Claimed by the Biker king

Marked

Three weeks later, Beck shows up at his house in the middle of the afternoon.

Dahlia's curled on the couch with her notebook when she hears the rumble of his bike pulling up the driveway. She glances at the clock. It’s 2:47 PM. He's never home this early. She has her guard up. Beck is a man who likes routine. If he showed up in the middle of the day. Something is f*****g wrong. She sits up straight, her notebook forgotten as she hears the door open.

Beck stands in the entryway, keys in hand, leather cut stretched across his shoulders. His eyes find hers immediately.

"Get dressed," he says. "You're coming with me."

She sets the notebook aside. "Where?"

"The compound."

Her pulse kicks.

She's been to the clubhouse once before. That first night when everything shifted between them. But that was different. That was late, after hours, when most of the club had cleared out.

This is the middle of the day.

This is deliberate.

"Okay," she says quietly.

Twenty minutes later, she's on the back of his bike, arms wrapped around his waist as they tear down the highway toward Iron Saints territory.

The compound sits on the edge of Devil's Hollow like a fortress. Chain-link fence, gravel lot, the clubhouse and garage sprawling across several acres. The Iron Saints patch is painted across the side of the main building in faded black and silver.

Beck pulls through the gate, and immediately, heads turn.

Prospects working on bikes in the lot straighten. A few members standing near the garage entrance stop mid-conversation, their eyes tracking Beck's bike as he rolls to a stop near the clubhouse entrance.

Dahlia climbs off, and Beck's hand immediately finds the small of her back.

Possessive.

Unmistakable.

A prospect, young, maybe twenty, stares openly before catching himself and looking away.

"Prez," someone calls from the garage.

Beck nods in acknowledgment but doesn't move toward them. Instead, he guides Dahlia toward the clubhouse entrance, his hand never leaving her.

Inside, the air smells like motor oil, cigarette smoke, and leather. The main room is dimly lit, pool table in the corner, bar along one wall, worn couches scattered throughout. A few members sit around a table playing cards. Another leans against the bar, beer in hand.

They all look up when Beck walks in.

And they all see Dahlia.

Recognition flickers across their faces. Some of them remember her from before. Killian's girl, the one who left. The one who broke his heart and disappeared for four years. Most of them already judged. She focused on Beck instead. It was easier than to feel all those eyes on her and know what they were thinking.

She’s back. Not working things out with Killian.

She was together with the president.

"Gentlemen," Beck says evenly.

"Prez." The responses come in unison, respectful but curious.

Beck doesn't explain. Doesn't introduce her formally or justify her presence.

He just keeps his hand on her and moves through the room like he owns it.

Because he does.

They pass the bar, and Dahlia catches sight of a familiar face. Hawke, the older member who mentored Killian. He's sitting at a corner table, cigarette between his fingers, watching them with an unreadable expression.

Their eyes meet briefly.

Hawke nods once.

Acknowledgment, not judgment.

That surprised her. She figured Hawke especially would dislike her for leaving Beck to chase some dream and now showing up together with his president. Their president. She didn’t have time to overthink it because Beck kept moving.

He was a man on a mission.

Then Beck's guiding her down a hallway toward the back of the clubhouse.

His office.

The door is heavy wood, the Iron Saints emblem carved into the surface. Beck pushes it open and gestures for her to enter first.

The office is exactly what she expected.

Functional, organized, no-nonsense.

A large desk dominates the center, papers and blueprints spread across the surface. A leather chair behind it. Shelves lined with binders and files. A window overlooking the compound.

This is where he runs the club.

Where he makes decisions that affect every man wearing the patch.

Beck closes the door behind them, and the noise from the main room fades.

"Sit," he says, nodding toward the chair across from his desk.

She does.

He moves around the desk, leaning against the edge, arms crossed. For a moment, he just looks at her.

"You know why I brought you here," he says.

It's not a question.

"To make a statement," she answers.

His lips twitch. Almost a smile. "Smart girl."

"They all know who I am."

"They do."

"They know I was with Killian."

"They do."

She holds his gaze. "And you don't care."

"No." His voice is flat. Final. "I don't."

The certainty in his tone sends heat through her.

"Killian's here," she says quietly.

"I know."

"He saw us."

"Good."

The word hangs between them.

Dahlia's heart pounds. "Beck…"

"He had four years," Beck says, his voice low and controlled. "Four years to come after you. To fight for you. To tell you he still wanted you."

She doesn't respond.

"He didn't." Beck's eyes are dark, intense. "So now you're mine."

The possessiveness in his voice should bother her.

It doesn't.

"And if he has a problem with that?" she asks.

Beck's expression doesn't change. "Then he can take it up with me."

The challenge is clear.

Dahlia stands, crossing the small space between them until she's standing directly in front of him.

"You brought me here to claim me," she says.

"Yes."

"In front of your entire club."

"Yes."

"In front of Killian."

His hand comes up, cupping her jaw. "Especially in front of Killian."

Then he kisses her.

It's not gentle.

Not sweet.

It's claiming.

Possessive.

A promise and a threat wrapped into one.

When he pulls back, his thumb brushes over her bottom lip.

"Stay here," he says. "I need to handle something. I'll be back in an hour."

She nods.

He leaves, and she's alone in his office.

She walks to the window, looking out at the compound. Members move through the lot, working on bikes, talking in clusters, the rhythm of brotherhood and business.

This is Beck's world.

And he just brought her into it.

Knowing Beck this was the kind of trouble she’d like but knew she shouldn’t. He didn’t just bring her here to sit in his office, waiting for him. She knew something else was coming.

