1. Storm

ONE

STORM

T his was it .

Finally.

It had only taken him five long months to find the right one. Storm wasn’t normally indecisive, but something about this had him tied in knots. Every time he walked into another showing, he found a reason to dislike the place—a crack in the foundation, a kitchen layout he couldn’t stand, or just a vibe that felt… off. He’d started to wonder if he was sabotaging himself, finding excuses to avoid making an offer. But now, standing here, staring at the house before him, he knew he’d made the right choice.

It was time.

After living at the Shadowridge Guardians’ compound since joining the club at eighteen, the walls had started closing in on him. He needed his own space, his own sanctuary. Otherwise, he’d never find peace again. The past year or so had been absolute chaos—squealing Littles, giggling Littles, crying Littles, stomping Littles, toys scattered everywhere, glitter explosions, and animated movies playing on a loop. The compound had transformed from a rugged clubhouse into a boisterous play space for grown women with pigtails and pacifiers.

He loved his brothers, loved what they’d built together, but it wasn’t just them anymore. Their women— their Littles —had become permanent fixtures in the clubhouse. And with every laughter-filled movie night and every pastel-colored prank, Storm was reminded of one shitty truth: he was alone. And he always would be.

Swinging his leg over the seat of his Harley, Storm fastened his helmet on and took one last look at the house before heading to his realtor’s office. The white exterior, the gray-blue shutters, the meticulously kept flower beds—it wasn’t what he’d imagined himself choosing. It was so… traditional. The kind of house you’d expect to see on a cheery, festive postcard, complete with a golden retriever named Buddy and a smiling family hosting themed birthday parties on the front lawn.

None of those were in Storm’s plans. He didn’t do golden retrievers. He didn’t do birthday parties. The flowers would be dead within a month of him moving in. And he sure as hell didn’t do family.

But damn, if this house didn’t feel right.

The moment he’d stepped through the front door, something had clicked into place. For the first time in months, he wasn’t searching for flaws or picking apart the details. It was like this house was waiting for him, calling to him in a way that was impossible to ignore. He couldn’t explain it, but the second he’d walked in, he knew it was his home.

As the roar of his Harley filled the quiet street, a spark of excitement shot through him—unfamiliar and almost jarring. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so hopeful. His breath was visible in the crisp air as he picked up speed, the icy wind biting at his skin. It was the kind of weather that would keep most riders off the road, their bikes stored away until the warmer months returned.

Not Storm.

Riding was his therapy, his escape. It always had been. Since the first day his dad had put him on his bike as a kid, nothing else had come close to giving him the same sense of freedom. While other people might pour their hearts out to therapists or write in journals, Storm let the rumble of the engine and the hum of the tires on the asphalt carry his thoughts away.

As he sped toward his realtor’s office, the image of the house lingered in his mind. He could hardly believe he’d said yes to it.

Despite how brisk it was outside, people still wandered up and down Main Street, going in and out of diners, shops, and other businesses. That was the norm in the picturesque town of Shadowridge. A mix of tourists and locals were always buzzing about.

After finding a parking spot about a block from the real estate office, he hooked his helmet on the handlebar and put a quarter in the parking meter. A small kid with a blue cast on his right arm stopped in front of Storm, looking up at him in awe. The woman walking with him paused when the kid tugged on her hand.

“Wow,” the boy breathed, his gaze fixed on Storm’s Harley with wide-eyed awe.

The boy’s mother, looking visibly tired, offered a weary smile as she ruffled his messy hair. “No motorcycles for you, sweetie. I barely survived you getting hurt on your bicycle . My heart can’t handle something more powerful.”

Storm’s lips twitched as the scene tugged at a memory of his own childhood. His mom used to say things like that when he was a kid; her voice tinged with equal parts exasperation and love. He still felt a twinge of guilt when he thought about how daring—and reckless—he’d been. Broken bones, scrapes, bruises; he’d had more than his fair share growing up. It was a miracle she hadn’t wrapped him in bubble wrap or suffered a heart attack from the stress. By the time he hit his teenage years, though, she’d given up trying to rein him in, finally accepting her son’s need for adrenaline.

Still, as he got older, Storm had noticed that his need for the rush was fading. It wasn’t gone entirely, but it didn’t burn as brightly as it once had.

“I like your motorcycle,” the boy said, his gaze glued to the shiny black paint and chrome, his voice filled with wonder.

“Thanks,” Storm replied, reaching into his saddlebag. From inside, he pulled out a small, brown stuffed bear, one of many he and his brothers carried for situations just like this. He crouched slightly, extending the toy toward the boy. “Here. This little guy needs a new friend.”

