emblem and it had the image of a wolf or werewolf, with glowing eyes, sharp teeth, and a menacing expression. The emblem may also have a full moon behind the werewolf. It was with unique and special designs. "But wouldn't this reveal your identity?" I asked, still feeling hesitant. Rowland nodded, "Yes, but we'll use it secretly. We have to go to a cheap restaurant in a secluded area." I nodded, feeling relieved that we had a plan. "Okay, let's go then."

Harken just narrows his eyes, fed up with the night’s events as is, but lifts his shirt to rip it over his head, revealing the large mixed tribal and Celtic style tattoo that runs from his left wrist up his arm and to his chest, the intricate symbol of the Lewis tribe crest in the middle of his breast, and the large head of a wolf covering his shoulder, winding and thick brushed tribal designs covering the skin around them. “Guess again, asshole. If you’re so familiar with their markings, you probably know what my ink means.” Harken glares down at Karl, watching as the kids’ wide eyes wander over the tattoo, his fingers gripping his forearms. “Well, w-what’s that one then?” Karl asks and poi

And there she sits. A 1989 Harley-Davidson Softail, midnight black with custom chrome that catches the sunset and throws it back like liquid gold. The paint is flawless—I've maintained her religiously since I've actually ridden. The leather seat is rich and dark, cracked just enough to show character. The engine is a beast, a genuine 103 cubic inch motor that purrs like a predator when you turn the key. But it's the custom artwork on the tank that makes her mine. A wolf's head in silver and white with touches of blood red. Mouth open in a snarl, fangs visible, eyes wild and bright. And across one ear sits a crown, tilted at a dangerous angle—because real power doesn't sit straight. It doesn'

I ignore him and turn to bar duty. There are cases of beer and pop under the counter. The newly bought hard liquor is lined up against the back wall. There’s a club emblem on that same wall above the bottles. It’s the same one the club members wear on their vests. It’s actually pretty damn cool, but fuck if I tell any of them that. It’s a crow on motorcycle handlebars with two skulls in front. Desert Crows is written on a banner across the top. The design is in a black circle. It looks ominous, which is what the person who designed it was going for.

Because the owner had long turned into cinder and ashes. I knew the emblem intimately, knew it, and deciphered it more than anyone in this room, heck, even in the whole fucking world; I understood it more than anyone. Because at some point in life, that emblem was the only thing that stood in front of my eyes. When I laid my head on the pillow at night, it was all I saw, when I woke in the morning; it was the first thing I saw. The emblem I had grown to fear, hate, admire, and ultimately, worship as it turned me into the monster I am today. The emblem belonged to none, but Lorik ‘HAWK’ Cattanio. My eyes dropped to the bold letters engraved below, ever so neat and bold like it was some sort o

Emberlynn recognized the design because her mother had sometimes forced her to learn strange things, and the Celtics were one of them. Above the wolf, a crescent moon could hover, and at the base of the emblem, the words "Silver Woods Pack" were inscribed. The tattoo peaking from his arms where he had rolled up his sleeves wasn't helping her perception of him. The weirdest thing of all was she felt as though she had seen the tattoo and emblem before. Yet, she couldn't pinpoint exactly where. "You sure do stare a lot, but you don't talk much. No, you don't talk at all. But I want it the other way around. I want you to talk to me, be free with me," Damien said.

I dropped into my chair and waved off my wolves as they tried to rise. “Good of you to show up,” said my Beta, Harley, with a snort. She was a tomboy, her black hair cropped short and her ears glinting with multiple silver piercings. It still seemed odd to see her with her natural hair colour – back before the Eternal Winter, before our trade with the other packs had dried up, she’d dyed her hair pastel pink. Tattoos inked her whole body, with the words love and hate across each set of knuckles respectively. She flexed the hand with hate on and smirked up at me.

I dug through one of the compartments of the trailer and produced two helmets. “Ah ha!” I said, “I knew I had two. Does it fit?” I tossed it to Davin, who tried it on. It fit close enough. “Ok then.” I pulled the tarp off to expose the custom Harley Davidson Heritage Soft tail. It really was a nice bike. Bill had to have everything just so on it. It was truly his pride and joy after he got the custom artwork on the tank done. It was a smokey grey color with tribal marks and skulls flowing down the sides of it.

Emily squinted, shading her eyes as Rhett walked her down the row, his hand brushing lightly against the cool steel of the closest bike. “Rule number one,” he said, his tone carrying a hint of pride. “Every man here rides a Harley. No imports. No knock-offs. Harleys are the bloodline.” Emily arched a brow. “What happens if someone shows up with, I don’t know… a Honda?” Rhett smirked. “Then we bury it. And maybe him with it.” Her lips twitched. “Seriously?” “Dead serious.” He ran a hand down the tank of his bike, the black paint gleaming in the sun. “This isn’t just about riding. It’s about loyalty. Legacy. Harleys don’t break easy, and neither do we.”