Claimed By The Biker Colusses

Sparks

The garage smelled like hot metal and fresh oil by nine the next morning. I had the lift raised on a chopped Softail that needed new pipes when Colossus rolled his own beast inside. The blacked-out Harley was a monster — stretched frame, custom apes, pipes that looked like they could wake the dead. It suited him perfectly.

He killed the engine and swung off, filling the space like he always did. “This one’s next. Runs rough on long hauls. Think you can tame it?”

I wiped my hands on a rag and walked over, circling the bike slowly. My fingers traced the exhaust headers, feeling for heat spots. “It’s not just rough. The timing’s off and these pipes are choking it. I can fix the mechanicals… but if you let me, I’ll make it sing.”

Colossus leaned against the workbench, arms crossed over that massive chest. His gray eyes followed every move I made. “Do what you do best.”

I got to work. Sparks flew as I cut and reshaped the exhaust, welding new baffles while he watched in silence. The heat from the torch made sweat bead on my neck. Every time I bent low or reached for a tool, I felt his presence — not hovering, but close enough that the air thickened.

“Most mechanics would slap on stock parts and call it good,” he said after a while, voice low. “You’re building something new.”

I glanced up, face flushed from the work. “Junk becomes beautiful when you listen to it. Your bike’s been screaming for more power and less restriction.” I held up the custom baffle I’d just fabricated. “This’ll give it throat without killing the flow.”

He nodded once, but his jaw tightened the way it did when something deeper was stirring. I wanted to ask about the scar that cut through his eyebrow, about why he always stepped back when the space between us shrank. Instead, I kept my mouth shut and my hands moving.

Hours blurred. The garage emptied out for lunch, leaving just us. I was on my knees beside the rear wheel, torquing the final bolt, when my wrench slipped. My balance went with it.

Colossus moved faster than a man his size should. One massive hand caught my elbow, steadying me before I could hit the concrete. His palm was warm, calloused, and so big it wrapped halfway around my arm.

We froze.

My breath caught. Up close like this, I had to tilt my head all the way back to meet his eyes. The size difference hit me hard — I barely reached his sternum. His fingers flexed once, then loosened, like he remembered he was supposed to be careful.

“You good?” he asked, voice rougher than usual.

“Yeah,” I whispered. I could feel the heat rolling off him, smell leather and motor oil and that dark, masculine scent that made my stomach flip. “Thanks.”

He released me slowly, stepping back a full pace like it cost him something. The space felt colder without his hand.

I finished the job in silence, but the air between us had changed. When the bike finally roared to life under my hands — deep, throaty, alive — Colossus’s mouth twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile.

“Damn,” he muttered, swinging a leg over. The seat dipped under his weight. “You really do give it soul.”

I stood there, grease-streaked and breathless, watching him rev the engine. For a second our eyes locked and something raw passed between us — not just attraction, but recognition. Two people who built things out of broken pieces.

Then his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, expression hardening instantly.

“Shadow Reapers are sniffing around your stepbrother again,” he said, killing the engine. “They think your talent’s for sale.”

My stomach dropped. Marco. Always Marco.

Colossus met my gaze, the gentle giant gone, replaced by the enforcer. “They won’t touch you. Not while I’m breathing.”

But as he rode out to handle club business, leaving me alone with the dying echo of his pipes, I realized the real threat wasn’t just the rivals outside the gate.

It was the way my heart had started racing every time that mountain of a man stepped into my space — and the terrifying certainty that one day he might stop pulling away.