Claimed By The Biker King

Sable

I stood just far enough back to avoid conversation, close enough to see the casket suspended above the ground. Matte black. Heavy. Clean lines. Chrome handles catching the weak October sun. Too polished. Too ceremonial.

Steve would’ve hated it.

My brother wasn’t a man for appearances. He was grease under his nails, oil-stained jeans, laughter too loud in quiet rooms. He hated anything that felt staged. I could almost hear him now, low and amused in my ear.

Relax, Sable. You look like you’re about to audit the grim reaper.

My throat tightened. I hadn’t cried. Not when the call came. 

Not when my mother couldn’t decide between caskets and kept asking what he would’ve wanted.

Not when my father stood in the garage for hours, staring at the empty space where Steve’s bike should’ve been.

And not now.

Because if I started, I wasn’t sure I’d stop. And someone had to stay upright. Someone had to hold the line.

I was Sable Arden. Steve’s little sister. The woman Luke Jones owned on paper. The collateral wife no one asked about.

None of that mattered anymore.

The only person who had ever chosen me—who had ever seen me without trying to mold me into something more convenient—was being lowered into the ground.

A ripple moved through the crowd. I looked up. Cassandra had arrived.

Late.

She wore black like it had been tailored to her body, the dress clinging in all the right places, hair swept back into a perfect low knot. Dark sunglasses hid her eyes, but I knew what was behind them—nothing.

Cassandra had always been good at wearing the right face without ever carrying the weight underneath it.

Her son, Jack, trailed beside her, small fingers gripping the edge of her dress. Four years old. Tie crooked. Shoes untied.

No one moved to help him. So I did. Then was cut off by Luke Jones stepping out from the front row before I could take two steps.

President of the Vipers.

Steve’s best friend.

My husband.

He crouched, tying Jack’s shoes with practiced efficiency, murmuring something low that made the boy nod. Then he stood and offered Cassandra his arm.

She took it without hesitation.

Luke didn’t look at me as he guided her forward. He didn’t need to. The message was already clear.

I watched as he placed her in the front row—right beside my parents. Right where Steve’s wife should have been. Only she’d never really been his wife. Not in any way that mattered.

My mother went rigid the moment Cassandra sat. Spine straight. Jaw tight. My father placed a quiet hand over hers—not comfort. A warning.

The preacher’s voice rolled on—words about loyalty, brotherhood, legacy. About how Steve had died doing what he loved.

Riding.

That part was true. What they didn’t say was that his brakes had failed.

I remembered the last conversation I’d had with him.

“I’m just taking her out for a quick run,” Steve had said, leaning against the garage door, helmet tucked under his arm. “She’s been sitting too long. Don’t want anything seizing up.”

I’d smiled. “You just cleaned her.”

“Exactly. Gotta make sure everything’s still smooth.”

He never came home.

They called it an accident. Mechanical failure. One sharp turn. No time to react.

But I knew my brother. He checked his bike religiously. Before every ride. Every single one.

And Cassandra sat dry-eyed in the front row.

“I still don’t understand how something like that could happen,” my mother whispered, her voice sharp with disbelief. “He was careful. Meticulous. He would’ve noticed if something was wrong.”

“Mom,” I murmured.

“No,” she snapped. “Tell me I’m wrong. He would’ve caught it. He always did.”

Cassandra didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch.

“And she was the last one in the garage with him,” my mother continued, her voice trembling now. “Always asking him to check something. Adjust something. She hated that he spent more time with those bikes than with her.”

My father squeezed her hand harder this time. “That’s enough.”

She swallowed hard and looked away. I’d never seen her cry—not even when her own mother died—but her fingers dug into my father’s knee like she was holding herself together by force alone.

When the service ended, people scattered in small, murmuring clusters. Condolences were offered. Avoided. Measured.

I stayed.

A few feet away, Jack crouched near the flowers, poking at the dirt like he was trying to understand where his father had gone.

“He loved that kid,” I murmured.

“He did.”

My spine stiffened.

Luke stood behind me—close enough that I could feel the heat of him. Close enough that no one else would notice, but I would.

“He talked about him constantly,” I said, not turning.

Luke nodded once. “That’s why I’m moving them into the house.”

The words were calm. Casual. Final.

I turned sharply. “What?”

“It’s temporary,” he said. “Jack needs stability. And Cassandra shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“She has a house.”

“She doesn’t want to be there.”

“Too many memories,” I said flatly. “Of the husband whose bike mysteriously failed?”

His hand came to my lower back—not a grip. Not a shove. Just pressure. A reminder.

“That’s not appropriate,” he said quietly, for my ears only.

“No,” I replied. “It isn’t.”

His fingers pressed in slightly harder. Not enough to hurt. Enough to correct.

“This isn’t a discussion,” he continued evenly. “I’ve already made the decision. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

Of course you have.

“You haven’t said much,” he added after a beat. “Since the accident.”

And you didn’t notice, I thought.

I turned back to the grave. “What’s there to say?”

Luke waited. Long enough for the silence to stretch. Long enough for me to feel it.

Then he stepped away. I waited until I was alone before kneeling, brushing my fingers over the engraving.

Steve Arden

Brother. Rider. Loyal to the End.

“They’re already erasing you,” I whispered. “Your home. Your place. Your life.”

The wind stirred the flowers.

“I don’t know how to do this without you.”

For just a moment, I imagined his voice—steady, teasing, sure.

You do. You always have. You’re stronger than you think.

One tear slipped free.

Only one.

I stood, squared my shoulders, and walked toward the parking lot—expecting and dreading a more involved verbal lashing from the man I married during the ride home.

But I was way off base. Luke was already at the car, opening the passenger door for Cassandra.

She slid in without hesitation—like it belonged to her. Like he did.

Our eyes met for half a second as he shut her door. He didn’t say a word. Just turned, walked around the front of the car, and got in on the driver’s side.

The engine flared. The tires rolled.

And I stood in the gravel, staring after them—left behind like an afterthought.