All Chapters of Claimed By The Biker Kings: Their Forbidden Queen: Chapter 81 - Chapter 87

Alina’s POVThe silence was the worst part.I’d cried myself into exhaustion, my throat raw, my eyes swollen, my chest aching from the force of sobs that had torn through me like a storm. And when I finally stopped—when there were no more tears left, no more energy to sustain the breakdown—I waited.Waited for the knock on my door. For Jaxon’s gruff voice demanding I let him in. For Maddox’s gentle persuasion through the wood. For Ronan’s calm logic explaining why isolation wasn’t the answer.But nobody came.An hour passed. Then two. Then four.The compound settled into its nighttime rhythm around me—muffled conversations, footsteps in hallways, the distant sound of bikes in the garage. Life continuing like I hadn’t just shattered completely in front of the three men who claimed to love me.Maybe that was the problem. Maybe once you broke in front of people, showed them exactly how damaged you were, they realized you we

Alina’s POVI didn’t leave my room for the rest of the day. Didn’t eat when someone knocked with food, didn’t respond when Maddox tried to coax me out for training, didn’t acknowledge Jaxon’s gruff “You okay in there?” through the door.Instead, I sat on my bed and thought about everything I’d overheard. Everything I’d learned about my place here in the past twenty-four hours.The Serpents didn’t want me. Not really. They tolerated me because their leaders had claimed me, but given the choice, most would happily ship me back to Hart or dump me in some remote location where I’d be someone else’s problem.The three men who’d sworn to protect me were too busy fighting each other to actually unite against the threats we faced. Jaxon wanted control through isolation. Maddox wanted connection through proximity. Ronan wanted strategic perfection through careful planning. And none of them could agree long enough to actually keep me safe.And I’d been fooling myself, thinking I’d found freedom

Alina’s POVThe conference room where they’d scheduled my deposition was deliberately intimidating—all dark wood and leather chairs, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Chicago’s skyline like a reminder of how far I could fall. Hart’s legal team had arrived early, spreading their materials across the massive table with the territorial confidence of predators claiming their hunting ground.Three lawyers. Two paralegals. One stenographer. All of them watching me enter with expressions that ranged from professional neutrality to barely concealed hostility.Patricia Morrison squeezed my hand once before we sat. “Remember—answer only what’s asked. No elaboration. No emotion. Just facts.”I nodded, smoothing down the navy suit we’d chosen specifically for this—professional, composed, the view opposite of the “unstable victim” narrative Hart’s team would push.Across the table, Christopher Blake smiled but It didn’t reach his eyes.“Miss Hart,” he began once the preliminaries were done, his