Claimed By The Biker King

Aria POV

​The heavy wood of the table groaned under the weight of an empty whiskey bottle, slammed down with enough force to rattle the ashtrays across the scarred surface.

​"I'm telling you, she nearly snapped my nose clean off," Carlos muttered, pressing a stained ice pack to his swollen cartilage.

​A gravelly chuckle rippled through the smoky air of the lower tactical room. "You deserved it, brother. Who tries to corner a cornered cat alone?"

​"I thought she'd be easy," Carlos shot back, wincing as he shifted his weight against the bolted metal chair. "I figured a grease-monkey's kid sister from the industrial blocks would fold the second she saw a cut. Instead, she hurled a heavy iron wrench at my skull."

​"You got off light," another enforcer grunted from the corner, cleaning dirt from under his knuckles. "She threw an entire oak-framed chair at my chest."

​"And you're still breathing?"

​"Barely."

​I heard every word.

​My eyes remained closed, my breathing kept deliberately shallow and rhythmic against the raw friction of my wrists. Hemp rope bit deep into my skin, binding my arms tightly behind the back of a cold metal chair, while thick nylon cord secured my ankles to the chair's bolted legs. Every micro-movement scraped the iron feet against the gritty concrete floor.

​My head throbbed with a persistent, sickening rhythm. My left shoulder ached from where a heavy hand had tackled me into the asphalt hours ago, and a dull, stinging heat radiated across my cheekbone where someone had caught me in the dark.

​Physical pain was just noise. I filtered it out.

​My mind worked with cold, calculated precision, cataloging every sensory detail. The damp smell of motor oil and gun solvent. The muffled, rhythmic thumping of bass coming from the upper clubhouse. The heavy locks on the doors.

​I needed to know where I was. I needed to know the layout of the compound.

​And more than anything, I needed to know where Ethan was.

​"She's waking up."

​"Good."

​"Why?"

​"Because she's tired of pretending she's still out cold."

​My eyes snapped open.

​Six pairs of hardened eyes stared back under the harsh, sickly yellow glare of a single overhead bulb. One man pressed ice to his broken nose; another sported a split lip that leaked fresh crimson onto his leather vest.

​I didn't flinch. I let a hard, humorless smile touch my lips. "Go to hell."

​The room dropped into absolute, suffocating silence. Then, the man with the ice pack let out a sharp, bark-like laugh. "There she is."

​"Untie me," I snapped, pulling hard against the hemp. The chair jerked violently against the floor.

​"Not happening."

​"Untie me right now, you cowards."

​"You're in no position to issue orders," the closest enforcer growled, stepping forward until his heavy riding boots entered my field of vision. He crouched down, unbothered by my venom. "You're making this much harder than it needs to be."

​"You kidnapped me off the street!"

​"Technically speaking—"

​"Technically?" I cut him off, my voice dripping with venom.

​"You were unconscious for most of the ride," he shrugged, entirely deadpan.

​"Oh, well, that completely fixes the felony!"

​Someone in the shadows snorted a laugh. The enforcer snapped his head toward the dark corner. "Shut your mouth."

​"Make me."

​The tension in the room snapped back into place like a steel cable under too much load. I let my gaze sweep past them, locking onto the back wall. Painted in faded, weather-cracked black paint was the emblem every mechanic, street racer, and rival dealer in the city prayed they never crossed: a horned skull pierced by two crossed iron chains.

​The Black Hounds.

​Panic clawed at my throat, but I forced it down, locking it behind a wall of pure rage. Everyone from the shipping docks to the corporate towers knew what the Hounds were. They weren't just a weekend riding club; they were the apex predators of the city's dark underworld. They controlled the illegal chop shops, laundered millions through underground circuits, and settled contract disputes with hollow-point bullets.

​And somehow, I was tied to a chair in the middle of their fortress.

​I swallowed hard, forcing the tremor out of my voice. "Where is my brother?"

​The collective reaction was instantaneous. The laughter died. The enforcers exchanged heavy, guarded looks that whispered more than any confession ever could.

​I threw my weight forward, straining against the biting ropes. "Where is Ethan?"

​Silence hung heavy in the air.

​"Where the fuck is my brother?" I screamed.

​The man with the ice pack lowered it slowly, his expression shifting from amusement to something dangerously close to pity. "You genuinely don't know, do you?"

​"Know what?"

​He shook his head, a slow, grim motion. "Christ."

​"What?"

​Another biker stepped out of the shadows near the workbench. "Ethan Vale crossed Dante. He went rogue."

​My heart violently stuttered against my ribs. "Liar."

​"He stole from the club treasury," the biker continued, his voice flat. "Millions."

​"No. Ethan wouldn't."

​"He did more than steal."

​A cold, icy sweat broke out across my neck. The room seemed to tilt on its axis. "What did he do?"

​"He downloaded our master ledger," the enforcer in front of me whispered, his eyes hardening. "And sold our shipping routes and encryption keys straight to the Morosov Cartel."

​I stared at them, my mind violently rejecting the words. "That's impossible. My brother is a mechanic, not a criminal mastermind."

​"Neither is suicide," the man shot back. "Yet here we are."

​"You have the wrong person," I hissed, wrenching my wrists until the friction scorched my skin. "Let me go."

​"Can't do that."

​"Why not?"

​He pointed a calloused finger straight at my chest. "Because you're an asset. You're Ethan's blood."

​Before I could hurl another insult, the heavy steel door at the end of the room swung open with a resounding clack.

​Every man in the room froze mid-breath. Postures instantly straightened. Hands dropped away from vest pockets. Someone frantically kicked a stray wrench under the work table to clear the floor.

​Heavy, unhurried footsteps echoed down the concrete corridor.

​Slow. Deliberate. Terrifyingly calm.