Claimed by the Biker king

She's Moving In

Dahlia wakes to an empty bed.

The sheets beside her are cool. Beck left hours ago. Probably before dawn, slipping out without a word or a backward glance.

She should feel something about that. Disappointment, maybe. Rejection.

She doesn't.

Beck made it clear last night without saying a single word: he's not the type for pillow talk or morning-after sweetness. He's not going to hold her while the sun comes up and ask how she's feeling.

He took what he wanted. Made his claim. Then left to handle whatever the hell a motorcycle club president handles at five in the morning.

Somehow, that honesty is more comforting than any false tenderness would've been.

She stretches, feeling the pleasant ache in her muscles. Evidence of last night written into her body. The soreness between her thighs, the faint bruises on her hips where his fingers gripped too hard.

She likes it.

Likes the reminder that it was real.

The shower is scalding hot, and she stands under the spray longer than necessary, letting the water wash away the motel's staleness. When she finally steps out, she catches her reflection in the foggy mirror.

There's a mark on her neck. Dark purple, just below her jaw.

Beck's mouth.

She touches it gently, and something warm unfurls in her chest.

By the time she's dressed. Simple jeans, a soft sweater and her hair still damp, it's nearly noon.

The knock comes exactly at twelve.

She knows immediately it's not Beck. His knock would be different. More demanding.

This one is controlled.

Professional.

She opens the door.

Deke stands on the walkway, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.

For a moment, they just look at each other.

He knows exactly who she is. Has known since the first time Beck mentioned her name. Probably knew before that. The club has eyes everywhere, and Dahlia Moon's return to Devil's Hollow wasn't exactly subtle.

His gaze flicks briefly to her neck.

To the mark Beck left.

She doesn't try to hide it.

Deke's expression doesn't change. If he judges her, the girl who dated Killian for four years, left him broken, and is now f*****g the club president, he doesn't show it.

"Dahlia," he says evenly.

"Deke."

A beat of silence.

Then he continued in that professional calm tone of his, "Beck wants you to pack your things."

She blinks. She heard the words but they were not making any sense to her, "What?"

"You're moving in with him."

The words land like a punch.

For a moment, she still can't process them. Just stares at Deke like he's speaking a language she doesn't understand.

Moving in.

With Beck.

After one night.

"I—" She starts to speak, then stops. Tries again. "He wants me to—"

"Pack your things," Deke repeats calmly. "I'll wait."

The tone he uses she recognizes. It’s not a request, it’s more or less a command. The way they speak at the club.

She should argue. She is not a member of their club. They can’t tell her what to do and then expect her to follow through without questioning them.

She should ask questions.

She should demand to talk to Beck first because this is insane. You don't just move someone into your house after one night, no matter how good the s*x was.

But then the absurdity of it hits her and she laughs.

It starts as a choked sound, then builds into something genuine. She covers her mouth with her hand, shoulders shaking, and Deke watches her with the patience of a man who's seen stranger things.

"Of course," she manages between laughs. "Of course this is how he'd do it."

No conversation.

No negotiation.

No asking if she's ready or comfortable or interested in taking that step.

Just: You're mine now. Act like it.

It's so perfectly Beck that she can't even be mad about it.

"You good?" Deke asks.

She wipes her eyes, still grinning. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good."

"Then pack."

She turns back into the room, shaking her head.

This is insane.

She came back to this town broken and lost, not knowing how to move forward or where she belonged. Somehow, in the span of a week, she's ended up in the bed of the Iron Saints' president.

Now she's moving into his house.

It's reckless.

Stupid.

The kind of decision that's going to blow up in her face.

But she's already falling. Already lost in whatever this thing is between them.

Might as well let it consume her completely.

At least she'll have something to write songs about.

She throws her clothes into her suitcase. It doesn't take long, she didn't bring much in the first place because coming back to this godforsaken town had always been a temporary decision. She grabs her notebook and guitar.

Everything else can stay.

Deke takes the suitcase without comment, carrying it to his truck like this is the most normal thing in the world.

