Claimed By The Biker Colusses

The Scar Of The Giant

The compound fell into an uneasy quiet after the gunshots died. I locked myself in my room like Colossus ordered, but sleep refused to come. Every creak in the hallway made me sit up, wrench still clutched under my pillow like a security blanket.

An hour passed. Maybe two. The party never restarted. Instead, low voices rumbled from the main room — club church, Rogue had called it. Decisions were being made about the Reapers, about me.

A soft knock finally sounded.

“It’s me,” Colossus rumbled from the other side of the door.

I opened it before my pride could stop me.

He filled the frame completely, shoulders brushing both sides. Blood had been wiped from his knuckles, but fresh bruises bloomed across them. His gray eyes swept over me, checking for damage that wasn’t there.

“You’re still here,” he said, almost surprised.

“Where else would I go?” I stepped back so he could enter. The room instantly felt smaller, the air thicker. He didn’t sit. He never did when he was around me — like he was afraid even the bed might break under his weight.

He closed the door behind him but stayed near it, giving me the space he always did. Careful. Controlled.

“The Reapers won’t try the fence again tonight,” he told me. “President’s calling in favors. We ride at dawn to send a message.”

I nodded, arms wrapped around myself. Grease still streaked my forearms from the garage. “They want my builds. Marco sold me out like I was just another tool in his pawn shop.”

Colossus’s jaw flexed. For a long moment he said nothing. Then, slowly, he reached up and tugged the collar of his black tee down.

A thick, jagged scar ran across the left side of his collarbone — old, white, and wide enough that it looked like it had once nearly taken his head off.

“This is why I stay back,” he said quietly. “Why I don’t touch.”

I stared. The scar disappeared under more ink, but the story was clear in the way it pulled at his skin.

“Five years ago,” he continued, voice low and rough, “we were in a bad war with another club. They had us pinned in an old warehouse. I was enforcer — still am. When they came through the door, I went in first. I grabbed one of their guys… lifted him the way I lifted that Reaper tonight. Only this time I didn’t stop. My strength… it snapped his neck before I realized what I was doing. He had a knife to one of our prospects’ throat. I saved the kid. But the guy I killed? He wasn’t the only one. The building came down wrong after that. Two of our own got caught in the collapse because I moved too fast, too hard.”

He dropped his collar back into place, eyes on the floor.

“I’ve carried that weight ever since. I’m built like a goddamn tank, Lena. One wrong move and people break. Women especially. I swore I’d never get close enough to risk it again.”

The silence stretched between us, heavy as engine blocks.

I crossed the small room until I stood right in front of him. My boots touched his. I had to tilt my head all the way back to meet his eyes.

“Lift your hand,” I said.

He hesitated, then slowly raised one massive palm between us.

I placed both of my smaller hands under it, supporting the weight. His fingers were twice the length of mine, scarred and calloused from years of wrenches, fights, and road.

“Feel that?” I whispered. “I’m holding you up right now. And I’m not breaking.”

His breath hitched. The giant — the man who could crush bone without trying — looked almost lost.

“Lena…”

I stepped closer, until my forehead rested against his chest. His heartbeat thundered under my skin, steady and huge. One of his hands finally settled on my back — so gently it felt like a question.

“I’m not fragile glass,” I told him. “I’m steel. I bend, I weld, I rebuild. Same as you.”

His fingers flexed once against my spine, then stilled. The restraint in that single touch made my eyes sting.

“You make me want to forget the scar,” he admitted, voice barely above a growl. “And that terrifies me more than any Reaper.”

Outside, a bike roared to life — someone leaving for patrol. The real world was still waiting.

But in this tiny room, with a mountain of a man holding me like I was the most precious thing he’d ever touched, the walls I’d built around my heart cracked wider than any debt or rival threat could manage.

He pulled back first, always the careful one. “Get some sleep. I’ll be right next door.”

At the threshold he paused, broad back to me.

“Tomorrow we ride. You’re coming with us — in the cage, not on a bike. I’m not risking you on the open road yet.”

I didn’t argue. Not tonight.

As the door clicked shut, I pressed my palm to the wood where his hand had been.

The scar he carried wasn’t just on his skin.

It was in every careful step he took around me.

And for the first time, I realized I wanted to help him heal it — even if it meant stepping straight into the fire with him.