Novel & Cerita Claimed By The Biker King

I asked, already seeing where this was going. “Damn right,” Kingston chirped, his tone reckless, eyes alight with mischief. “That Deathrider bike we got you wasn’t for f**king decoration it’s because of him. We didn’t want it to be this soon, but Griffin’s been strutting around like he runs the streets. We tried hiring bikers to knock him down, but hell, nobody could. And now?” He gave me a taunting smirk. “Now he’s calling you soft. Saying Rehab washed you up, and if you’re really the fiery rider from years ago, you’ll challenge him.”

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’s still searching me as if looking for injuries as he says, “Alpha Jackson says you’re the king’s shikra.” Well, that’s an awkward thing for my dad to know. His gaze finally drifts up to mine, and I can see the worry in his eyes. I don’t exactly want to tell my dad that I enjoy sex with the king, but I don’t want him to think I’m being abused either. “He’s kind to me,” I tell him. With his hands still holding my shoulders, he hangs his head in mixed relief and defeat. He lifts his head again, meeting my gaze. “Can you come home with me? Now?”

Murder, trafficking an witness intimidation, shipment of illegal arms, illegal boxing, illegal drugs, he has a lot of charges on him, and If I win this case, I would be the youngest prosecutor to ever put a motorcycle club president in jail on federal charges, but if I lost… No. I surely wasn’t going to lose. I can't lose. Our eyes locked, and he smirked as if reading my mind. The DA had handed me this case like it was a gift, a shot at making history, the first young prosecutor to ever take down the Viper Kings president on murder charges, my name would be on all the headlines, I might even receive a government award. The judge entered the room and everyone rose. And then it began. “Miss Cr

I lift a brow and shrug, fully admitting I have absolutely no clue what that means. He grins. A proud, dangerous grin. “It means we let young upcoming riders take our bikes out for a spin. We watch them. We sort out who has the talent — and who just thinks they do.” Oh. That kind of interview. “You’re looking for new riders?” I ask. “Yep.” My heart kicks up. “Are you going to stop racing? Or Sean?” I don’t want to sound too hopeful. “NO.” He crushes that hope at conception. “Not even close.”

"You bikers are all brawn and no brain. Did you honestly think I wouldn't set a trap for you?" "Shut your mouth, Damien," I growled, my voice dropping into a low, dangerous rumble. I adjusted my grip on the hunting knife in my hand, keeping my weight balanced on the balls of my feet. "You talk too much for a coward who hides behind poison and hired guns."

He poured whiskey into two glasses, slow and steady. “I mean, seriously,” I added. “A tub like that? Real candles? Designer linens? Upstairs looks like a damn magazine spread.” He passed me a glass. I narrowed my eyes. “What kind of biker compound has a spa-level bathroom and silk-threaded towels?” He took a slow sip, then said without irony, “Do you really expect a king to reside in rubbish?” I blinked. “Excuse me?” He set his glass down. “That’s what they call me.”

THE BIKER KING CALLS Despite how dangerous the atmosphere of the room felt, dinner was… quiet. Arthur stretched subtly in his seat, looking over at the plates set neatly on the long wooden table stretching through the center of the room. A single overhead light glinted off the rim of his glass as he sipped on his wine. Slowly, he looked around at the plain walls and the men standing at the dark corners of the room. A few had their arms folded, others rested their hands behind their backs. Every time they moved, their leather jackets would lift, revealing guns tucked into waistbands and knives strapped to their thighs. None of them spoke. None moved unless Victor told them to.

"Don't do that! If the real Mafia King hears it later, we'll be in massive trouble!" ​Doni instantly understood right then that the Mafia King's identity must not be leaked. ​"Well, the thing is, it fits the motorcycle perfectly. If you ever want to sell this bike later, sell it to me, Bro. I'm really eyeing this motorcycle," Doni replied, finally catching on and playing along with Lucas's charade. ​Angeline, who had been tense this entire time, could finally breathe a sigh of relief. ​"I actually thought for a second that Lucas was the Mafia King!" Angeline stated.