Claimed by the Biker king

Crossing Lines

Beck's voice cuts through her thoughts, "Come to the club tonight."

Dahlia looks up from her coffee, "What?"

"The club." He doesn't repeat himself. Doesn't elaborate. Just watches her with those dark eyes that see too much. "Eight."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you want to see what I do."

"I know what you do."

"No." He leans forward slightly. "You know what Killian does. What the club was four years ago under John."

She goes still.

"You don't know what I've made it."

The challenge hangs between them.

She should say no. Should keep the distance she's barely managed to maintain.

Instead she asks, "Is this you showing off?"

His mouth curves.

Barely.

"This is me being honest."

"About what?"

"About wanting you there."

The words land with weight.

No games.

No pretense.

Just Beck being exactly what he is.

Direct.

Unapologetic.

Dangerous.

She should definitely say no, "Eight," she says instead.

The clubhouse sits at the edge of town like a fortress. Dahlia parks her rental car and kills the engine. She hasn't been here in four years.

The last time she stood in this parking lot before she broke Killian’s heart, Killian had his arm around her waist. Old Man John was still president. The place had felt chaotic. Loud music bleeding through the walls, brothers stumbling drunk into the night, the kind of barely-controlled chaos that made her nervous even though she tried not to show it. She had Killian then. He was always close, so the brothers didn’t feel how nervous she had been back then.

This feels different.

The bikes are lined up with military precision. The security lights are newer, brighter. Even the building itself looks tighter somehow.

More disciplined.

Beck's influence.

She gets out of the car. The door opens before she reaches it.

Beck stands in the entrance, backlit by warm light from inside. He's changed since their conversation at the diner. Dark jeans that fit like sin, boots, a black T-shirt that shows every line of muscle beneath. The Iron Saints patch on his cut catches the light.

His eyes track her approach with an intensity that makes her pulse kick, "You came."

"You invited me."

"Doesn't mean you had to say yes."

She moves past him, close enough that her shoulder nearly brushes his chest.

"Maybe I wanted to see what all the fuss was about."

His laugh is low.

Dangerous.

"Careful what you ask for, Dahlia."

The clubhouse hits her like a wall of sensation.

Leather. Motor oil. Whiskey. Cigarette smoke curling toward exposed rafters. The bass line of some rock song she doesn't recognize but feels in her bones. Men everywhere. Sprawled on worn couches, leaning against the bar, playing pool in the back corner.

All of them wearing cuts.

All of them radiating the kind of casual violence that comes from knowing exactly what they're capable of.

But it's different than she remembers.

Tighter.

More controlled.

Under Old Man John, this place had felt like barely-contained chaos. Brothers getting too drunk, fights breaking out over nothing, the kind of wild energy that made anything feel possible.

Including disaster.

Now?

Now it feels like a machine. Every part working exactly as it should. Conversations don't stop when she walks in. But eyes tracked her.

Assessing.

Curious.

Some appreciative in a way that would make her uncomfortable if Beck wasn't right behind her, his presence a wall at her back.

Then recognition hits.

She sees it ripple through the room.

An older member with a gray beard does a double-take. Nudges the brother next to him. Whispers something that makes the second man's eyebrows rise. A prospect near the bar stares openly before someone smacks the back of his head.

"That's—"

"Yeah."

"Killian's—"

"Shut the f**k up."

But the damage is done.

They know who she is. They remember.

Beck's hand finds the small of her back.

Warm.

Possessive.

"Brothers," his voice cuts through the noise without him raising it, "This is Dahlia."

A few nods. A couple of raised glasses.

The gray-bearded member grins. "The popstar."

"Dahlia," Beck corrects, his tone easy but firm.

The distinction matters because that’s what she wanted. Just being her and Beck noticed without her having to tell him.

Beck's hand stays on her back as he guides her through the main room. Past clusters of brothers who nod at him with respect that goes bone-deep. A prospect who looked not older than twenty-two practically jumped out of their way.

"Prez."

Beck acknowledges him with a slight nod, never breaking stride.

