CLAIMED BY THE ROAD DEVIL.

The engine coughed once. Twice. Then died. Isla Monroe let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding and coasted her beat-up Honda to the curb of the only street in Red Hollow that had lights. Midnight. No cars. No people. Just the neon sign buzzing above a place called _Devil’s Den_ and the sound of her heart hammering in her ears. She’d been driving for nine hours straight. Nine hours since she’d emptied her bank account, grabbed the burner phone, and run. Nine hours since she’d last looked in the rearview and seen Marcus’s black SUV tailing her. “Not anymore,” she whispered to the empty car. Her voice cracked. The bruise on her lip throbbed when she spoke. Marcus hadn’t hit her. He didn’t need to. He’d just smiled and told the judge she was unstable, told her brother she was a liar, told her sister she was welcome in his bed. One week, and he’d stripped her life down to this: a dead car, eighty-three dollars in her wallet, and a jacket that didn’t fit. Isla killed the engine. The sudden silence made her flinch. She sat there, hands gripping the steering wheel, staring at _Devil’s Den_. The bar looked like it had been built out of spite and bad decisions. Black brick. Metal door. A motorcycle parked out front like it owned the sidewalk. A Harley. Matte black. Custom pipes. Even Isla, who didn’t know anything about bikes, could tell it was expensive. Her foot slipped off the brake. She didn’t mean to. Her leg was cramping, her shoe was slick with sweat, and the pedal gave under her weight. The Honda rolled forward an inch. Then another. “Shit.” She slammed her foot down. Too late. The front bumper kissed the Harley’s rear tire. A soft thud. The bike wobbled. Isla’s stomach dropped. She threw the door open and stumbled out, her knees shaking. “No, no, no—” The Harley tipped. It happened in slow motion. The kickstand lifted. The bike leaned. Isla lunged forward, hands out, like she could catch three hundred pounds of metal with her bare palms. She couldn’t. The Harley hit the pavement with a crack that sounded like bones breaking. For a second, Isla couldn’t breathe. She just stared at it, lying there on its side, and thought: _That’s it. That’s the end. I’m going to jail. Marcus wins._ Then the bar door slammed open. “Who the hell—” The voice was low, rough, like gravel and smoke. Isla turned. He filled the doorway. Tall. Broad. Sleeves rolled up to show arms covered in black ink. Chains and barbed wire and something that looked like wings. His hair was dark, cut short on the sides. A small cross was tattooed under his left eye. And his knuckles— _CLAIM_ on the left. _HER_ on the right. Isla’s breath caught. She took a step back. The man walked toward her. Slow. Barefoot. Jeans hanging low on his hips. A leather cut draped over one shoulder, the back patch reading _Road Devils MC – President_. He didn’t look at her face at first. He looked at the bike. His bike. “f**k,” he said, very quietly. Isla found her voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to— my brakes— I can pay for it. I just—” He crouched beside the Harley. His hands, big and scarred, ran over the dented exhaust. His jaw ticked. When he finally looked up at her, his eyes were dark. Not angry. Worse. Assessing. “Name,” he said. Isla swallowed. “I—” “Name.” “Isla.” “Isla.” He said it like he was tasting it. Then he stood. All six-foot-something of him. Close enough that she could smell leather and cedar and something clean underneath. “You hit my ride.” “I know. I’m sorry. I’ll— I’ll call my insurance, or—” “You don’t have insurance.” He said it flat. Not a question. Isla’s throat closed. How did he know? Because she looked broke? Because her car was older than she was? “I can work it off,” she said quickly. Desperately. “I’m good with books, or cleaning, or— whatever you need. Just don’t call the cops. Please.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. To the bruise there. His expression didn’t change, but something behind his eyes did. Hardened. “Who did that?” he asked. “No one.” The lie came out too fast. He didn’t push. Instead, he bent down, grabbed the Harley’s handlebar, and lifted. One arm. Like it weighed nothing. The bike righted with a metallic groan. Isla stared. No one was that strong. He swung a leg over, settling onto the seat. The engine rumbled to life on the first try, low and angry. He looked at her then, really looked, and Isla had the sudden, irrational thought that she’d been caught by something wild. “You have two choices, Isla,” he said over the engine. His voice barely rose. She had to strain to hear him. “You can walk away right now. I’ll fix the bike. You’ll owe me, but I won’t chase you.” Relief hit her so hard her knees buckled. “Okay. Thank you—” “Or,” he cut in, “you get on.” She blinked. “What?” “On the bike.” He nodded at the space behind him. “You hit my ride. That means you’re on it now.” Isla’s brain short-circuited. “I— I can’t. I don’t have a helmet, and I don’t even—” “You don’t need one.” He held out a hand. Not grabbing. Offering. “For now.” For a second, she thought about running. She could turn and sprint. She was fast. She was scared. She— Then she looked at his hand. At the word _HER_ inked across his knuckles. At the way he wasn’t touching her, even though he could. She took it. His fingers were warm. Calloused. He pulled her forward, and Isla had to grab his shoulders to keep from falling. He smelled like motor oil and rain. “Hold on,” he said. Then he twisted the throttle. The Harley surged forward, and Isla gasped, clinging to him. Her arms went around his waist without permission. His stomach was hard under her hands. He rode slow down the empty street, the bar’s neon fading behind them. “Where are we going?” she asked, voice shaking. “My place,” he said. “You’re not sleeping in that car.” “I can’t— I don’t have money—” “I didn’t ask for money.” They turned down an alley, then another. Red Hollow was small. Too small. Isla tried to memorize the turns, in case she needed to run later. But her arms were still around him, and his back was solid under her palms, and for the first time in days, she didn’t feel completely alone. He stopped in front of a small house behind the bar. A light was on inside. He killed the engine. “Off,” he said. Isla slid off awkwardly, her legs unsteady. He got off too, and for a second they stood there, close in the dark. She could see the cross under his eye clearly now. Could see the faint scar cutting through his eyebrow. “What’s your name?” she asked, because she realized she didn’t know. He studied her. Then: “Riven.” “Riven.” “Devil,” he added, like it was a title. “To most people.” Isla nodded. Her throat was dry. “Thank you. For not— for not leaving me on the street.” He didn’t answer right away. He looked at her mouth again. At the bruise. Then he reached out. Isla flinched. Riven stopped. His hand hovered an inch from her face. “I won’t touch you without asking,” he said, voice low. “But you’re bleeding.” She touched her lip. Her fingers came away with blood. She hadn’t even realized she’d bitten it. “Come inside,” Riven said. “Let me clean it.” Isla should have said no. She should have thanked him and walked away while she still could. But the night was cold, and she was tired, and his hand was still out, not grabbing, just waiting. She nodded. Riven’s fingers closed around hers. Not tight. Just enough. He led her inside. The house was small and clean. Too clean for a biker bar owner, maybe. Leather couch. Wooden table. A kitchen that smelled like coffee. He didn’t turn on the overhead light. Just a lamp in the corner, casting everything in gold. “Sit,” he said, nodding at the couch. Isla sat. Her hands were shaking. Riven disappeared into another room and came back with a first aid kit. He set it on the coffee table, then crouched in front of her. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. Like he knew she needed to hear it. “I know,” she lied. He opened the kit. Pulled out an antiseptic wipe. “May I?” Isla nodded. His touch was careful. Feather-light. He cleaned the cut on her lip, his thumb steadying her chin. His eyes never left hers. Up close, she could see flecks of gold in the dark brown. “You’re shaking,” he murmured. “I’m cold.” “Liar.” Isla almost smiled. Almost. He finished, capped the wipe, and sat back on his heels. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was… heavy. Charged. “You’re not from here,” Riven said finally. “No.” “Running from something.” It wasn’t a question. Isla looked down at her hands. “Yes.” Riven nodded, like that was answer enough. He closed the first aid kit. Then, without warning, he reached up and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. Isla froze. “I asked,” he said softly. “Before I touched you.” “I know.” His fingers lingered at her jaw. His thumb brushed her cheekbone. Isla’s breath hitched. “Isla,” he said, and her name sounded different in his mouth. Slower. Like a promise. “Yes?” “You’re staying here tonight.” “I don’t— I can’t pay—” “I didn’t ask you to.” He stood, offering his hand again. “Spare room’s down the hall. Bathroom’s first door on the left.” Isla took his hand. Stood. She was close enough to feel the heat coming off him. “Riven?” “Hm?” “Why?” He looked at her mouth again. Then met her eyes. “Because you hit my ride,” he said simply. “And now you’re mine to take care of.” Not _mine_ like she belonged to him. _Mine_ like she was his responsibility. Isla didn’t know which was scarier. She followed him down the hall. He showed her the room. Clean sheets. Blanket folded at the foot of the bed. A glass of water on the nightstand. “You need anything, you knock,” he said from the doorway. “Okay.” He didn’t leave right away. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, watching her. The cross under his eye caught the light. “Isla,” he said again. “Yes?” “Goodnight.” “Goodnight, Riven.” He left, closing the door softly behind him. Isla sat on the bed. Listened to his footsteps retreat. Listened to the house settle. Then she reached up and touched her lip, where his fingers had been. Outside, a motorcycle engine roared to life. Riven, maybe. Riding off into the night. Isla pulled the blanket around her shoulders and thought: _I should run. First thing in the morning. Before he changes his mind._ But deep down, she knew she wouldn’t. Not yet. Not when, for the first time in a week, she felt safe.