Reaper's Ride: A Dark Biker Romance

Sarah

The concrete floor was ice beneath my bare feet, each cold press a stark reminder of where I was. I didn’t dare ask for shoes. Not here. Not now. I’d learned that asking meant drawing attention—attention that usually ended badly, quickly. So, I kept my eyes fixed on the cracked, stained floor, willing myself to disappear, to shrink into the shadows until I was nothing more than dust.

The back room of the clubhouse smelled like stale smoke and lost chances, a bitter cocktail of fear and desperation. Cigarette smoke clung heavy, thick as fog, wrapping around the peeling, grease-stained walls and the battered, sticky-topped table in the center. The sharp clink of bottles echoed through the room, followed by raucous laughter from men whose faces seemed carved out of chaos and sin. Their eyes, hard and indifferent, barely registered my presence, yet I felt them, like insects crawling on my skin. Every scar and faded tattoo on their brawny arms told a story of battles fought and rules broken, stories I didn't want to know.

And right in the middle of it all—he waited.

Jax.

They called him Reaper—because death followed him like a shadow, a silent, inevitable companion. The kind of man who could kill with a glance and leave no trace but silence and a cold void where a life once was. The instant his eyes, obsidian chips of ice, sliced through the noise and landed on me, the world shrank to that frozen moment. My breath caught, a jagged shard in my throat. I knew—without a doubt—that I was standing in the eye of a storm, and I was the fragile thing about to be torn apart.

He lounged back in his chair, a king draped in leather and scars, his broad shoulders swallowed by the worn biker cut. Tattooed fingers, strong and calloused, curled tightly around a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the dim, dusty light like fresh blood in a wound. The room quieted the second he stood, the sudden hush more terrifying than the previous roar. The only sound was the slow, deliberate rumble of his heavy boots across the concrete floor, each step a hammer blow against the silence.

“Who the fuck brought her here?” His voice was gravel and steel, low and dangerous like a warning whispered in a nightmare, yet it vibrated with an authority that brooked no argument.

“She belongs to Black Snake now,” a prospect muttered, his eyes darting nervously, avoiding Jax’s direct gaze. “They said she’s payment for the drop.”

Jax’s jaw flexed, muscles tightening like a coiled wire. His head tilted infinitesimally. “You think I deal in flesh now?”

The prospect shifted uncomfortably, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple. “She’s not... she’s not for you, Reaper. Just part of the deal. They threw her in.”

Jax turned his eyes on me then. Not soft. Not kind. But not empty either. There was something unreadable beneath that cold, dissecting stare, a depth that flickered for a fraction of a second. I didn’t flinch, even though my stomach twisted tight enough to make me dizzy. My hands trembled, hidden behind my back. He noticed the bruises on my wrists—the raw, angry marks where fingers had dug too deep, where bonds had chafed. The torn hem of my dress, stained and frayed, felt as ruined as I was.

“Get out.” His voice was low, but sharp as a blade. It wasn’t a request.

They hesitated. One laughed nervously, a sound that barely masked fear, a desperate attempt at defiance. “You serious, Reaper?”

Jax said nothing. He just stared. His silence was heavier than any threat. Slowly, one by one, they scattered, melting into the shadows like rats from a sudden, searing flame.

Now, it was just me and him. The air thrummed with a dangerous energy.

“You’re not part of the deal,” he said, his voice dropping even lower—more dangerous, more intimate. “You’re a loose end.”

I swallowed hard. The lump in my throat felt like stone, rough and unyielding. “Then tie me up or cut me loose. Just... don’t leave me hanging in between.”

His brow arched, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, a flash of something disturbingly attractive beneath the menace. “Not afraid of dying?”

I met his gaze steadily, refusing to break. My heart hammered, but my voice was steady. “No. But I’m afraid of going back.”

There it was—a flicker. Something like pain or regret, perhaps even understanding, flashing just beneath his surface, a brief vulnerability I shouldn't have seen. But it was gone too fast to catch, like a shadow fleeing at dawn. It was a terrifying thought that this man, this Reaper, might actually understand.

He moved closer, the air around him thickening like thunder rolling in. Every step he took made the room seem smaller, tighter, until his very presence felt like a physical weight pressing down on me. He was a storm waiting to break, and I, the solitary leaf caught in its path.

“Name?” he asked, his voice rough.

“Sarah.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t soften. Just studied me as if trying to read every scar I carried beneath my skin, every secret hidden in my bones. His gaze was unnervingly thorough.

“What the hell did you do to get handed off to a gang like Black Snake?”

