My Alphas Are Bikers

Chapter 2: Stay Away From The Pack

—Nitasha’s POV—

I didn't sleep.

Not even close. I may have closed my eyes a time or two, but sleep never materialized. The dorm bed, hard and flat as a regret, had less cushion than a sidewalk, and the heater at the corner clicked every twenty seconds with the sulkiness of an animal that despised its work. But it wasn't the bed or the sound that was keeping me awake.

It was the eyes.

Four pairs of them, sewn behind my eyelids like a mark I didn't request. Their eyes weren't memory—they hung around as if still in the room with me, observing, waiting. And one pair of them was different from the others, carved deepest into my mind like acid in paper.

Enzo Rael.

The single word made my chest constrict. It curled around me like the rain had curled around that night, chilling and unavoidable. I could still hear the rumble of engines roaring through the trees, still feel the crush of his gaze as he'd moved towards me like he belonged there. Still hear his voice, deep and unrelenting, when he spoke it—Mine.

One word. One syllable. But it struck like a command etched into bone.

I'd curled onto my back in the dark, pulling the covers up even though they didn't comfort me. Pale light seeped through the blinds, sketching dull stripes onto the ceiling like the bars of a cage. My breath emerged slowly, dragged, as if trying to will myself to let go could somehow make the thing growing in my chest go away. But the tension remained, beating, like an extra heartbeat I hadn't signed up for.

And beneath that heartbeat was something I didn’t want to name. Something that whispered they were drawn to me not by chance… but by instinct.

[Next Morning]

Welcome to Ashbourne, I thought bitterly.

At last, with arms that felt three times as heavy as they should have, I pulled myself out of bed. I stumbled into clothes with the dexterity of a drunk raccoon, stuffed my books into a bag, and staggered off to my first class: Postmodern Theories of Perception.

The very title sounded as if it was crafted to make you cry.

I slumped in the back, pulling my sweatshirt hood over my head, bending low in my seat as if perhaps the floor would gobble me up if I held perfectly still. The professor was a mumble, his voice a low rumble—something about constructed realities and personal truth—but it was all white noise, washing over me like static. My thoughts were elsewhere, caught in the night's thread of unspooling impossibility. The rain. The bikes. The silver-eyed boy gazing at me as if I were a book only he was authorized to read.

And then I felt it again. Heat. A twist of tension that curled low in the base of my back like a match clutched too close to flesh. I swiveled my head slowly, reluctantly. As if part of me already sensed what was to come. And there he was.

Back row. Legs stretched out as if he were reclining on a throne of boredom, arms crossed over his chest. Black hoodie. Black jeans. Face unreadable. He wasn't taking notes. Not listening. Not even faking it. He was observing me. His gaze didn't blink. Didn't waver. Just clung with mine, as if staring itself was some sort of silent claim. And within the gaze was something old and deadly—something that knew me in a way I had not ever before been known.

I turned away, quick, heart flying into my throat. My cheeks flamed. I was acutely conscious of every inch of my skin, as if his eyes had branded it.

And yet, a part of me—the reckless part, the part that never learned—wanted to ask why. Why me? What was it about me that made their gazes burn like recognition?

What in the world was he doing here? More importantly—what in the world was I doing here? I ran out the minute class was over. Head bent, footsteps fast, the corridor too rowdy and too confining. I didn't want to be noticed. I didn't want to speak. I just wanted space, a door, quiet.

"Hey!" The voice was on my side—vibrant, friendly, comfortable in a way that made me uncomfortable right away.

I angled to catch sight of a girl falling into step alongside me. She had a blonde halo of curls and a sweater so large it appeared she had another person concealed within it. Her smile was large, slightly crooked, like it had information I didn't.

"You're new," she stated without asking.

I shrugged noncommittally, not breaking stride. "Yeah."

"Hi, I'm Izzy," she smiled. "I'd say hi, but…" She looked over her shoulder, the grin faltering just enough to reveal something softer beneath. "Well. You already met them, didn't you?"

I came to a halt. I didn't do it on purpose. It wasn't something I had control over. It was as if my body had short-circuited.

I turned to her slowly, my eyes narrowing. "What did you just say?"

Izzy leaned in close, her voice dropping to a whisper that tugged the hallway around us. "Enzo. Zane. Lucien. Daniel. They're who really own this school. Not technically, but the school doesn't survive without their permission. Everyone refers to them as the Alphas."

I looked at her. "The Alphas?" The term sounded preposterous on my lips, like something from a cult documentary or badly written fanfiction.

She didn’t flinch. “They’re more than a biker gang,” she said. “Some say they’re not even—” She stopped, bit her lip. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is… they noticed you. That doesn’t happen. You’ve been claimed.”

I barked a dry, humorless laugh. “Claimed? What is this, Game of Thrones?”

But Izzy didn’t laugh. Her eyes were wide, serious. “Yeah?” she said, voice soft. “Tell that to the last girl who said no.”

Something had gone cold in me. "What happened to her?"

"She split," Izzy told me. "Middle of the term. Just… vanished. No goodbye. No warning. Her roommate told her bed was empty the next morning. She didn't even pack."

I wanted to scoff. To say I wasn’t like that girl. But deep down, I already knew I was different. They weren’t chasing me because I was pretty or new—they were circling like something in them remembered me before I remembered myself.

My skin crawled. We said nothing the rest of the way to the dorm. Izzy broke off by the dining hall, giving a little wave. I gave her a stiff nod and slammed the door to the dorm shut behind me harder than I intended. My hands were trembling when I dropped my bag on the floor. This was nothing new. I'd encountered danger. Grown up with it. Been shuffled between foster homes that smelled of bleach and despair, homes where you learned quick not to rely on anyone. I'd been hit. Starved. Lied to. I'd been through worse than most people could even conceive.

But this? This was different and heavier. Something that dug deeper than fear and wrapped itself around my bones. I flipped the light on—and stood there, motionless.

There, on my pillow, lay a note. A single sheet of heavy parchment, white and rough-edged as if it had been ripped from the pages of an ancient journal. My own breath was caught in my throat as I reached out. The red ink was deep and rich—too red. Almost as if it were blood that had been left to dry.

One sentence. Stay away from the pack. He's not who you think he is. None of them are.

I stood, gaping, heart thudding hard in my ears. I turned, moving slowly, looking around the room. Everything was where it belonged. The door had been closed. The window—SLAM.

The window slammed shut behind me, glass clattering as if it had been punched. I wheeled around, heart bouncing into my throat. There was no one there. But the air—God, the air wasn't stagnant. It was thick. As if something had just departed. As if something had merely just passed through. And then I heard it. A howl. Low. Guttural. Far away and yet close enough that I could feel it rumble in my chest.

Possessive. The sort of sound that didn't just call—it claimed.

Like it wasn’t just warning me to stay away—but daring me to understand why I couldn’t.

My arm hairs stood on end. And at the spot where Enzo had brushed against my wrist the previous night, a fiery pulse flared beneath the skin.