They pass the bar where a woman with sleeve tattoos pours shots. The pool table where money changes hands on every game. A hallway lined with doors she doesn't ask about.

"You run a tight ship," Dahlia says quietly.

"I run what needs running."

"It's different than I remember."

He glances at her, "John ran it loose. Gave the brothers too much rope."

"And you?"

"I don't give rope."

The way he says it makes heat pool low in her stomach.

They climb a set of metal stairs to a second level. It was quieter up there, away from the main chaos. A few closed doors. One open one that reveals what looks like a meeting room. A long table surrounded by chairs.

"Church," Beck says, following her gaze. "Where we handle club business."

"Looks serious."

"It is."

He keeps walking, his hand still on her back, fingers splayed just above the curve of her hip. Every step makes her more aware of him. The heat of his palm, the way he moves through this space like he owns every inch of it.

Because he does.

They stop at the end of the hall. A door with no marking. Beck pushes it open. She recognizes it as his office.

Darker than the rest of the clubhouse. Leather couch against one wall. A desk that looks like it survived a war. Shelves lined with books she wouldn't have expected. Philosophy, history, a few worn paperbacks. The window overlooks the parking lot, the town beyond it.

He closes the door behind them. The noise from downstairs fades to a dull thrum. Suddenly the room feels very small and she is very aware of his presence.

"This is where you make all your important decisions?" she asks, moving toward the window.

"Some of them."

She can feel him watching her. Can feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing.

"What kind of decisions?"

"The kind that matter."

She turns to face him.

He hasn't moved from the door. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable except for his eyes. Those give him away.

Dark.

Hungry.

"You brought me here for a reason," she says.

"I did."

"Want to tell me what it is?"

He pushes off the door, closing the distance between them in three strides. Close enough that she has to tilt her head back to hold his gaze. Close enough that she can see the faint scar above his eyebrow, the shadow of stubble along his jaw.

"I wanted you to see this place," he says quietly. "See what I am. What this life is."

"Why?"

"Because you're going to have to decide if you can handle it."

Her breath catches, "Handle what, exactly?"

His hand comes up, fingers brushing her jaw. Feather-light.

Testing.

"Me."

The word hangs between them.

Her pulse hammers in her throat, "That's pretty presumptuous."

"Is it?"

His thumb traces her lower lip.

She should step back. Should put distance between them. Should remember that Killian is somewhere in this building, probably knowing exactly where she is right now.

She doesn't move, "Beck—"

"He knows you're here," Beck says, reading her mind. "Got the text an hour ago that you were on your way."

"And?"

"And he hasn't shown up."

"Maybe he doesn't care."

Beck's smile is sharp.

Knowing.

"He cares. He's just smart enough to know this is your choice."

"What choice?"

He leans in, his mouth so close to hers she can feel his breath.

"Whether you walk out that door. Or whether you stay."

Her hands find his chest. She tells herself it's to push him away.

She doesn't push, "This is a bad idea."

"Probably."

"I just got back. Everything's a mess. I don't need—"

"What do you need, Dahlia?"

The question is rough.

Raw.

She looks up at him, at this man who walked into her life a week ago and somehow made her feel more seen than anyone has in years.

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do."

His hand slides into her hair, tilting her head back further. Her fingers curl into his shirt. The leather of his cut is warm under her palms. She can feel his heartbeat. Steady, controlled, even now.

"Beck—"

He backs her up two steps. Her shoulders hit the wall beside the window. His other hand comes up, bracing against the wall next to her head.

Caging her in.

Not trapping. Just... claiming space.

"Tell me to stop," he says quietly.

She should.

She absolutely should.

Instead she tilts her chin up, "No."

Something flashes in his eyes. Something dark and possessive that makes her stomach flip. His thumb traces her jaw. Down the column of her throat. Rests against her pulse point.

"Your heart's racing."

"I know."

"Scared?"

"No."

"Then what?"

She meets his gaze, "Waiting."

The word breaks something in him. His mouth crashes against hers.

It's not gentle.

Not tentative.

It's claiming.

