Todos os capítulos de Claimed By The Biker King: Capítulo 61 - Capítulo 70

SableI woke up irritated.Not the kind that fades after coffee or a shower, but the kind that sat under my skin and refused to settle no matter what I did. My body still felt the echo of the night before—tight, restless, unfinished—and it followed me through the morning like a bad mood I couldn’t shake.I didn’t bother putting much effort into my appearance. A pair of leggings, an oversized shirt, my hair pulled back just enough to keep it out of my face. Good enough.If anyone had a problem with it, they could deal.By mid-morning, I found myself looking for Marcus without really admitting that’s what I was doing. I told myself it was just habit. That he was easy to talk to. That it didn’t mean anything.None of that felt convincing.I finally spotted him near the back lot, sitting at one of the tables with Kimberly and Garrett. He looked relaxed in a way I wasn’t used to seeing—leaned back slightly, one arm resting along the back of Garrett’s chair while he sat beside him with a le

SableBy the next afternoon, I had reached the point where sitting still felt like a punishment.The clubhouse wasn’t unusually quiet, but it felt quieter to me, maybe because my mind had nowhere else to go. Every time the front door opened, some stupid part of me looked up automatically before I could stop it, only to feel ridiculous a second later when it turned out to be somebody else coming in for a drink or passing through to the back.I told myself I wasn’t waiting for anyone.That was a lie.I sat at the far end of the bar with a glass of water in front of me, tracing the ring of condensation with my finger while my thoughts circled the same aggravating track they had all morning. Jarek had left again. Marcus had gone too. Neither of them had said much before disappearing, and while I understood on a basic level that this place did not run itself and that club business didn’t stop just because Christmas was two days away, the sudden pattern of them both being gone so often late

SableThe farther we rode from town, the lighter my chest felt.Not healed. Not fixed. Just loosened, like some knot inside me had been pulled tight for weeks and the wind itself had finally started teasing it apart. The road opened into long desert stretches striped gold by late afternoon sun, scrub brush throwing thin shadows across the shoulder, and Bryce kept slightly behind me most of the ride—close enough to satisfy Hannah’s peace of mind, far enough to give me the illusion of riding alone.It was considerate.Which I was trying not to notice.When a faded roadside ice cream stand came into view near a gas station at the county turnoff, impulse hit me so hard I barely signaled before veering into the gravel lot.Bryce pulled in beside me and killed his engine, staring at the giant cartoon cow painted on the sign before looking back at me.“Seriously?”I pulled off my helmet and shook out my hair. “Yeah.”“You dragged me on an existential freedom ride for ice cream?”I leaned aga

SableBy the next afternoon, the clubhouse looked like Christmas had collided headfirst with a biker bar.Boxes of decorations had been dragged down from storage—some old and mismatched, some surprisingly tasteful, some looking like they had survived three wars and at least one bar fight. Tinsel hung from rafters beside lengths of chain. White lights were being wound around support beams. Somebody had jammed a Santa hat over the mounted longhorn skull above the fireplace, and no one seemed inclined to remove it.It should have looked ridiculous.It mostly did.And somehow it worked.Hannah had commandeered holiday operations with a clipboard, which meant everyone else was either taking orders or pretending not to. Charlie moved beside her with easy efficiency, redirecting chaos before it became catastrophe. Bryce had volunteered himself as “logistical support,” which apparently meant heckling people while carrying almost nothing.I ended up on a ladder stringing lights around one of t

SableChristmas Eve settled over the clubhouse louder than any holiday had a right to.Someone had dragged in a cedar that looked like it had been bullied out of the desert and forced into seasonal participation, and now it stood in the corner of the common room sagging beneath mismatched ornaments, colored lights, and enough tinsel to qualify as a fire hazard. Bryce had declared the crooked angel on top “punk rock,” which earned him a threat from Hannah involving a serving spoon and his kneecaps. Charlie laughed so hard she nearly dropped a tray of cookies, and half the men in the room pretended they weren’t enjoying the whole thing as much as they were.It should have looked ridiculous. It did, honestly. But there was warmth beneath the rough edges, a strange kind of comfort in the way the room had shifted from leather, smoke, and steel into something almost domestic. Not soft exactly. The Black Daggers didn’t know how to be soft. But there was something close to it in the glow of c