Stepbrothers Are Alpha Bikers And My Mates

Rory's POV

“Some people leave quietly. Others tear your world down on the way out.” That’s what my dad always says.

But now, I bury him in silence. No loud wails, no damp knees at the edge of the grave. Just the quiet, shaking breath of someone who’s run out of tears before the dirt even touches the coffin. The sky hangs low, a heavy shade of grey, swollen with clouds that threaten rain but offer nothing.

I stand still, my black shoes half-sunk into the wet grass, and I stare as they lower the casket into the earth like it weighs nothing. As if it hadn’t once held the only man who ever gave a damn about me.

The priest mutters his final words, but they sound muffled in my ears like I’m underwater. The few people who come begin to trickle away, offering murmured condolences and stiff handshakes that mean nothing. None of them knew Harold Vale, my Dad.

He was more than a respected judge. He was quite strong with midnight coffee. Books stacked in every corner of our little home. The man who used to press kisses to my hair and tell me the world was dangerous, but I’d never have to face it alone. And now, I am alone.

I don’t cry. Not when the lawyer confirms there’s no will. Not when I find out the house is mortgaged to the bone from medical bills. Not even when I realize there’s nowhere left to go. My heart feels like glass, full of cracks but refusing to shatter.

Then my mother comes. The woman who disappeared ten years ago and never once looked back. Celeste Vale or Celeste Blackfang now married to a man I’ve never met, standing at the edge of the cemetery in black leather and red lipstick like she’s arriving at a cocktail party instead of her ex-husband’s funeral.

When I heard she married an Alpha Biker, I was shocked. They're werewolves and are believed to be dangerous and involved in the highest criminal Mafia activities, looking less than humans. But now that I’ve seen him for the first time, he surpasses every expectation. He’s handsome.

“You’re coming with me,” she says, sunglasses still on even though the sun has long disappeared behind thick clouds. The man beside her is enormous, tall, broad-shouldered and covered in tattoos, and silent as a tombstone. I stare at him, searching for any trace of comfort or familiarity. There’s none.

“Your father left you nothing,” she continues, like she’s ticking off errands. “No house, no savings. I’ve already packed your things. You’ll finish college in Crescent Hills. Let's not miss the flight.”

I laugh dry, bitter. “You haven’t spoken to me in ten years, and now I’m just... yours again to control Mom?”

“You’re not mine,” she replies simply. “You were his. And he’s gone.”

So I get into the black SUV waiting just beyond the gates and we drive off to the airport. What choice do I have?

The ride to the airport is quiet. Tense. My mother spends most of it texting. The tattooed man, her new husband, apparently doesn’t say a word.

He just sits in the front seat like a statue, occasionally glancing at me through the rearview mirror. I don’t ask questions. What’s the point? I stare out the window, watching trees blur by, wondering if I’ll wake up back in my room, back in the house that no longer belongs to me.

When we pull up to the private terminal, my mother hands me a small manila envelope containing a plane ticket, an ID, and a printout of an address.

“The driver will pick you up when you land. Someone will be there to escort you to the apartment.” She doesn’t even walk me inside. Just stands by the car, her heels sharp against the concrete. “You’ll be fine, Aurora.”

“I hate you,” I whisper. I’m not even sure she hears me as I walk straight ahead to the waiting plane. It takes off a few minutes after.

The flight is smooth, but every minute of it feels suffocating. I board quietly, carrying nothing but a duffel bag and my sketchpad.

My assigned seat is by the window. Good. I don’t want to talk to anyone. Not now. Not while my head’s spinning with too many questions and my heart feels like it’s trying to claw out of my chest. I press my forehead to the cool glass and stare at the clouds, blinking rapidly to keep tears from falling.

Eventually, I pull out my sketchpad. My fingers itch for something familiar, something steady. Drawing has always been my escape. It helps me breathe when everything else feels like it’s choking me. I flip to a blank page and let my eyes scan the cabin, looking for something, someone worth sketching.

That’s when I see him. Three rows ahead, diagonally across from me.

Hoodie up. His combat boots legs rests on the seat in front of him. His head leaned back against the window. He has the kind of face artists beg the universe to let them capture, a jawline sharp enough to cut, his lips full and curved into a resting smirk, and a scar slicing through one brow like a warning sign. One AirPod dangles loosely in his ear. He looks effortlessly dangerous. Beautiful, in that way you don’t want to admit out loud.

