Claimed by the Biker king

Where It Still Hurts

There weren’t many things that made Dahlia nervous.

Not anymore.

Not after performing in front of tens of thousands of people, lights blinding her, voices screaming her name like she was untouchable. She had learned how to stand tall through pressure, how to smile through doubt, how to own every room she walked into.

But standing in front of the Iron Saints garage was different.

Her heart pounded hard enough to make her chest ache, each beat louder than the last as she stared at the worn building in front of her.

This place hadn’t changed and that made it worse.

She stepped out of the car. Her heels clicked against the gravel as she made her way inside, the contrast between her polished appearance and the rough, oil-stained space almost laughable.

She didn’t belong here anymore. That much was obvious.

The scent hit her first. Oil. Steel. Gasoline. Old wood. And something underneath it all. Something familiar.

Him.

Dahlia swallowed as memories pressed in without permission, her gaze drifting over the space. The walls were the same, lined with patches and old photos. History carved into every corner, loyalty stitched into every thread.

A brotherhood that never forgot.

A few heads turned. She didn’t recognize most of them, but one face stood out.

Hawke.

Older. Just as sharp. Just as intimidating.

His eyes locked onto hers instantly, judgment clear as he pushed himself away from the prospect he had been talking to and stepped toward her.

Dahlia didn’t move. She didn’t step back because she knew better than that. You didn’t show fear around men like this. You stood your ground even if your pulse was racing.

“You got some nerve showing up here,” Hawke said.

Dahlia nodded once. “I need to talk to him.”

Hawke didn’t budge. “You said everything that needed saying four years ago.”

That hit. Of course, it did, but she didn’t let it show.

“He needs to hear why I’m back,” she said evenly.

Hawke studied her for a long moment, like he was weighing something, like he already knew more than he was letting on.

He probably did because this town always knew everything. Rumors spreading like rot.

Finally, he jerked his chin toward the back.

“You know where to find him.”

Then, just as she stepped past him, his lips curled slightly.

“Keep it clean.”

Heat crept up her neck instantly.

Of course, he remembered and brought it up like that. Memories flashed through her of Killian’s hand wrapped tight around her hair as she was on her knees before him. His pants shoved down while her hands were tightly wrapped around those firm thighs and she sucked him off hard. And deep. They had been totally lost in the moment when Hawke walked in and told them not to mind him. He just needed to grab something.

Even now, embarrassment washed over her.

Dahlia didn’t respond, just kept walking, her steps slower now as she moved through the garage like a ghost retracing something she had once known too well.

Nothing had changed.

She pushed the back door open and there he was.

Killian.

Standing under the overhang, working on a bike like nothing in the world could touch him. Sleeves pushed up, muscles flexing with each movement, sweat catching at the base of his neck.

For a moment… she just looked at him figuring out how to break the silence.

He spoke up first, “Just so you know,” he said without looking up, “My pants stay on this time.”

The words hit before she could stop herself. A laugh slipped out.

God.

“Shut up,” she muttered.

Killian straightened slowly, wiping his hands before turning to face her.

Everything shifted.

His eyes found hers, sharp, unreadable, but not empty.

“So,” he said, voice even, “you didn’t forget where to find me.”

Dahlia held his gaze. “I didn’t.”

A beat passed.

“You forgot me just fine.”

That one landed. Harder than anything else. She didn’t flinch though.

“I didn’t come back to fight.”

A faint, humorless edge touched his expression. “Didn’t come to get on your knees. Didn’t come to fight. Then what the hell are you here for?”

Still him. Still that f*****g blunt because that’s how these men were. It was in their DNA. And she hated how that’s what got her going.

Dahlia crossed her arms, steadying herself.

“I came to tell you myself I’m back,” she said. Then, a slight look. “Even though the whole town already knows. And your prospects are keeping tabs on me.”

He didn’t confirm it. Didn’t deny it either. He just watched her, waiting for her to say what needed to be said.

“I’m not here to mess with your life,” she continued. “Things blew up in L.A. I couldn’t stay there. This…” she let out a quiet breath, “this was the only place I could think of where I could figure things out.”

Her voice softened just slightly at the end.

“When I do… I’ll leave.”

Killian didn’t hesitate, “Then figure your s**t out and leave.”

There it was. Cold, clean and final.

Dahlia looked away for a second, swallowing the sting before it could settle too deep.

“I didn’t come back to rewrite anything.”

“Good,” he said, steel threading through his voice. “Because I’m not interested in reliving it.”

Her eyes snapped back to his.

Challenging.

Because they both knew that wasn’t entirely true.

“You seemed to remember certain parts just fine,” she shot back quietly.

Something flickered in his gaze.

Dark. Brief.

He stepped closer. Not enough to touch but enough to remind her how easily he could.

“What guy wouldn’t remember how bold their girl used to be,” he said, his voice lower now, rougher. “But that doesn’t change what’s left between us.”

The words settled heavy between them. It wasn’t anger that she heard or longing. It was something worse. It was distance.

“So figure your s**t out,” he added. “And go.”

Her shoulders tensed and this time she couldn’t even hide it. She didn’t argue with him either. Because she knew there was no point.

She held his gaze for a moment longer. Like maybe she expected something else. Something softer but there was nothing there.

She nodded once and walked away and, like last time, he didn’t stop her.