Batman Arkham Asylum Harley Novels & Stories

“I can name a million different kinks, positions and punishments because I have experienced them all. Mister Cartel was an experimental man and I his toy.” “What about suicide?” Althea lets the words out easily, just like she would in any other mundane conversations, as if the words didn’t describe the only escape for a tortured soul. “Four times,” answers Harley with a smirk on the lips. “I obviously failed miserably. I was also punished, each time.” Harley rolls his sleeves up, uncovering a series of multiple scars extending through his arms. The scars on his wrists seem erratic, of different sizes and depths, contrasting with the precise scars littering the rest of his arms. The thin line

My movement is clean and fast, so satisfyingly well-executed I nearly give myself a pat on the back. I might hate getting on a bike, but I know exactly how to get off one. Funny how fear works like that. “You named your death machine?” I ask coolly. His eyes narrow, clearly clocking what I just did. He clicks his tongue but lets it go. “Harley,” he corrects. “And she’s not a death machine. She’s beautiful. I built her myself. From scratch.” That actually gives me pause. “You did?” The surprise slips out before I can stop it.

He shoved it in the box on the back of his bike, opened his garage door and hopped on the bike. At the turn of the ignition, his bike roared to life. The sound combined with the rumble between his thighs, and the shaking ground beneath his feet was like an aphrodisiac. He loved everything about his bike. He'd never had a prouder moment in his life than when he'd gone to buy it, finally able to afford something this luxurious. It was a Harley-Davidson Road King. Black with brushed chrome accents.

"Guess I'm out of jail then. How about that? Ever been on the back of a bike before?" Butterflies burst in my stomach. I can't help it-apparently, I'm a sucker for these bad boy types. When we reach the parking lot, I spot a sleek black Harley waiting for us. My knees tremble slightly as I take it in. Damien's confidence radiates as he grabs an extra helmet and hands it to me. "No, I haven't," I admit softly. "This will be my first time." His grin widens, lighting up his whole face. "You're in for a treat. Just lean with me on the turns, flow with it. You'll be fine if you do."

"If you want me to go on that ride, it is now, then we can see about getting out of this when we get home" He grabbed her hand, pulling her with him, and she grabbed her keys, but had to hand them to him, not really having a pocket. "Wow, it's a Harley". She looked at the big black machine, even though she was a bit afraid of motorcycles and had never ridden one, she thought they were kind of cool. He took a helmet and handed it to her, grabbing another one for himself. "Yup, it is a FXDX model". "And would I be right if I guess you got one just like this at home ?" She arched an eyebrow at him.

They'd all been waiting for me to find out, like it was some sick entertainment. My hands shook as I dug through my purse for my keys, but then I stopped. My car was parked out back, but sitting right in front of the clubhouse, gleaming under the neon lights, was Darius's pride and joy. The Blackfang. A custom-built Harley that he'd spent months perfecting. Midnight black with silver detailing, it was as beautiful and dangerous as its owner. Was. My wolf whispered in my head, urgent and desperate: “Run. Take it and run.”

Ravenhold Bastille, their most secretive and secure facility, now stood there. His territory. His rules. Harlan finally arched an eyebrow and glanced up, impatience simmering in his steel-grey eyes. “Alisher’s a lawyer. He goes to prisons. That’s what lawyers do. Now get back to your desk—I’m busy.” The assistant hesitated, then cleared his throat. “He wasn’t alone, sir. He was with someone.” Harlan’s eyes narrowed. “Ms. Aria Harper from Ironhide Pack.” The room fell dead silent.

Harley hasn't touched anything and it makes me feel a pang in my heart. There should have been changes. She hasn't even unpacked her luggage. I withdraw my eyes from the bathroom door where Harley is cleaning herself off the attacker's touch. She has been there for half an hour already. "I don't know what it's called...it was something like..." "An Arlecchino mask." Harley's voice makes me look at the bathroom door again and I find her standing outside, changed into a white nightgown. Her eyes are still bloodshot with the tears she spilled before and the towel in her hand is shaking as she looks at me.

“Long story short, your dad's alive and the Rebels hate him. They're going to use you to get his cooperation - there's probably going to be drugs in the package you're picking up and a score of cops hiding in the bushes to pick you up.” There was silence on the other end. He was obviously trying to process the information. “Get on your bike and drive to the nearest heavily populated place, then call me back.” I cut the call and marched into Harley's bedroom, my feet having a mind of their own. It was neat and tidy, but the decoration of the place was clearly hastily thrown together. Harley wasn't one for feminine frills and nonfunctional frippery. I sat down on the quilted blanket which cove

I nod in the affirmative, and walk slowly to Killer who put his hands around my waist, grounding me in the now. He did the same when we first left Kanla, it is like he senses when I am going to clock out. Killer keeps it from happening. “Get her, where's Bull?” “Climbing down the ladder. See you in three,” Bulls voice can be heard from our ear pieces. Winner goes to Harley and lifts her up and swings her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. It should feel good that we got her but I don't feel shit. “Can we ride later.” I lift my head up to Killer as his crunched up face is glaring at Harley's unconscious form.