Marked by the Alpha Biker

The bus hissed as it came to a stop, brakes squealing against cracked asphalt.

Zuri waited until the doors folded open before stepping down.

The driver gave her a flat look when she lingered.

“You getting off here or not?”

Zuri pulled her hoodie tighter around her face and stepped into the late-afternoon heat.

Oil.

Cigarettes.

Fried food from the diner across the road.

Underneath it all was the heavier smell of dust and hot asphalt.

She knew places like this.

Places people passed through.

Places nobody remembered.

Exactly what she needed.

She adjusted the strap of her worn backpack and looked down the road.

Her old sedan was parked on the edge of town, exactly where she'd left it before catching the bus into the station.

She'd made sure it wasn't somewhere obvious.

Anything with plates could be traced.

A bus was safer.

Anonymous.

Forgettable.

At least, that had been the plan.

She started walking.

The town wasn't much.

A pawn shop.

A liquor store.

A laundromat.

A tired-looking diner.

Then, across the road, a bar with a flickering neon sign shaped like a spade.

Spade's.

Beyond the buildings, dry hills rose against the horizon, scattered with houses and trees.

Zuri kept walking.

No roots.

No rest.

No mistakes.

That was what she had learned.

Never stay long enough for anyone to remember your face.

Never give anyone your real name.

Never trust anyone who asks where you came from.

And never—

You think you can run forever, little sister?

Her brother's voice slipped into her head.

Zuri swallowed.

She pushed it away.

Not now.

She couldn't afford memories now.

The diner bell jingled when she pushed inside.

She chose a booth near the window, putting her back against the wall.

Habit.

Always know the exits.

Always see who comes in.

A tired waitress approached with a coffee pot.

“Coffee?”

“Yes.”

The woman poured it and walked away.

Zuri wrapped both hands around the mug.

Her fingers were still shaking.

She hated that.

She hated even more that she couldn't stop it.

She'd been running for days.

Maybe weeks.

She'd stopped counting.

The waitress returned with a small plate of toast.

“You eating?”

Zuri shook her head.

“Just coffee.”

The woman studied her.

“You passing through?”

Zuri looked up.

“Yeah.”

The waitress's eyes moved to the backpack.

Then to Zuri's shoes.

Then back to her face.

“Don't stay too long.”

Zuri's fingers tightened around the mug.

“Why?”

The waitress glanced toward the window.

Toward Spade's.

“You see those bikes?”

Zuri followed her gaze.

Black motorcycles lined the street outside the bar.

Chrome caught the fading sunlight.

“Yeah.”

“Iron Kings.”

The name carried weight.

Zuri had heard of motorcycle clubs before.

She'd grown up around men who carried guns under expensive suits.

Men who smiled while ordering someone else's death.

Different clothes.

Different world.

Same hunger.

The waitress leaned closer.

“People around here know better than to cause trouble with them.”

“Are they dangerous?”

The woman gave a humorless smile.

“They're dangerous when they're angry.”

Zuri looked back at the bar.

Music thumped faintly through the walls.

She should leave.

She knew that.

Finish the coffee.

Get the sedan.

Drive somewhere else.

Disappear again.

That was the plan.

But when she looked toward Spade's, something inside her pulled.

Maybe she needed information.

Maybe she needed a phone.

Maybe she simply needed somewhere crowded before she went back for the car.

Whatever the reason, she stood.

The waitress frowned.

“You're going over there?”

Zuri dropped a few bills onto the table.

“I'll be fine.”

The woman looked like she wanted to argue.

Instead, she sighed.

“That's what everyone says before they learn better.”

Zuri ignored the warning.

She crossed the street.

The closer she got, the louder the music became.

Her heartbeat followed.

She stopped outside the door.

Don't draw attention.

Don't stay.

Don't trust anyone.

Her fingers closed around the handle.

Then she heard the voice in her head again.

You can't run forever.

She pulled the door open.

The bar swallowed her whole.

Smoke.

Sweat.

Leather.

Beer.

Music vibrating through the floor.

Conversations died one by one.

Heads turned.

Dozens of eyes found her.

Men in black cuts with red-and-silver patches sat around tables and crowded the bar.

The patch showed a crowned skull framed by iron wings.

IRON KINGS MC.

Zuri's stomach tightened.

She had walked into the wolves' den.

Too late to pretend she hadn't.

She kept her chin high and moved toward the bar.

She didn't see the man sitting in the shadows near the far wall.

But he saw her.

Amani Cole lifted his whiskey slowly.

His eyes narrowed.

He'd spent enough years around dangerous people to recognize someone running from something.

The woman at his bar wasn't drunk.

Wasn't looking for company.

Wasn't lost.

She was watching exits.

Counting men.

Keeping her back to the wall.

And every few seconds, she checked the door.

Amani's jaw tightened.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

Then her eyes met his.

For one long second, neither moved.

Amani's expression didn't change.

But Zuri felt something shift.

Something dangerous.

Something she couldn't explain.

And suddenly, she knew one thing for certain.

She should never have walked through that door.