I swallowed past the bitter taste rising in my throat, the metallic tang of old fear. “I existed.” The words were a flat, tired confession.

He stared at me a long moment, and I thought—just for a second—that he might laugh or turn away, dismiss me as worthless. But instead, he spun on his heel and stalked toward the far wall.

With a sharp click, he unlocked a steel cabinet and pulled out a black hoodie. He tossed it at me, the fabric a soft, dark blur against the harsh light.

“Put that on before one of my brothers decides they don’t give a shit who you belong to.”

I caught it with shaking hands. The fabric was thick, heavy, smelling of grease and worn leather and cigarette smoke—a strange, rough comfort compared to the lingering scent of blood and fear clinging to me. It smelled distinctly of him. A shiver, both of fear and an unwanted, strange sense of safety, ran down my spine.

“I don’t belong to anyone,” I whispered, though the words felt like a fragile defiance.

Jax stopped at the door, hand resting on the frame, his back to me. “Yeah, well, you do now.”

—

The clubhouse wasn’t a sanctuary by any stretch, the constant thrum of engines and gruff voices a reminder of the raw power that surrounded me. But it was better than the cramped cages and suffocating dark rooms I’d been dragged through before. Here, at least, there was space to breathe, even if that air was thick with smoke and danger. I learned quickly: keep your head down, don’t touch anything that’s not yours, and never go near the garage without Reaper’s permission.

Especially the bike.

His bike was matte black, sleek and predatory, polished like a weapon, resting in the back corner of the garage like a shrine. I watched once as a prospect, new and cocky, leaned on it casually.

The next day, he was limping, nursing bruises no one wanted to explain, his face pale, he had learnt his lesson and she had learnt hers.

Sometimes, late at night when the noise died down and sleep wouldn’t come, I’d slip out of the small room I’d been given. I’d sit near the garage entrance, just to stare at the bike, its dark silhouette a stark contrast to the grime of the garage.

It was stupid, I knew. Dangerous. But it reminded me of something—freedom, escape, the open road, everything I wasn’t allowed to want. A whisper of a life beyond this.

“You got a thing for my bike?”

The voice made me jump, heart leaping into my throat.

Jax stood in the shadows, arms crossed, a cigarette dangling from his lips, its cherry glow a tiny beacon in the gloom. Smoke curled upward, vanishing into the darkness like secrets escaping.

“No,” I said too quickly, the lie thin and transparent.

He stepped forward, boots echoing hollow on the concrete. “You’ve been staring at her for ten minutes, Sarah.”

“It’s just... pretty.” The word felt too soft, too delicate for such a brutal machine.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through the silent garage. “It’s a death machine.”

“So are you,” I whispered, the truth slipping out before I could censor it.

He blinked, then walked over slowly, deliberately, close enough for me to smell oil and smoke and the unique scent of his skin and breath. The air around him was potent, raw.

“Most people run when I get this close.” His gaze was unblinking, challenging.

I forced myself not to flinch, to hold my ground.

“Most people haven’t already been broken.” A bitter laugh escaped me. “They still have something to lose.”

He frowned, the hard lines of his face softening almost imperceptibly. “You’re not broken.”

I laughed bitterly again, a dry, rasping sound.

“You don’t know me.”

“No,” he said quietly, his voice unexpectedly gentle. “But I know what it looks like when someone’s still got fight left. I see it in your eyes, Sarah. You’re not done yet. Not by a long shot.”

His words were a strange affirmation. He saw fight? When all I felt was fear?

I looked away, throat tightening, the sudden swell of emotion overwhelming.

“Why’d they want you gone?” he asked, his voice softer, less demanding now.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. The words were locked behind a wall of pain and shame.

He sighed, a low, rough sound, then tossed something at my feet. I looked down—keys, dull metal catching the dim light.

“You need to eat. Go inside. Room on the second floor, third door on the left. It’s yours. No one goes in without my say-so.” His voice was firm, an order, but threaded with an unexpected consideration.

“Why are you helping me?” The question was out before I could stop it, edged with disbelief.

His gaze darkened, becoming opaque once more, the brief softness gone. “I’m not. I’m making sure no one else touches you. Big difference.” The possessiveness in his tone was chilling, yet under it, a twisted sense of security began to bloom. He wasn't saving me; he was claiming me.

—

That night, I locked the door three times before crawling into bed, the rough blanket surprisingly soft against my skin.

I stared at the cracked ceiling until morning, heart pounding too loud in the oppressive silence, waiting for footsteps that never came.

Not yet.