The boy’s face lit up with pure joy as he accepted the bear with his uninjured arm, cradling it like treasure. He looked up at Storm, his expression a mix of blind adoration and gratitude that made the biker’s chest tighten. It was damn cute. Despite the boy’s mother’s protests, Storm was certain this kid would be tearing through town on his own bike in the future.

“Say thank you,” the woman prompted, nudging her son gently.

The boy’s toothless grin spread wide, lighting up his face. “Thanks. One day, I’m going to be like you.”

Storm grunted, caught off guard by the declaration, and shot an apologetic smile at the mother, who was now glaring daggers at him. Whoops.

“You make sure you listen to your mom, okay, bud?” Storm said, softer this time as he ruffled the boy’s hair.

The kid glanced up at her and nodded earnestly. “I will.”

Before the mother could fix him with another scathing look, Storm straightened and strode away, leaving the duo behind. He’d done his good deed for the day. Giving away the stuffed bears always left him with a quiet sense of satisfaction. For all his gruffness, he liked seeing people smile, especially Littles and kids.

As he pushed open the door to the real estate office, a soft chime sounded. He stepped inside just as a woman behind the desk lifted her head; a sticky note stuck squarely to her forehead. She blinked groggily, swiping at it clumsily until it fluttered to the desk.

Had she been napping?

“H-hi, sorry,” she stammered, her voice soft and sweet. It sent an unexpected jolt through him, a feeling he hadn’t experienced in ages.

Jesus, when’s the last time my cock reacted to a voice?

“I thought I’d locked the door,” she added.

“Are you closed?” he snapped, his tone sharper than he intended.

Whoa. Okay. Dial it back. Don’t be a dick just because she’s got you rattled.

Her wide-set eyes roamed up his body, taking him in from his boots to his leather jacket, pausing at his chest before finally meeting his gaze. She nibbled on her bottom lip, her expression caught somewhere between nervous and flustered. When their eyes locked, her mouth fell open slightly, and the tension in the room crackled with static electricity.

“No,” she managed barely above a whisper. “I mean, sort of. It’s my lunch break, and no one else is in the office right now, so I usually lock the door during that time.”

He tilted his head, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. “There’s no lunch on your desk.”

Her cheeks flushed a rosy pink, the color creeping down her neck as she brought her hands—delicate and painted a soft blush—to cover her face. And just like that, his mind derailed. All he could think about was those tiny hands wrapped around his cock.

Jesus Christ. What the fuck is wrong with me?

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to focus.

Get it together, asshole.

“A short nap seemed more appealing.” She giggled, her soft laughter a quiet ripple that seemed to hang in the air. “What can I help you with?”

Storm frowned, watching her closely. The dark circles under her eyes stood out against her otherwise smooth, porcelain skin.

Why is she so tired? The thought nagged at him. Is she skipping lunch, too? Fuck, why do I care?

“I’m supposed to meet Charlie here to work up an offer on a house,” he said, his voice was still harsher than he meant.

She nodded, and as her chestnut-brown hair swished, a glint of something sparkly caught his eye—a pink barrette nestled in her waves. It was such a small, whimsical detail, yet it felt oddly significant. She clearly liked pink. His mind flicked to the Littles at the Guardians’ compound. The barrette and her demeanor reminded him of them.

His brow arched slightly as the thought crossed his mind. Could she be Little? Lots of grown women liked pink without it meaning anything more.

It doesn’t matter anyway.

If he wanted to play Daddy, he’d go to a club. No strings. No emotions. Just a night to be slightly less grumpy. That’s all he was good for. Women didn’t like men like him long term; they never would. His personality wasn’t exactly going to win him any popularity contests.

“Oh, well, if you’d like to sit and wait, I’m sure he’ll be here shortly,” she chirped, gesturing toward a small cluster of furniture a few feet away from her desk.

Her polite cheer made irritation prickle at the back of his neck. He hated waiting, but Charlie knew he was coming, so surely, he’d show up soon. Storm let out a heavy sigh and sank onto one of the chairs, his broad frame dwarfing the sleek, modern furniture. From his seat, he watched as the receptionist shuffled papers, tapping at her computer like she was trying to look busy.

A minute passed. Then another.

“Why are you so tired?” he asked abruptly, the question slipping out before he could stop it.

She startled, her head snapping up as her cheeks flushed a somehow deeper shade. “Late night,” she replied with a small shrug, her tone nonchalant.

Late doing what? Partying, probably. She looked to be in her twenties, the prime age for wild nights and crowded clubs. Storm wouldn’t know. Partying had never been his thing. Too many people, too much noise.