I sketch him without thinking, my pencil moving with practiced ease. Each stroke brings him to life on the page. His lazy posture. The curve of his mouth. The faint shadow of stubble across his cheek. And just when I’m finishing the shading around his eyes, he turns and looks straight at me.

Caught.

His gaze pins me in place. Dark. Unreadable. That smirk deepens. He doesn’t say anything, just stares and then he winks.

I slam my sketchpad shut, my heart pounding. Damn it.

The rest of the flight, I avoid looking in his direction.

When the plane lands, I wait until most passengers are off before standing. I’m still tucking my sketchpad into my tote when I hear a low voice behind me.

“Hey. You gonna hand that over?”

I turn. He’s beside my row now, his hood down, revealing even more of that annoyingly handsome face. His eyes are dark, intense, amused. His smirk is even more infuriating in person.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, clutching the pad closer.

“You do. You were drawing me.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You really expect me to believe that?”

“I draw faces. It wasn’t personal.”

He leans in, just a little. Enough that I can smell something on him, something clean, smoky, earthy. Like danger and sandalwood. “You a journalist? Undercover cop? Private investigator?”

“What?”

“You hiding behind a sketchpad to get intel?”

My mouth drops open. “Are you insane?”

“Maybe,” he murmurs. “But I’m also not stupid. People in my world have to be careful.”

“What world is that?”

He gives a lazy shrug. “One where girls don’t usually get to sketch me and walk away.”

“Well, this one just did.”

Before he can say anything else, another voice cuts in.

“Let’s go. Driver’s waiting.”

A second guy steps up beside him. Taller, somehow darker. Sharper features. Same dark hair. Same build. Same eyes. My stomach drops. They’re twins.

He looks at me once, dispassionately, then turns and walks away without a word. The one I drew follows, tossing me a grin over his shoulder.

I hate how my heart stutters.

The airport buzzes around me again. I blink, stunned. Everything about those two feels… off. Like they carry something invisible but heavy. A power that doesn’t need to be spoken.

I get my bag and step outside to find a cab. My phone buzzes.

Celeste Mom: Driver canceled. Take a cab. I’ll reimburse you.

Of course.

I give the address to the next available driver and sit quietly in the backseat, the sketchpad clutched in my lap. The further we drive, the more uneasy I feel. The city melts into long roads flanked by woods. The houses become scarcer, larger. Then we pull up to a gated estate with tall iron fences and a massive stone mansion surrounded by motorcycles and ivy-covered walls.

“Here?” I ask.

The driver nods. “This is the address.”

The gates open automatically. The cab rolls forward, up a long driveway that curves around a marble fountain shaped like a howling wolf. The house is... beautiful. Dark stone. Huge windows. Towering pillars. Like a gothic dream come to life. It doesn’t feel like a home. It feels like a magnificent fortress.

I step out, overwhelmed. A maid is already waiting at the door.

“Miss Vale,” the woman greets stiffly. “We’ve been instructed to show you to your room.”

I follow her through the mansion past wide halls with black marble floors and chandeliers shaped like antlers. Past leather furniture and walls lined with old books. Every man we pass wears black, leather, silver. Their eyes follow me but no one speaks.

She leads me upstairs, down another hall, and into a bedroom that looks like it’s designed for royalty. Huge bed. Glass walls. Balcony view of the woods. My bag is already there.

“Dinner is at seven,” the maid says before closing the door behind her.

Alone, I drop my tote and pull out my sketchpad. I flip it open.

There he is. That smirk. That scar. That look that makes my skin heat and my brain go fuzzy.

Cocky. Arrogant yet gorgeous.

I trace the edge of his jaw with my fingertip and whisper, “I hate you.”

Then comes a knock at the door. It opens before I can answer.

My mother walks in. Flawless as ever but she doesn’t come alone.

There's two guys…the two guys from the airport follow behind her.

My heart stops. My mother smiles casually, like it’s just another Tuesday.

“Aurora,” she says, “Meet your stepbrothers. Damien, Jaxon.” One of them shuts the door behind him with a quiet click and just like that, I know I'm not waking up from this.