Wicked Chains

Chapter One: Collision

Auratrix Stone’s breath came in ragged gasps as she sprinted through the rain-slick alley, heart thundering in her chest. Her boots splashed through puddles, adrenaline numbing the pain in her bruised ribs. She didn’t dare look back—she could still hear them, the men who’d cornered her outside the club. She knew what they wanted. She’d die before letting them have it.

She burst into the main street, headlights blinding her for a split second. Tires screeched as a massive black motorcycle skidded to a halt inches from her legs, the machine’s roar drowning out her panic. She stumbled back, arms flailing, and landed hard on the wet pavement.

The biker swung off his Harley, boots thudding with quiet menace. Leather jacket stretched taut across broad shoulders, dark hair slicked back from a rugged, chiseled face. Tattoos snaked down powerful forearms. His eyes—gray as a storm—locked onto hers with a predatory intensity that made her shiver for reasons that had nothing to do with fear.

“Who the hell are you running from, angel?” His voice was gravel and smoke, low and commanding.

She tried to scramble up, but he was already crouched at her side, one gloved hand gentle but firm on her shoulder. “Easy. I’ve got you.”

She wanted to protest, but the strangers’ shouts echoed behind her. Panic surged—he noticed. He straightened, placing himself solidly between her and the alley, body language promising violence to anyone foolish enough to follow.

Auratrix’s gaze darted over his patched vest: Wicked Chains MC. Even she’d heard of them—rough, untouchable, ruled by the man in front of her. Chance Wilder. The name alone was a warning and a promise.

“Stay behind me,” he growled, voice dark and protective. “Nobody touches what’s mine.”

She bristled at the claim, but as two thugs rounded the corner, Chance’s hand found hers, his grip possessive and surprisingly comforting. The way he stood—danger barely leashed, power radiating off him—sent a thrill through her veins.

The men hesitated when they saw him. “This your problem, Wilder?” one sneered, bravado faltering.

Chance’s lips curled into a dangerous smirk. “She is now. Walk away, or crawl.”

The thugs exchanged glances—then retreated, muttering curses.

As the danger faded, Auratrix realized she was trembling. Chance didn’t let her go. His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles on her wrist, a silent claim. “You’re safe. For now.”

She met his gaze, breathless, a strange, electric heat building between them.

He leaned close, scent of leather and sin curling around her. “Tell me your name, angel. And then tell me who I need to hurt.”