Before he could ask anything else, the door opened, and Charlie strode in. “Storm, sorry to make you wait. I got caught in traffic. Come on back to my office.”

Storm rose, following Charlie toward his office, but not before casting one last glance at the receptionist. She avoided his gaze, her attention fixed on her desk, which only served to annoy him further. What was it about her that made him feel so uneasy? He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had rattled him like this.

As they passed her, Storm adjusted his jeans discreetly, cursing under his breath. His body’s reaction to her presence was undeniable and frustrating as hell.

“So, you’re ready to make the vendor an offer?” Charlie asked as they entered his small office. “I have to say, I’m surprised you decided on this house. I mostly sent you there because I didn’t have much else to show at the time.”

“Offer twenty over asking,” Storm said flatly, sitting on the chair across from Charlie’s desk. “And ask for an expedited closing date.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. “That’s pretty aggressive. Sure about that?”

Storm shot him a sharp look, and Charlie chuckled nervously before typing again. Storm wasn’t the type of man people figured out easily. Hell, half the time, he didn’t even understand who he was himself. Maybe that’s why he fitted in so well with the MC. The club was a family of misfits, each man different but bound together by something unshakable.

An hour later, Storm emerged from Charlie’s office, marching toward the exit.

“Have a nice day,” the receptionist called out cheerfully, her sweet voice like a balm against his in-built irritation.

He paused mid-stride, turning to look at her one last time. Those big doe eyes of hers blinked up at him, innocent and wide, and something inside him twisted painfully. He grunted a noncommittal response and stomped out the door.

Never fucking coming back here again.

The last thing he wanted was to see her again—those soft, pink lips, the way the blush crept up her neck, the sparkle in her hair. And yet, he had a sinking feeling that she’d be haunting him anyway—her image burned into his mind as he stroked himself later that night.

As his Harley roared to life, he let out an unsteady breath, stealing one last glance at the real estate office. His grip tightened on the handlebars.

Best to stay far away from her.

“Stormy-Normy’s home!” Ivy squealed, as usual she was full of mischief as she twirled in place, her pink tutu flaring out dramatically. The sparkly princess crown perched on her head tilted precariously with the movement, but she didn’t seem to care.

Storm scowled, his dark gaze settling on the sassy Little girl. She stood there with her hands on her hips, her tutu puffed out like a cotton-candy cloud. They must’ve been playing dress-up again, though it wasn’t exactly unusual for the Littles to prance around in tutus and crowns for no reason at all.

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped.

Ivy giggled, completely unfazed by his gruffness. None of the girls ever took him seriously, no matter how hard he tried. They all deserved their bottoms spanked more often, in his opinion. Not that it would stop them; if anything, they seemed to enjoy getting into trouble. Mischief was practically their lifeblood.

“Why not? It’s cute,” Ivy shot back, her pout exaggerated for effect. “You call me Sprite.”

Storm glared at her, his lips twitching against a smile he refused to let show. He reached out and tapped her nose lightly, eliciting another giggle from Ivy. “That’s because you’re small.”

“Well, if you don’t want me to call you Stormy-Normy—which, by the way, is pretty dang clever —what do you want me to call you?” Ivy tilted her head, her crown slipping slightly as her wide eyes sparkled with mock innocence.

“Storm,” he replied bluntly. “That’s my name.”

He headed for the fridge for a beer, grabbing a second bottle just as Kade and Remi strolled into the common area. Kade snatched one of them out of Storm’s hand with a casual grin, lifting his chin in reply.

“Thanks, man.”

Across the room, Ivy and Remi hugged and squealed as if they hadn’t seen each other in years, even though it had probably only been a few hours. It didn’t matter how much time they spent apart; the Littles acted like every reunion was a heartfelt occasion. It was, admittedly, kind of cute. The entire MC functioned like a big, chaotic family, and the girls were no exception.

“Storm doesn’t like his new nickname,” Ivy informed Remi, her tone conspiratorial.

Remi rolled her heavily lined eyes, the dramatic gesture offset by the bright pink bow perched on her head. Storm smirked internally at the sight. Remi’s gothic style was legendary, but ever since she’d gotten together with Kade, she’d been embracing her secret love of pink in a way that was downright endearing. She still wore black, but the pops of color never failed to make him chuckle. It was adorable, not that he’d ever admit it.

“Of course he doesn’t. Storm doesn’t like anything fun,” Remi muttered, crossing her arms with exaggerated exasperation.