She anticipated it.

An hour later, the sun is starting to sink toward the horizon.

Dahlia's sitting in Beck's chair, flipping through one of the binders on his desk. Club finances, she realizes when the door opens. She probably shouldn’t flip through it but an hour waiting in a quiet office with nothing to do justified her getting club intel. If Beck wanted her to be oblivious he shouldn’t have left her alone in his office waiting for him to continue his wicked plans once he dealt with whatever he had to do.

Beck stepped inside, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Dahlia's pulse kicks.

"Beck…"

He crosses the room in three strides, pulling her out of the chair and turning her to face the desk.

His hand slides up her spine, pressing her forward until her palms are flat against the wood.

"You know what I'm about to do," he says, his voice low and rough against her ear.

She does.

"They're going to hear," she whispers.

"I know."

His hand moves to the button of her jeans, unfastening it with practiced ease.

"Beck…" It’s barely a warning.

"You want me to stop?"

She doesn't answer.

Because she doesn't.

He pulls her jeans down, and the cool air hits her skin. Then his hand is between her thighs, finding her already wet.

"f**k," he mutters. "You like this."

She does.

She shouldn't, but she does.

He works her with his fingers, slow and deliberate, until she's panting against the desk.

Then he pulls his hand away, and she hears the sound of his belt buckle.

"Spread your legs," he orders.

She does.

He pushes inside her in one hard thrust, and the sound that escapes her is loud.

Too loud.

"That's it," Beck growls, his hands gripping her hips. "Let them hear you."

He f***s her hard. Relentless. Each thrust deliberate and claiming.

She tries to stay quiet. Tries to muffle the sounds but it's impossible. He knows how to angle his hips to hit that spot inside her that makes her scream.

"Beck…" She pants, trying to keep up with his thrusts.

"Louder."

His hand slides up her back, tangling in her hair and pulling her head back.

"Say my name," he demands.

"Beck…"

"Louder."

"Beck!"

The sound echoes through the office. Through the cracked door. Into the hallway beyond.

Anyone in the clubhouse can hear.

And that's exactly what he wants.

He f***s her harder, his grip on her hips bruising, and she can't hold back anymore.

"f**k! Beck…please…"

His hand slips between her legs. Two fingers pressed against her sensitive c**t. Just the mere touch makes a hot burst of pleasure shoot through her body. He starts rubbing at her c**t, the wet sounds of her p***y echoing through his office along with his pants and her moaning.

Her thighs tremble as he continues to rub her c**t. She tightens around his c**k, almost there.

"That's my girl.”

The possessiveness in his voice breaks her.

She comes hard, crying out his name as the orgasm rips through her.

He follows seconds later, burying himself deep and groaning against her neck.

For a moment, they're both frozen.

Breathing hard.

Bodies locked together.

Then he pulls out slowly, and she feels the loss immediately.

But before she can move, his hands are on her again. He pulls her upright, turning her to face him. Her hair a mess as she holds tightly onto him. Her body feels heavy, she is too weak to keep herself up after that intense orgasm.

His eyes are dark.

Satisfied.

"Now they know," he says.

She's still catching her breath. "Know what?"

"That you're mine."

He kisses her once.

Deep and claiming.

Then steps back and refastens his jeans. He then helps Dahlia stand up on her shaky legs. She makes a face when he pulls her panties back up and she feels like a dirty mess. She needed a shower. Definitely a clean pair of panties.

She rolls her eyes when Beck smirks, looking pleased with himself. He then pulls her jeans up helping her get dressed again. With shaky hands she tries to fix her hair.

She knows it’s of no use. Once she steps out there everyone can tell what they had been doing in Beck’s office.

When she's dressed and somewhat decent, Beck opens the door fully.

The hallway beyond is empty.

But she knows they heard.

Knows every man in that clubhouse knows exactly what just happened.

Beck takes her hand, leading her back toward the main room. When they emerge, the energy has shifted. The members don't stare. Don't comment.

But the knowing looks are there.

Deke stands near the bar, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He nods once at Beck.

Message received.

Hawke's still at his corner table. He glances at Dahlia, then away. And then she sees him.

Killian.

He's standing near the pool table, cue in hand, frozen mid-shot.

Their eyes meet. For a moment, the world stops. She sees it all in his expression. The realization, the pain, the acceptance.

He knows.

Knows she's not his anymore. Knows she never will be again.

The way she looks at Beck is different. The way she stands beside him, marked and claimed, is nothing like the girl who used to sit quietly in the corner while Killian worked.

This is something else entirely.

Killian's jaw tightens. Then he looks away, focusing back on the pool table like nothing happened.

But they both know it did.

Beck's hand tightens on hers, and he leads her toward the exit. They don't say goodbye. Don't explain.

They just leave.

Outside, the evening air is cool against her flushed skin.

Beck stops beside his bike, turning to face her.

"You okay?" he asks.

She nods.

"No regrets?"

She looks up at him. "No."

His hand comes up, cupping her face.

"Good."

Then he kisses her.

Slow and deep before pulling back and handing her the helmet. They ride back to his house in silence. But when they get there, he doesn't let her go.

He pulls her inside, up the stairs, into his bedroom.

And he f***s her again. Slower this time, gentler. Like he's reminding himself she's real.

That she stayed.

That she chose him.

Afterward, they lie tangled together in his bed, and Dahlia stares at the ceiling.

She came back to this town broken and lost. And somehow, she ended up here. In the bed of the Iron Saints' president.

Claimed.

Marked.

His.

And the weird part was that she doesn't regret a single second of it.