Claimed By The Biker Colusses

Giant's Offer

Lena Voss stood frozen in the gravel lot behind Ruiz’s roadside shop, the heavy wrench still clutched in her right hand like a lifeline. The three debt collectors lay groaning on the ground — one clutching his wrist, another spitting blood, the third trying to crawl away from the dented truck he’d been thrown against.

The giant biker — Colossus — sat astride his massive blacked-out Harley like it was an extension of his body. At 6'9" and built like a damn mountain, he made the bike look almost normal. His leather cut bore the Steel Titans MC patch, and his pale gray eyes locked onto her without blinking.

“You hurt?” he asked again, voice low and rough like gravel under tires. No wasted words. No fake concern.

Lena swallowed hard, adrenaline still making her hands shake. “No. I’m good.” She lowered the wrench but didn’t drop it. “Thanks for… that.”

He gave a single nod, as if knocking out three armed men was just another Tuesday. His gaze flicked to the half-finished custom chopper visible through the open bay door, then back to her. “You built that?”

“Yeah.” She wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her arm, leaving a streak of grease. “Salvaged frame, custom rake, one-of-a-kind. Takes time, but when it’s done it’ll roar like nothing else.”

Colossus studied the bike longer this time. Something shifted in his hard expression — respect, maybe. Most men saw a petite 22-year-old girl covered in grease and assumed she was just playing at mechanics. Not him.

“Club’s got bikes that need real work,” he said. “Not pretty stuff. Hard rides that eat parts and spit them out. Good pay if you’re as good as you look. And a room at the clubhouse if you need it. No strings.”

Lena’s stomach twisted. No strings. She’d heard that before — from Jake, from her stepbrother Marco, from every man who wanted something. Her mother’s last words still burned in her ears: “Marco’s blood, Lena. You’re just… difficult. He needs the money more than you right now.”

She’d packed what little she could onto her matte-black Sportster after the screaming match — clothes, a few tools that hadn’t been pawned, her helmet. The locks had already been changed when she tried to go back for the rest.

“I don’t do charity,” she said, lifting her chin. “And I sure as hell don’t do biker club handouts.”

“Didn’t offer charity.” Colossus’s massive hands rested casually on the handlebars, but she could see the power in them — veins and scars and tattoos that told stories she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear. “You work, you eat, you stay safe. Simple deal. Take it or don’t. Your call.”

Rain started to patter down, cold drops hitting her shoulders. Her jacket was thin, her bike was exposed, and she had maybe twenty dollars in her pocket after buying gas earlier.

Colossus didn’t push. He just sat there, a silent wall of muscle and leather, waiting. Most big men she’d met used their size to intimidate. This one seemed… careful with it. Like he knew exactly how much space he took up and didn’t enjoy it.

“I’ll think about it,” Lena finally said, hating how small her voice sounded.

He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a thick black hoodie with the Steel Titans logo faded on the front. “Dry off. Lock the shop.” He tossed it to her — gently, considering the size of his arm. It landed soft at her feet. “I’ll swing by tomorrow night. Same time.”

Before she could argue, he fired up the Harley. The deep thunder of the pipes vibrated through her chest and into her bones. He gave her one last look — those gray eyes unreadable — then rolled out of the lot and disappeared down the dark highway.

Lena stood there in the rain, clutching the warm hoodie that smelled faintly of leather, motor oil, and something darker… like smoke and man. She pulled it over her head. It swallowed her whole, sleeves hanging past her fingertips, hem hitting mid-thigh.

“Damn it,” she whispered.

Old Man Ruiz poked his head out the back door a minute later. “Everything okay out here? Thought I heard bikes.”

“Fine,” she lied, forcing a smile. “Just some guys looking for scraps. Handled it.”

He eyed the three men still moaning on the ground and raised an eyebrow. “Handled it, huh?”

Lena didn’t explain. She helped Ruiz close up, then wheeled her Sportster into the bay for the night. Sleep came in fits on the old cot in the break room, the giant’s hoodie pulled tight around her like armor.

By morning, reality hit harder. Her phone had three missed calls from her mother and one angry text from Marco: You owe me for sending my guys away empty-handed. Pay up or I’ll make sure you lose more than tools.

She spent the day working on customer bikes for Ruiz — small jobs that paid enough for a cheap motel if she was lucky. But luck had never been on her side.

As night fell again, Lena found herself back in the lot, half-finished chopper calling to her. She was tightening bolts when the familiar thunder returned.

Colossus rolled in alone this time. He killed the engine and dismounted, towering over everything. Up close under the security light, she could see more details: thick beard, tattoos climbing his neck, a faint scar running through one eyebrow.

“Decided?” he asked simply.

Lena set down her tools and wiped her hands. Her pride screamed no. Her empty stomach and the text from Marco screamed something else.

“I’ll work,” she said. “Hard. But I keep my own rules. No parties, no bullshit, and I’m gone the second I feel trapped.”

Colossus’s mouth twitched — almost a smile. “Fair.” He jerked his head toward the road. “Follow me. Clubhouse is twenty minutes out. Garage there’s better equipped than this place. You can finish your builds.”

She hesitated only a second before swinging onto her Sportster. The hoodie — his hoodie — still hung off her like a claim she wasn’t ready to admit.

As they rode into the night, Lena’s heart pounded louder than the engines. She was following a stranger built like a titan into outlaw territory.

But for the first time since her family betrayed her, she didn’t feel completely alone.