The words hit harder than they should’ve. Storm’s chest tightened, and he furrowed his brow. He wasn’t that bad, was he? He liked fun—he was just out of practice. When was the last time he’d actually enjoyed something? Hell, had he always been this grumpy, or was it just his age catching up with him?

“I like fun,” he growled, crossing his arms over his chest as his scowl deepened.

Both girls turned look at him, their smirks identical, full of bratty mischief. Little troublemakers.

“Yeah?” Ivy asked, her tone full of challenge. “So that means you’re going to help us decorate for Carlee’s birthday party tomorrow?”

Storm froze. Fuck. He’d forgotten about that. It felt like there was a birthday party every other week, one of the reasons he’d finally decided to buy a house of his own. The clubhouse was too much—too loud, too excited, too… full. The girls hyped up on cake and in full Little Space were pure chaos, and he usually hid in his small apartment until the sugar crash hit.

He glared at them, his scowl deepening. “No.”

Then, without waiting for a response, he stomped off, muttering curses under his breath. Behind him, Ivy and Remi’s giggles followed like a trail of sparkles.

“Love you, Stormy-Normy!” they called out in unison, their sing-song voices brimming with cheeky glee.

Brats. Storm shook his head, the faintest smile tugging at his lips despite himself.

“You’re in a great mood. Remi’s starting to think you hate her.”

Storm paused mid-swipe, glancing up from the car part in his hands as Kade approached, leaning his broad frame casually against one of the large toolboxes. His friend's tone was teasing, but there was an edge of seriousness beneath it.

“That’s ridiculous. You know I don’t hate her,” Storm muttered, then turned his focus back to wiping down the component from the classic Chevy Chevelle in front of him. The part gleamed under the overhead lights, but his mind wasn’t on the task anymore.

“ I know that,” Kade replied, folding his arms, “but when all you do is snap at them, their Little hearts don’t know that. It hurts their feelings.”

Shit.

Storm’s jaw tightened, and he stared at the metal in his hand, suddenly unable to concentrate. The last thing he ever wanted was to make any of the Littles sad. Sure, he wanted his own space, away from the chaos and noise, but that didn’t mean he didn’t care about them. Hell, he’d put his life on the line for any of them without hesitation. They were his family, too.

“You’ve been extra dickish lately,” Kade added, his voice lighter but still pointed. “What’s going on with you?”

Storm bristled at the comment but couldn’t bring himself to deny it. If he was being honest— totally honest—he had been crankier than usual. But the cause? That was harder to pinpoint. It could be the lack of sex, but deep down, he wasn’t convinced that was it.

“I’m not being extra anything ,” he snarled, though he hadn’t meant it to come out like that.

Kade snorted, shaking his head. “Bullshit. I’ve known you forever. You haven’t been yourself. So, what the fuck is going on? Why are you so on edge?”

Storm sighed, setting the car part aside with a metallic clink . After tossing the oily rag over his shoulder, he turned to face his friend. Kade wasn’t going to let this go, that much was clear.

“I’m buying a house.” Storm’s words were heavier than he’d expected. “I put in an offer on one today.”

Kade’s brows drew together as he studied him. “You’ve never talked about wanting to live outside the clubhouse. What’s brought that on?”

Storm hesitated, unsure how to answer. He wasn’t used to talking about his feelings, especially not when they felt so tangled. When he didn’t respond right away, Kade let out a deep sigh.

“Does it have something to do with all the Littles we have around here now?” Kade asked bluntly.

Hearing it said out loud hit hard, making him feel like an asshole. Apparently, everyone already thought he was one anyway.

“It’s a lot, being around them all the time,” he said finally, the honesty sitting heavy on his chest.

“No shit,” Kade said with a glimmer of humor. “They’re fucking loud, bratty, and a total pain in the ass.” His lips curved into a small smile. “But are you buying a house to get away from them or because being around them constantly reminds you of what you don’t have?”

Storm’s chest tightened at the question, something sharp twisting inside him. He met Kade’s gaze but didn’t have an answer. Or maybe he didn’t want to have an answer.

“It’s time for me to live on my own,” he said gruffly. “Besides, the girls will be thrilled not to have me around, you know, being such an asshole.”

Kade smirked and pushed off the toolbox. “Actually, I think they’re going to be crushed that you’re moving out. Like it or not, they love you—despite your sparkling personality.”

Storm stared after him in stunned silence as Kade strode out of the garage, his words lingering like an echo in the air. The girls love me? That felt like a stretch. They tolerated him, teased him relentlessly, and harassed him on a regular basis. Surely, they weren’t going to have a second thought to him leaving.

And yet, the idea of not seeing them every day made his stomach roil uncomfortably.

What the hell was that all about?