Claimed By The Bikers Novels & Stories

“You think the Mitchells sent the assassin.” “Those were the shooter’s last words.” In our world, this isn’t unheard of, but to come this close to this kind of violence is a first for me…obviously not for Grayson. As a Knight of the Obsidian Order, the things he must have seen. “I’ve heard about the case,” I say, staring at him. “They say he killed an Uber driver, but he’s claiming it was self-defense.” I look askance at him. “You were there that night?”

I asked, getting excited “They are not here. I keep them in the various mafia houses that I have .. they are well-trained “ he replied “Why do you not keep any here ?” I asked “I would bring two here soon. Just be patient, you will see them “ he responded “Okay” I nodded “Why are you asking?” He repeated “I was curious because that day at our first ball together, you threatened to feed the guy that groped me to your hounds. I just wanted to know if you really had hounds or if it was just a threat” I explained “I do not give empty threats. That’s something you shouldn’t forget about me “he chucked

I perked up “Wolf warriors? Do you think? Could it be Warrior Wolves? That club that has mostly rejected wolves as their members? If so.. this town just got a whole lot safer. They’re feral rogue hunters.” She shrugs and tells me “Well. I’m sure I don’t know. There was just a biker in this morning.. at the asscrack of dawn. Before I even got coffee started.. saying his club was moving to town and he was just hanging out.. waiting on Mr. Donaldson over at the bank.”

"The motorcycle club, where the bikers hang out." At her words I jump forward, sitting on the edge of my seat. "Katy," I whisper as if somebody else could hear us. "You can't break in and look around a motorcycle club." They were bikers, for god's sake. With leather chaps and shit. I don't care what Anessa says about them being her best customers. There are limits. Snooping in on a mobster with good pasta okay, I'll consider it, but this is too far. Everyone knows bikers don't know how to cook. "This is why I didn't want to tell you."

17. A blast Rogue's POV I turned to my left and quirked an eyebrow at Igor, 'So you were saying I'm not safe in the city!' I spoke, making sure I sounded cynical even on the link. He was enjoying the company of the bikers, who called themselves The Drifters. Not to mention that they welcomed us royally with loud hooting and some shots fired from their guns in the air. I was given a special treatment and called a king. The clubhouse's whores were plucked from the bed of whomever they were entertaining and presented to me.

“Fuck. Seven of ‘em.” His body stiffened against mine. I peeked also over the tree. They were bikers. They parked a few feet from where we were just sitting minutes ago. And I recognized the logo on their vests even from a distance—it was a burning scythe. These weren’t just normal bikers who fool around. I've sold them a few engines before at my shop. They looked more deadly in closer. And they sure as hell Verona's top feared gang. Is Matteo associated with them? Wait, no. Signora Rosa told me Matteo have his own biker club. So he can't be one of them. Unless, they're targeting Matteo as an enemy...

I responded, and Colt slammed his helmet shut again, reversing immediately without signaling to his colleagues. I smiled into his jacket, even among a group of rebels, he was still a rebel. He did not wait for whoever was in charge here to suggest a place to wait out the storm. As he drove in the opposite direction, I stared at the bikers we flew past from behind my visor, their bandannas, neck scarfs and arm bands signifying what club they belonged to. This Hungarian club was different from anyone I had ever seen, ranging from boys and girls who were at most sixteen, to hardened men who were well over sixty.

He crumpled, gasping. The other bikers were on their feet now, stepping closer with tension in their shoulders. One of them—bearded, older—started toward us. “Yo, what the hell, man? You wanna pick a fight?” I pointed a finger at all of them, breathing hard but steady. “You want to catcall people? Fine. Be trash. But you keep your hands to yourself. You think someone having good looks is permission? You think a tight jean or a walk to the pump is an invitation? Newsflash—”

“They say that if the pipes are loud, ongoing traffic will hear them, but the sound from the exhaust goes straight out of the back end. All it does is make them go deaf prematurely—” “And piss pedestrians off,” Brennan grumbled. As the bike approached, I tilted my head to the side, recognizing that it wasn’t a Sunday rider on the back of it. “Biker,” Conor confirmed. “No tags,” I murmured. “Does there need to be? Nearest MC to us is the Sinners,” Brennan pointed out. “He’s not wearing a cut.” I lifted my cellphone and as the biker drove by, I snapped a photo, full frontal and a real beauty, then immediately sent it to Conor, whose own cell buzzed as he received it.

One of them even took a step back. A slow smirk spread across my face. Oh, right. This. See, Travis himself wasn’t the big bad biker everyone was scared of. Honestly, the man was kinda basic. But his friends? The three guys he rode with? They were the real deal. The most ruthless, feared bikers in three counties and nobody, nobody, was dumb enough to mess with anything that belonged to them. Or, by extension, anything that belonged to Travis. It was the one perk of this whole miserable arrangement. I walked the rest of the way to the front door with a little swagger in my step, smiling to myself. I’d take my wins where I could get them.