Claimed By The Biker King

Sable

It smelled like bleach and piss.

Concrete sweat beneath my boots. A rusted pipe dripped overhead, ticking like a clock about to run out. Somewhere to my left, a man laughed—low, wet, and cruel.

My wrists burned. The zip ties had long since cut past skin. My left eye wouldn’t open all the way, and the blood at the corner of my mouth had dried stiff. They’d been careful. Not enough damage to kill me. Just enough to remind me I wasn’t leaving that chair until they said so.

Or until Luke paid up.

“You sure she ain’t just playin’ dumb?” someone muttered behind me. A boot scuffed the floor. “Could be she set the whole thing up.”

“You think I’d be sittin’ here, lookin’ like this, if I planned it?” I rasped. My voice barely cracked through the swelling in my throat.

Another laugh. Different voice. This one younger. “Shit, maybe you’re into it.”

I didn’t answer. No point. They wanted someone to bleed, and I was the only one in the room.

The job had been simple—or it was supposed to be. I was supposed to ride out with a locked duffel, meet a small-time distro crew on the east side, hand off the package, collect the second half of the cash, and ride back. Luke said I was just the courier. No risk. No drama.

What he didn’t say? That the crew I was meeting had already been hit by a rival gang twice this month. Or that the first half of the payment—the money already handed over to the Vipers—was now considered their loss.

Because someone tipped off the Hell Dogs. They showed up before I even unzipped the bag.

By the time the bullets stopped flying, the Hell Dogs were gone, the duffel was gone, and the cash I was supposed to collect had been sprayed across the pavement, burning with the distro’s pickup truck. And me? I’d been knocked cold and tossed into the back of a van like rotted meat.

“Call Jones again,” the leader said.

I flinched. I hated the sound of his voice—tight, nasal, like a man used to hearing himself talk and too proud to stop. Gino, they called him. Skinny for someone in charge, but he had that look. The dangerous kind of small. The kind that gets off on swinging up.

“I already called him twice,” one of the crew muttered. “He ain’t answering.”

“He’s not coming,” I said.

Silence.

Then a loud crack—my head snapped sideways from the backhand. The sting bloomed hot across my cheekbone. I tasted copper again.

“You really think we’re that stupid?” Gino hissed, stepping in front of me. His face was too close. I could smell the cigarettes on his breath, the sharp scent of synthetic cologne trying to mask sweat. “You think you’re just gonna sit pretty in this chair until someone rescues you?”

“I think,” I croaked, “if Luke gave a shit, I’d already be gone.”

Another beat of silence. A few guys shifted uncomfortably.

Gino grinned like a shark. “Then he won’t mind if we send a message.”

That’s when I saw the bolt cutters.

Big ones. Red handles. Clean edges.

“No,” one of the younger guys said quietly. “C’mon, G, we don’t gotta—”

Gino turned on him. “You wanna cover the cost out of your cut?”

The kid shut up fast.

“Good,” Gino said. He turned back to me, lifting the cutters. “I’ll start with the ring finger. That way you can still flip us off after.”

They laughed. All of them. Even the kid.

My heart thrashed like it wanted out of my chest. Panic clawed at the edge of my vision—but I bit down on it. Hard.

Not like this.

I scanned the room. Three men. One watching from the corner, two flanking Gino. No guns in hand, but one had a blade at his belt. Door behind Gino, stairs somewhere past that. My legs were tied to the chair, ankles duct-taped together. Hands zip-tied behind the slats. Cheap wood. Splintered at the joints.

I could break it.

Maybe.

But only once.

Gino stepped closer, lining the bolt cutters up to my left hand.

“Hope you’re a righty, sweetheart.”

And that’s when I moved.

I threw my weight to the side, slamming the chair legs outward. The front two splintered on impact, pitching me forward—and I used the momentum to spin, slamming into Gino’s knees.

He shouted and went down.

I landed hard, pain flaring in my shoulder, but the fall split the back of the chair just enough. I twisted, ignored the fire in my wrists, and pulled hard.

The wood cracked. Zip ties tore skin.

A blade flashed in my peripheral, and I kicked upward. The guy staggered back with a curse. The blade left his hands and landed somewhere close.

I rolled. Grabbed the broken leg of the chair. It had a jagged edge—sharp enough.

I drove it into the nearest man’s shin. He screamed.

Someone grabbed my hair.

I twisted again—headbutting into bone. There was a sickening crunch and a scream that wasn’t mine. The impact tossed me back a bit, my hands landing on the floor to brace myself.

That’s when I felt it, the blade under my hands landing. I wrapped my fingers around it and cut through the duct tape around my ankles.

Blood ran into my eyes. I didn’t stop.

The door was open.

I ran.

Stumbled. Slipped.

Ran anyway.

Up the stairs, down a narrow hall, through a busted screen door and out into a gravel alley. Night air hit my lungs like knives. The whole left side of my body was bruised to hell, and I could still hear them behind me, shouting. Cursing.

But they weren’t fast enough.

I vaulted a low fence, caught my ankle, and nearly went down. But I caught myself on a chain-link gate and kept moving. Limping. Sprinting. Doesn’t matter. My body wanted to quit, but I shoved it harder.

I didn’t stop until I saw the edge of the neon lights. Gas station. Flickering sign. Cars.

People.

I staggered inside.

The clerk—maybe seventeen—looked up from his phone and dropped it when he saw me. “Jesus Christ—”

“Phone,” I gasped, clutching the counter. “I need a phone.”

He handed it over without a word.

I didn’t call Luke.

I called Hannah.

My best friend. The one person I trusted. The one who’d warned me a year ago that Luke was poison. That the Vipers weren’t my people.

She picked up on the second ring.

“Sable?” Her voice cracked. “Is everything alright?”

I exhaled. Shaking.

And finally said it out loud.

“I’m done.”