Maybe for him it is. She doesn’t know what other weird, insane things Beck asks of Deke to do and he just does it without question. If the president asks he moves. That’s the vibe she gets from him.

She climbs into the passenger seat and he pulls out of the motel parking lot without a word.

Dahlia watches the town roll past. Expects him to head toward the compound. The Iron Saints' territory, where the clubhouse and garage sit like a fortress on the edge of the town.

But ten minutes later, Deke turns down a different road.

Trees line both sides, the pavement cracked and uneven. They drive in silence until he pulls up in front of a house.

It's not what she expected.

Not huge or flashy. Just a solid, well-maintained two-story with a wide porch and dark shutters. The kind of place that looks lived-in but private. Isolated enough that neighbors aren't a concern.

Beck's house.

Not the compound.

Not club property.

His.

Deke cuts the engine and climbs out. Dahlia follows, her heart doing something complicated in her chest.

He unlocks the front door with a key. Apparently he has access and pushes it open.

"Get comfortable," he says, stepping inside. "This is your place now too."

The interior is clean. Minimalist but not cold. Dark wood floors, leather furniture, a kitchen that looks barely used. Everything is organized with military precision.

It smells like him. Leather and motor oil and something distinctly Beck.

Deke carries her suitcase upstairs without waiting for direction. She follows, and he pushes open a door at the end of the hall.

Beck's bedroom.

The bed is massive, neatly made. A dresser against one wall. A single framed photo on the nightstand. It’s too far away for her to see clearly, but it looks old.

Deke sets her suitcase down near the closet.

"Unpack whenever," he says. Then he pulls a phone from his pocket, taps the screen, and hands it to her. "Put your number in."

She does.

He takes it back, sends a quick text. Her phone buzzes in her pocket.

"That's me," he says. "You need anything. Anything at all, you call. I'll take care of it."

She was still trying to make sense of this insane new development yet Deke is already considering her one of his responsibilities. She kept reminding herself not to question it.

It’s how the club works. She knows this.

She lived it before.

Things had been less intense with Killian, but she figured it’s due to Beck being the club president that things were insanely intense and most definitely f*****g weird.

"Okay."

He looks at her for a long moment.

Weighing something.

Then he continued, after he decided she wasn’t going to drive herself insane with this new development, "Beck's handling something urgent. Club business. Dangerous shit."

She nods slowly.

"He'll be home tonight," Deke continues. "But he's going to be in a bad headspace. Wound tight. Possibly hostile."

"Okay."

"I'm telling you this because you should know what you're walking into." His gaze is steady. Serious. "When he gets like this, it's better to give him space. Let him work through it on his own."

Dahlia holds his gaze.

She understands what Deke's really saying: Beck can be dangerous when he's like this. Stay out of his way.

"I appreciate the warning," she says quietly.

Deke nods. He seemed satisfied with her answer.

He heads for the door, then pauses. Looks back at her.

"For what it's worth," he says, "Beck doesn't bring people here. Ever."

Then he's gone.

Dahlia stands alone in Beck's bedroom, listening to the sound of Deke's truck pulling away.

The house settles into silence around her.

She walks to the window, looking out at the trees beyond the property line.

Isolated.

Private.

A place where Beck can be himself without the weight of the club watching.

And he brought her here.

Not to the compound. Not to some neutral space.

Here.

To the one place that's entirely his.

She touches the mark on her neck again.

Deke's warning echoes in her mind: Give him space. Let him work through it.

But she already knows she won't.

Because she's not afraid of Beck's darkness.

She's drawn to it.

Whatever storm he's carrying when he walks through that door tonight, she'll meet it head-on.

She unpacks slowly, hanging her clothes in the closet beside his. Putting her notebook on the nightstand. Her guitar in the corner.

Claiming space in his life the same way he claimed her last night.

By the time she's done, the sun is starting to sink toward the horizon.

She makes herself tea in his kitchen. Sits on his couch.

Waits.

And when the sound of his motorcycle finally rumbles up the driveway hours later, her heart kicks hard against her ribs.

Here we go.