His hand tightens in her hair, angling her head exactly where he wants it. His body presses against hers, all heat and muscle and controlled strength. She kisses him back just as hard.

Her hands slide up his chest, over his shoulders, into his hair. He tastes like whiskey and danger and something she can't name but wants more of.

His other hand drops from the wall to her hip, pulling her closer. She gasps against his mouth. He takes advantage, deepening the kiss until she's dizzy with it.

Until the only thing keeping her upright is him. When he finally pulls back, they're both breathing hard.

His forehead rests against hers, "f**k," he mutters.

She laughs breathlessly, "Yeah."

His hand is still in her hair. Hers are still gripping his shoulders. Neither of them moves.

"This complicates things," she says.

"It does."

"You don't sound concerned."

"I'm not."

She pulls back enough to look at him, "Why not?"

His thumb brushes her swollen lower lip, "Because I don't do anything I'm not willing to deal with the consequences of."

"And Killian?"

"Is a brother I respect."

"But?"

"But you're not his anymore."

The words land with finality.

She should argue. Should point out that it's more complicated than that. Instead, she kisses him again.

Slower this time.

Deeper.

His hand slides from her hip to the small of her back, pulling her flush against him. She can feel every line of his body. Every controlled breath. Every ounce of restraint he's exercising.

When they break apart again, his eyes are nearly black, "We should go back downstairs," he says.

"Should we?"

"Before I do something that makes it very clear what just happened in here."

Heat floods through her, "Would that be so bad?"

His smile is dangerous, "For you? Maybe."

"For you?"

"I don't give a f**k what they think."

She believes him.

He steps back, giving her space. She immediately misses his warmth. He runs a hand through his hair, composing himself with visible effort.

"Come on."

He opens the door.

The noise from downstairs rushes back in. Reality with it. They descend the stairs together. His hand finds her back again.

Possessive, claiming, deliberate.

Every brother they pass notices. She can see it in their eyes. The way they track Beck's hand on her. The way they look at her differently now.

Like she's not just Killian's ex anymore.

Like she's Beck's.

Near the bar, Deke, Beck's right hand, watches them approach. His expression is carefully neutral, but his eyes miss nothing.

"Prez," he says. Then, to Dahlia, "Ma'am."

"Deke." Beck's voice carries weight.

Deke nods once.

Message received.

They move through the main room. Past the pool table where brothers pretended not to watch. Past the couches where conversations have gone conspicuously quiet. At the door, Beck stops. Turns to face the room. Doesn't say a word.

Doesn't have to.

The message is clear.

She's under his protection now. Anyone who has a problem with that can take it up with him.

No one moves.

Outside, the night air is cool against her flushed skin. Beck walks her to her car.

"You okay?" he asks.

"I don't know."

"Honest answer."

"Always."

He leans against her car, arms crossed, "They're going to talk."

"I know."

"Killian's going to hear about it."

"I know that too."

"And?"

She looks at him. This man who just kissed her like he had every right to. Who claimed her in front of his entire club without hesitation.

"And I don't regret it."

His smile is slow.

Satisfied.

"Good."

He pushes off her car.

Leans down. Kisses her once more. Slower this time, but no less possessive.

When he pulls back, his eyes hold hers, "Drive safe."

She gets in her car. Starts the engine. Watches him in her rearview mirror as she pulls away. Beck stood in the parking lot, hands in his pockets, every inch the president.

Her phone buzzes before she's even out of the lot.

Unknown number.

*You still at the clubhouse?*

She stares at it.

Only one person would ask that. Her fingers hover over the screen.

Finally, she types back.

*No. Just left.*

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

*Be careful.*

She looks in her rearview mirror one more time. Beck is still watching.

It was a little too late for that, lines were already crossed.

Inside the clubhouse, a prospect approaches Deke.

"Should I—"

"Yeah." Deke doesn't look away from where Beck stands in the parking lot. "Tell him."

The prospect pulls out his phone.

One message.

*She was here. They went upstairs. Came back down different.*

He hits send.

The message goes to Killian who's been waiting for it.