Claimed By The Ruthless Biker

The car died two miles after the last streetlight.

One second, the engine was dragging me through the dark mountain road with a tired growl. The next, the steering wheel stiffened under my hands, the headlights flickered and the whole car rolled to a miserable stop by the side of the road.

“No. No, no, no.” My voice cracked as I slammed both palms against the wheel. “Please. Please, not here.”

The dashboard glowed once. Then went black. The silence that followed was worse than the noise.

Outside, the mountain pressed close on both sides of the road, all tall pines and black shadows. Fog crawled low over the cracked asphalt. Somewhere far off, something metal creaked in the wind. A sign leaned crookedly near the ditch, its white paint peeling around the words:

WELCOME TO GREYSTONE

POPULATION: 1,904

Under it, someone had spray-painted in red:

LEAVE WHILE YOU CAN.

I stared at it for three full seconds.

Then I laughed. It came out wrong. Thin. Shaky. Almost a sob.

“Funny,” I whispered. “Really funny.”

My phone buzzed on the passenger seat. I jumped so hard my shoulder hit the window. The screen lit up with a name I had deleted seven hours ago and still somehow knew by heart.

DAMIAN.

My stomach dropped.

I didn’t touch it.

The phone stopped ringing. Then immediately started again.

DAMIAN.

I snatched it up, thumb hovering over the power button. The cracked screen reflected my face back at me in pale, broken pieces. Wild brown hair. Tired eyes. A split in my lower lip I had covered with cheap drugstore gloss at the last gas station.

My engagement ring was no longer on my finger. The mark it left behind still was.

The phone buzzed again.

This time, a message dropped.

Pick up, Ava. You’re making this worse.

My breath caught even as a second message followed.

You can’t run from me.

With trembling hands, I turned the phone off.

The darkness swallowed the screen, and for one stupid second I felt like I had won. Then the wind hit the side of the car and rocked it gently.

I grabbed my bag. It was small. Too small for a life. One pair of jeans, two shirts, a toothbrush, cash I had taken from the emergency envelope hidden behind Damian’s framed law degree and the old photograph of Eli I could not leave behind. 

My brother smiled up at me from inside the bag when I opened it to check if the money was still there.

Army uniform. Crooked grin. One arm thrown around my shoulders like he could keep the whole world away from me.

“You said I was brave,” I whispered to the picture. “You were a liar.”

I zipped the bag and stepped out of the car.

The cold slapped me first. Then the quiet.

There were no other cars. No houses. No gas station light. Just the road twisting downward, the trees and the faint glow of something far ahead. Orange. Flickering. Maybe a building. Maybe a warning.

I locked the car even though there was nothing in it worth stealing and started walking.

My boots crunched over gravel. The strap of my bag dug into my shoulder. Every few steps, I looked behind me.

Empty road.

Keep moving, I told myself.

So I walked faster.

My heartbeat was louder than my footsteps. It had been like that for months. 

Damian used to say I was too sensitive.

Maybe, I was.

The orange glow grew brighter as the road dipped into town.

Greystone appeared like something forgotten by time.

Old brick buildings. Dark shop windows. A pharmacy with one flickering sign. A closed diner with red stools visible through the glass. A church bell tower rising behind rooftops like a watchful finger. The streets were empty, but curtains moved when I passed.

People were awake.

People were watching.

I lowered my head and kept walking.

A neon sign buzzed at the far end of the street.

THE PIT.

The letters were red, but the T had burned out, so it read:

HE PI

Beneath the sign, a row of motorcycles lined the curb like sleeping animals. Black, chrome, heavy. Some had helmets hanging from the handles. One had a black wolf painted on the fuel tank, its body wrapped around a burning wheel.

The same symbol was carved into the wooden door.

A biker bar.

Perfect. Really perfect. 

I almost turned around in fear. Then a cold gust of wind pushed through my sweater, and I remembered my dead car, my dead phone, Damian’s messages and the two miles of empty road behind me.

Oh God, I needed a phone.

I needed help.

I needed not to freeze outside like a complete idiot.

“Just ask for a mechanic,” I muttered. “Walk in. Ask. Leave.”

My hand shook as I pushed the door open.

Heat hit me first. Then smoke. Then silence.

Not normal silence though. It was not the kind that happens because people are bored or tired.

This was a killing kind of silence.

A dozen men turned to look at me. Maybe more.

They sat at the bar, around scratched wooden tables, near the pool table at the back where the green felt had cigarette burns at the corners. Most of them were large. Some were bearded. Many were tattooed. Several wore black leather cuts with the same wolf-and-burning-wheel symbol stitched across the back.

A jukebox in the corner played low, something old and rough with too much guitar.

Nobody spoke.

A glass paused halfway to a man’s mouth.

A pool cue stopped in midair.

The bartender, a woman with black hair and red lipstick, looked me over once and muttered, “Oh, sweetheart.”

That was when I knew I was in the wrong place.

Very wrong place.

Oh God. 

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, backing toward the door. “I just need a phone. My car broke down. I didn’t mean to—”

My back hit something solid. It was not the door. It was a man.

He smelled like whiskey and sweat. His hand landed on the door above my head, blocking it shut.

“Well, look at that,” he drawled. “Town finally sent us a welcome gift.”

My throat went dry.

I turned slowly.

He was tall, broad, with a reddish beard and unfocused eyes. His leather vest hung open over a stained shirt. A toothpick moved between his lips as his gaze dropped to my bag, then my face, then lower.

I gripped the strap tighter.

“I’m leaving.”

He smiled. “Already? But you just got here.”

“I said I’m leaving.”

“And I said…” He leaned closer. “What’s a pretty little thing like you doing alone in Greystone close to midnight?”

My pulse slammed into my ears.

Behind him, someone chuckled.

Another voice said, “Careful, Rafe.”

The man in front of me ignored it.

“What’s your name?”

I swallowed. “Move.”

His smile widened. “That ain’t a name.”

The door handle was behind him. If I shoved him, he would grab me. If I screamed, I didn’t know who would help. If I froze, I would hate myself for it later.

I was so fucking tired of freezing.

“Move,” I said again, louder this time.

The room shifted just then and it seemed something changed.

The air had even tightened.

Oh God, what was happening, I thought as fear raced up my spine. 

The man blocking me felt it too because his smile twitched.

“Rafe,” a voice came just then, booming through the room. 

It was one word. And it was with a voice that was low, calm and almost bored.

The man in front of me went still.

Startled, I looked past his shoulder just as a man stepped out from behind the bar.