Claimed By The Biker Colusses

Lena Voss wiped the grease from her hands onto her already-stained overalls and stepped back to admire the half-built chopper in the dim light of the roadside shop. The frame was a beast — stretched, raked, with custom forks she'd salvaged from a wrecked 1970s Shovelhead. It wasn't pretty yet, but it had soul. Her soul. "Another late night, Lena?" Old Man Ruiz called from the office, his voice tired but kind. He owned the little shop on the edge of town — more of a parts graveyard than a real garage — but he let her use the space after hours in exchange for fixing the occasional customer bike for free. "Got to eat," she replied with a half-smile, tightening a bolt. "This one's gonna pay the bills when it's done." Ruiz chuckled. "You got talent, girl. Real talent. Don't let this town waste it." She didn't answer. Talent didn't pay the rent when your own family treated you like an ATM. Her phone buzzed on the workbench. Mom. Again. Lena ignored it, but the screen lit up with another text: Come home. We need to talk. It's important. "Important," Lena muttered, shoving the phone into her pocket. The last "important" talk had been her stepbrother Marco admitting he'd "borrowed" two grand from her hidden stash for a "sure thing" at the tracks. That was three months ago. She hadn't seen a dime back. She worked another hour, the hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant roar of highway traffic her only company. When she finally killed the lights and rolled her own bike — a matte-black Sportster she'd rebuilt twice — out the back door, the night air hit her like a slap. Cool. Heavy with the promise of rain. The shop's back lot was nothing but gravel, weeds, and rusted hulks. Perfect for keeping a low profile. She was strapping her helmet when she heard it — voices. Low, aggressive. "She's gotta have cash or parts somewhere. The b***h works here every night." Lena froze, heart slamming. Three shadows moved between the wrecks. Not locals looking for scrap. These guys had the hungry look of collectors — the kind Marco owed money to. She gripped the heavy wrench still in her hand. No way was she running. Not tonight. "Look, I don't have anything," she called out, voice steady even as fear clawed her throat. "Shop's closed. Come back tomorrow." One of them laughed. "Marco said his stepsister was feisty. Said you'd cover his debt if we asked nice." Her stomach dropped. Marco had sent them. Her own stepbrother had sicced debt collectors on her. The biggest one stepped closer, knife glinting under the single security light. "Hand over the keys to that pretty bike and whatever's in the shop. Or we take it out on that face of yours." Lena raised the wrench like a bat. "Touch me and I'll rearrange yours first." They laughed — until the roar of a massive engine cut through the night like thunder. A single headlight pierced the darkness. The motorcycle that rolled into the lot was a monster — blacked-out, chrome accents catching the light, pipes growling deep and mean. But it was the rider who made the air thicken. He was enormous. Easily 6'9", shoulders broad enough to block doorways, arms corded with muscle under a leather cut. Tattoos crawled up his neck and disappeared into a thick beard. His face was hard, eyes shadowed under the brim of a black bandana. The Steel Titans patch on his chest seemed to dare anyone to test him. The three thugs straightened, suddenly less cocky. "Private business, man," one muttered. "Walk away." The giant — Colossus, according to the name patch — killed his engine but didn't dismount. His voice was low, gravel-rough. "Doesn't look private to me. Three on one ain't a fair fight." Lena's grip on the wrench tightened. She didn't know if this was savior or new threat. One thug pulled a gun. "I said walk—" He didn't finish. Colossus moved faster than a man his size should. One massive hand shot out, slamming the gunman's wrist so hard the weapon flew into the weeds. A single punch dropped the second man like a sack of bricks. The third tried to run — Colossus caught him by the collar and hurled him against a rusted truck with a metallic crunch. In under ten seconds, it was over. The giant turned to her. Up close, he was even more intimidating. His eyes — a startling pale gray — scanned her from head to toe, lingering on the wrench she still held like a shield. "You hurt?" he asked. No pity. Just fact. Lena lowered the wrench slowly, adrenaline still buzzing. "No. Thanks... I think." He nodded once. "Name's Colossus. Steel Titans." He jerked his chin toward the shop. "You work here?" "I build here. Custom choppers." She didn't know why she added that. Maybe because his bike looked like it had seen real work — and real love. Colossus studied the half-finished frame visible through the open bay door. Something shifted in his expression — interest, maybe respect. "Club's got bikes that need attention. Good pay. Safe place to work." He paused. "And a room if you need one. No strings. You earn your keep." Lena's pride flared. She'd just been betrayed by blood. The last thing she needed was another man offering "protection" that came with a price. "I don't need charity." "Didn't offer charity," he rumbled. "Offered work. Decision's yours." He started his bike, the deep thunder vibrating through her chest. "Think on it. I'll be back tomorrow night." As he rode off into the darkness, Lena stood there, wrench still in hand, heart racing for an entirely new reason. She had nowhere to go after tonight. Mom had already changed the locks after the latest screaming match. Her savings were gone. Her tools were half-pawned. But trusting a giant from an outlaw MC? That felt like jumping from one fire straight into another.