My Alphas Are Bikers

Chapter 4: Just My Type

—Nitasha’s POV—

As I left the garage, I saw three silhouettes watching from the shadows—smirking.

There’s something addictive about danger.

Not the kind that’s immediately obvious—the kind you flee with your senses intact—but the kind that breathes against your skin and tells you to stay. The kind that comes in a human package. That intrudes upon your life more with stealth than crash, creeping in slow and sinuous until one morning you wake up and find it’s not just a part of your world—it is your world.

It’s a drug. One you don’t remember taking until it’s rewired your veins, taken up residence in your breath. Until it becomes less a threat and more a truth. And when it touches you—when it wraps its fingers around the delicate frames of your mind—you’ll need it. Not just the rush. Not just the fire. But the possibility of what will occur if you cease resisting it.

I thought the night in the garage would be the end of it. That maybe the kiss—wild and consuming, edged with violence and need—had been a kind of exorcism. A release. That I’d walked into the fire, burned, and come out clean.

I was wrong. So, so wrong.

Because the next day, Alpha Zane found me. And Zane Thorne wasn’t the type to knock.

It occurred between periods, when my head was still static and my lips still recalled the flavor of Enzo’s. I was walking to the admin office, manila folder in hand—some task Coach had guilt-tripped me into. I hardly noticed the corridor beneath my feet, my mind circling in fevered snippets: his palms, his snarl, mine, mine, mine.

Enzo had done something to me. I didn’t know what. But it hung just below my skin now—buzzing, shifting, waiting.

Then I took a wrong turn. At least… that’s what I was telling myself.

The hallway curved somewhere past the west wing of the gym. The light became colder. Harsher. The door I stood in front of didn’t have a sign. Just a piece of reinforced steel, bolted and quiet like it was something you’d find in a vault, not a school. I lingered—my hand on the rusty handle, a shiver tracing down my spine. I could’ve turned around. Could’ve kept going, dropped the forms off, and kept pretending like I still knew what my life was.

But I opened it. And the world shifted. The air slapped me like a fist. Hot. Heavy. Unforgiving. I walked in, and the smell hit me full force—sweat, blood, leather, testosterone. It stuck to the walls, imbibed in the concrete. This was an underground operation in every sense of the term. It did not exist only under the gym. It lived under the rules. Under reason.

A ring dominated the room, sagging ropes stretched over a dirty canvas mat, its frayed edges dripping with phantasms. The air above hummed in dim lights, sending jagged shadows scurrying across cinderblock walls.

It wasn’t a training room. It was a war zone masquerading as a basement. And at the center of it, Zane.

He stood bare-chested in the ring as if he owned the place. As if it wasn’t fabricated for the use of anybody but him. He was a finely meshed web of taut muscle and sweat-glistened heat, his fists pounding a swinging sandbag with lethal accuracy. The impact was symphonious—thud. thud. thud.—like a heart beating on the ribs of a beast.

Tattoos curled down his arms and up his neck, inky black that resembled less art and more armor. He was ugliness beautified, and he didn’t hesitate when I arrived. Didn’t even blink.

But his eyes—melted darkness—focused on mine. And he looked at me. The bag jerked one last time before he let it dangle, his chest rising slow, measured. He didn’t speak at first. Just glared. Then—

“Lost, sweetheart?” His voice was as rough as gravel and as warm as smoke, pulled through flames and whiskey.

“No,” I lied. “Just delivering forms.”

He stepped down from the mat with a kind of liquid menace that made my breath stop. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He unwrapped his fists gradually, slowly, as if shedding arms. He pitched the wraps to the floor and padded forward, bare feet quiet on crumbling concrete.

“Or perhaps…” he said, eyes sparkling, “you sought me out.”

I took one step back. My back hit cool cinderblock. “Don’t be so vain.”

His smile was slow and wicked.

“Too late.”

His progression was a dance—controlled, measured, predatory. He did not just come at me. He moved around, the way the wolf will when it knows the deer is paralyzed. His eyes never left mine, burning through skin and bone like he wanted to view what lay beneath both.

“I heard about the garage,” he said matter-of-factly, as if it were not a threat veiled in velvet. “He kissed you.”

I didn’t answer.

“But a kiss?” he went on, his voice dropping. “That’s not a connection, sweetheart. That’s just… foreplay.”

He braked behind me. The warmth of his body wrapped around my back, searing through the thin barrier of my clothes. My breathing caught, shallow and uneven. My muscles stiffened—not in resistance, but in anticipation. He didn’t touch me, not yet. But the space between us changed—charged and intimate, like the pause before a scream, before a fall, before surrender.

"And you?" I breathed, the words trembling between us, an unsteady challenge. "You think you can do better?"

He laughed. It was low, creaky, perilous—a sound that slithered down my spine and coiled deep in my stomach. It shuddered across the room like the growl of an impending storm, dark and inevitable. "I don’t think, baby," he muttered, his voice rough velvet. "I know."

I spun on reflex, defiance igniting before fear could gain a foothold. "Then prove it."

The instant the words left my lips, his smile erupted—sharp, predatory, devastating. And the world leaned.

He pinned me against the wall with one swift movement—hands on either side of my head, caging me in. His body crushed into mine, unyielding, all heat and hard lines and reckless dominance. His mouth crashed against mine without warning, without mercy.

It was war.

I gasped, and he swallowed the sound like a starving man, like it was the only thing keeping him alive. His kiss was a claim like a wildfire. His hands didn’t stray—they held me with brutal precision, one gripping my waist hard enough to bruise, the other braced against the wall, fingers flexing like he was holding back from tearing me apart.

When his mouth dragged down my throat, I arched into him, my body betraying me with shameless need. He growled—a rough, primal sound—against my skin, and the vibration seared straight through me.

"Still defiant?" he murmured, his breath scorching my collarbone.

I dug my nails into his shoulders, my voice a wrecked whisper. "Try harder."

"You taste like trouble," he whispered, voice cracking with starvation. "Just my type."

I should have quit. Should’ve shut him out.

But I was trouble as well. And perhaps, for that moment, I needed to forget. Forget the way Enzo’s gaze carved into me like a blade. Forget the way my own mind unraveled, thread by thread, without reason, without mercy. I craved to drown in something more than confusion.

“Ahh… please,” I moaned, gasping as his tongue traced my earlobe before sucking gently, the wet sounds sending shivers through me. The sensation was so overwhelming that my eyes fluttered open, meeting his smoldering gaze—his desire for me burning bright. He kissed me deeply again, his tongue exploring my mouth, our mingled saliva escaping my lips with every shift of his angle. Between fevered kisses, I moaned, acutely aware of his thigh pressing against my aching core.

“You’re grinding against my leg,” he teased. My body stiffened, heat flooding my cheeks at his words—how easily he’d unraveled my control. Before I could react, his hands ripped open my blouse, shoving my bra aside, baring me to the cool air. My n*****s pebbled instantly, but the chill vanished as his palm cupped one breast while his mouth closed over the other, searing me with warmth.

God, I almost let him. Almost broke.

Until—BANG.