Forsaken Motorcycle Club Novels & Stories

Salt Lake City, Utah The Highway Hellions MC Clubhouse Two days later Wolf pulled up to The Highway Hellions clubhouse, hoping that he looked far more relaxed than he actually felt. He was sure that there were eyes on him right now, and he doubted that any of them were friendly. Taking his time, moving deliberately, he opened the car door – this was the first car that he’d bought since joining The Road Devils, and it was a second-hand piece of shit, and he was already missing his motorcycle like he’d miss air – and stepped into the parking lot. He looked around, noted the MC businesses (a tattoo studio and a bar, somehow both compulsory when talking about biker clubs), and just the sight of

“So you’re going to tell me exactly what I’ve gotten myself into.” Kane stopped pacing, his back to me. I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands flexed like he wanted to hit something. “You want the truth?” His voice was rough, dangerous. “Fine. But you’re not going to like it.” “Try me.” Kane turned, and the look in his eyes made my breath catch. Raw, desperate, like he was about to confess to sins that would damn us both. “The Iron Fang isn’t just a motorcycle club. We run high-stakes street races—illegal, underground, big money. Real big money.”

This was just the beginning, and our story was far from over. “Get on, we need to go,” Armando said, his voice firm yet laced with urgency. He leaned onto his motorcycle and kicked the kickstand up as I climbed onto the back, my fingers instinctively wrapping around his tight waist. I leaned my head against his back, feeling the cool leather of his jacket beneath my cheek. The bold logo of his crew stood out prominently—a devil in the center flanked by two pitchforks, all surrounded by the lettering: *Demented Devils MC*.

He asked, turning to face them. “What could the queen’s man possibly want to know about us?” Margo asked, tossing back a shot of whiskey. “How did the two of you end up affiliated with a motorcycle club?” He asked, trying not to laugh at the jab she had directed at him. “I was born into it?” Margo sighed, pouring herself another shot. “I got into it because we grew up together. Motorcycle clubs aren’t all bad, ya know. Why do you ask?” Dex sighed, sipping his beer.

When the message from my father came through, I didn’t go home. I didn’t pack my things, didn’t pause to think it over. Instead, I pointed my bike toward the only place that ever felt close to home anymore: the bar. The Devil’s Forge wasn’t just a bar; it was the heartbeat of my motorcycle club, a chaotic mix of roaring laughter, clinking glasses, and the metallic hum of motorcycles lined up outside like sentinels. Inside, the air reeked of spilled beer, leather, and faintly of motor oil. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was real. The kind of place where lies didn’t last long, and loyalties were etched in blood and grease.

“The name of this child was Armaros, meaning the cursed one. Your ancestor.” “So… my ancestor was cursed?” Belinda asked. “Yes. His parents hated the kind of wolf he was and sent him away, somewhere very far from home. He had to do everything on his own and even started a new family and pack. But when the people of the Merania kingdom heard he was alive, they tried to kill him, and they attacked his pack. He was killed, but some of his people escaped and they spread across the face of the earth, to hide.” “After many years, no one heard anything about red-furred wolves, and they were believed to be extinct until yesterday, when we found out you are one of them.” Mr. Theron stopped talking an

As my spirit was starting to fade, memories flickered through my mind like an old movie reel. I saw the tender moments with my parents, the happy times I spent with Daniel, and the overwhelming despair I felt as the fire consumed me. Regardless, everything was gone the moment I died. "Daniel, if there is a next life, I hope we never meet again."

~Nick~ The name’s Nick Gracen, but most call me Lightning. I’m the local prez of the Wild Ridge MC Club. It’s a title that carries weight, respect, and a hell of a lot of responsibility. I looked around the clubhouse, a place that had seen more action than most could handle. The air was thick with the scent of oil, leather, and a hint of whiskey—a comforting blend that felt like home. The brothers were scattered around, some tinkering with their bikes, others deep in conversation about our latest shipment.

She pulled at my sleeve, her gentle voice guiding me out of the depths of my mind. Her wonder-filled voice questioned, "Mama, are we going to meet him today?" Caleb, her twin, followed us silently as usual, his eyes darting between the dark forest and the road forward. Him: Jackson Wolfe. Alpha of the Blood Moon Pack. Their father they had never known. I had not told them much—how could I? How could I communicate to them the agony of being turned aside like I intended nothing? How could I help them to realize that the guy they yearned to see had previously sent me away, saying I was too weak to be by his side?

They had vanquished Morgana, and they had ensured their domestication. As the pack recouped from the fight, they started to modify their lives. They honored the fallen, and they promised to never disregard the penances made to ensure their domestic rights. They knew that the danger of the Shadowlands was not totally gone, but they were prepared to confront anything challenges long haul may hold.