Claimed By The Biker King Novels & Stories

It seems he knew all of it was a made up story. “And this biker, what's his name?” he asked, eyes still locked on his notepad. “Mordred Sinclair,” I replied, letting the hate drip into every syllable. “He’s got a crew. Black Vipers or some biker gang bullshit. Check the cameras outside. You’ll see.”

Greasy hair, yellowed teeth, eyes holding no humanity. “Your daddy’s security man is taking a nap,” the leader said—taller than the others, arms covered in crude tattoos. “Don’t worry, he’ll wake up with just a headache.” “What do you want?” “We want the Iron Serpents to know they can’t protect what’s theirs. We Want your daddy to understand his war on motorcycle clubs has consequences.” “I’m not theirs. I barely know them.” “No?” One pulled out a phone showing grainy security footage from the Inferno Club. Me in the alley with all three men. “Looks pretty cozy.”

Unfortunately, curiosity is a weakness I have never successfully overcome, and if my family name is about to appear in a conversation involving a motorcycle club, I'd rather hear it myself than wait for someone to decide how much information I'm allowed to receive. I point a finger at Damon. "I'm attending because I want to hear what's being discussed. Not because you ordered me to." "Naturally." "And if anyone talks down to me, I will respond accordingly." "I'd expect nothing less." "And don't call me Little Dove in front of everyone if you're planning to act like I'm some helpless wife who needs protecting." His mouth curves. "Would you prefer I call you Your Majesty?" "I'd prefer you shut

"Get out of my house." "Louder." "GET OUT OF MY HOUSE." Marisol nodded. "Good," she said. "Now say it like you mean it." I said it like I meant it. She nodded again. "Now do it again. And this time, don't blink." --- At 6:20, Rook came back. Not the whole club. Just Rook. One bike. The gate opened and he rode through and I saw him from the window and I ran downstairs. He was off the bike before it stopped.

I snort laughing. “Thank you, I think.” “You’re inviting us now,” another woman says immediately. “I actually was going to,” I admit. “If you guys want to come.” Natalie gasps dramatically. “I’ve never been to a biker wedding.” “It’s not really a biker wedding,” I correct. “Are there tattoos?” she asks “Yes.” “Hot men with beards?” “…probably.” “Then it’s a biker wedding.” she insists The group laughs.

We were the sovereigns of the coast, and as the first real light of the morning sun broke through the smoke, painting the harbor in shades of gold and blood, I knew the Montague dynasty had just passed its final baptism. The corporate kings were gone. The outlaws had the steel, they had the fire, and they had the throne. And as Ruan led the line of two hundred bikes back toward the Iron Cathedral, the roar of the engines a triumphant benediction against the new dawn, I knew the road ahead was ours to write.

I dried my hands on a towel and walked to the window, telling myself I was being dramatic. Rain had started falling, big fat drops hitting the glass. The streetlights made everything look blurry and yellow. And then I saw it. Matte-black Harley, silver claw marks scratched into the tank exactly like the ones I just painted today. Exactly like the ones Knox put on my old bike when we were seventeen and stupid in love. The bike slowed down… circled once… twice… then rolled to a stop right in front of my building. My stomach dropped to my feet. The rider sat there for a second, rain pouring off his helmet. Then he reached up, pulled it off slow, and shook out wet black hair.

I chuckled. “Of course. The only biker who can race more than I do is the Masked VA.” As she spoke, she had a look of admiration on her face. “You know the Masked VA?” I asked her curiously. She gave me a weird look. “Every biker does. He is the king of biking, I dare say. I hope to meet him someday.” She smiled with a fawning voice. “Good for you.” I shrugged. “You don’t seem impressed.” She observed.

“I’m not sure,” Mirrie said slowly. “Lots of rumors, and I’m not in that life anymore, so I can’t say how much of what I hear is true.” “What do you hear?” “Well, he owns that garage out on 12th Ave… King’s Garage.” “I know it. A biker garage, right?” “Not only, but yeah,” Mirrie said. “The local MC’s get their bikes fixed there, but I think that’s ‘cause King’s guys really are the best at what they do.”

"You think a few free drinks and some empty promises are going to get me to spill my guts to you?” The biker chuckled, his eyes never leaving mine. "Oh, I think it's going to be worth it," he said, his voice low and confident. "So, what do you say, sweet girl? Are you in? Don't miss this opportunity. Every girl in here wants me, and they want me to be deep in their pussy.” I stood up and chuckled. “Well, it seems the girls around this town have such bad taste in men.” "Nice attempt, biker boy,” I said amusedly. “See you some other time, dear.”