Episode 3
1241 Words
Devil’s Den didn’t look like a clubhouse.
It looked like a busted-up warehouse with a bad attitude.
Neon Road Devil sign flickering over the door. Bikes lined up like soldiers. Loud music spilling into the street. Isla’s stomach dropped the second Riven killed the Harley’s engine out front.
“Wait,” she said, gripping his waist. “We’re not going in there.”
Riven glanced back. His sunglasses hid his eyes, but his mouth quirked. “Yeah, we are.”
“I don’t do bars.”
“You’re not drinking.” He swung off the bike, then reached for her. “You’re meeting my brothers.”
Isla hesitated. Her hands were still on his hips. Through his shirt, she could feel the heat of him, the solid line of muscle.
“Riven—”
“Isla.” His voice was low. “You hit my ride. That makes you mine to explain. To them.”
Mine to explain. Not mine to hide.
She slid off the bike before he could lift her. “Fine. But if anyone touches me—”
“They won’t.” He cut her off, dead serious. “Not unless I tell them to.”
The door to Devil’s Den was heavy, metal. Riven pushed it open and the noise hit her like a wave. Laughter. Pool cues cracking. A jukebox playing something old and gritty.
Heads turned.
The Road Devils MC filled the room. Leather cuts, tattoos, women perched on laps. Eyes locked on Isla the second she stepped in behind Riven.
“Shut the f**k up,” Riven said, voice carrying over the noise.
The room quieted.
“This is Isla,” he said. “She’s with me.”
Three words. _She’s with me._
Not _I found her_. Not _she hit my bike_. _She’s with me._
Isla’s face burned.
A big guy with a gray beard and a patch that said “VP” stepped forward. Gunner. Riven’s right hand. His eyes swept over Isla, then back to Riven.
“You bringing strays into the club now, Pres?” Gunner asked, but there was humor in it.
“She’s not a stray,” Riven said. “She’s mine.”
The room went dead silent.
Isla’s heart slammed against her ribs. She wanted to correct him. To say _I’m not yours_. But Riven’s hand found the small of her back, warm and steady.
Gunner studied her for a beat longer, then nodded. “Alright then.” He turned to the room. “Show’s over. Drink up.”
The noise picked back up. Conversations resumed. Like Riven had just announced the weather.
But Isla felt it. The shift. The way eyes tracked her now. Not with hunger. With respect.
Because Riven had claimed her. In front of all of them.
“Come on,” Riven murmured, guiding her toward the bar. “You hungry?”
“I’m fine.” Her voice was shaky.
“Liar.” He pulled out a stool for her. “Sit.”
She sat. The bar was sticky, worn. A woman with dark hair and a cut that said “Sasha – Property of Gunner” slid a glass of water toward her.
“You alright, sweetheart?” Sasha asked, eyes kind.
Isla nodded. “Yeah. Just… not used to this.”
“No one is, first time.” Sasha smiled. “Riven doesn’t bring girls here. Not ever. You’re the first.”
Isla didn’t know what to say to that.
Riven ordered coffee for her, beer for himself. He leaned against the bar, one arm resting behind her stool. Not touching her, but close. Possessive without being obvious.
“Gunner’s gonna want to talk to you,” he said quietly. “About Marcus.”
Isla froze. “What about Marcus?”
“He’s been asking around Red Hollow. Looking for a Honda with a busted front end.” Riven’s jaw tightened. “You didn’t think he’d stop, did you?”
“I thought… I thought if I got far enough—”
“You won’t have to run anymore.” Riven’s hand finally touched her, fingers brushing her knuckles on the bar. “Not while you’re with me.”
Again with _with me_.
“Riven, I can’t—”
“You don’t have to do anything.” He turned her hand over, lacing his fingers with hers. His palm was rough, calloused. “Just let me handle it.”
Isla looked down at their joined hands. His skin was darker than hers. His veins stood out when he flexed. The Road Devil tattoo on his wrist seemed to pulse.
“Why?” she whispered. “Why me?”
Riven didn’t answer right away. He lifted her hand, pressed his mouth to her knuckles. Soft. Reverent.
“Because you looked at me last night,” he said, “and you weren’t scared.”
Isla’s breath caught.
“Everyone’s scared of me,” he went on. “The town. The cops. Even my own brothers, sometimes. But you? You hit my bike, got out, and looked me in the eye. Like I was just a man.”
“You are just a man,” Isla said.
Riven’s eyes darkened. “No, baby. I’m not.”
Before she could respond, Gunner appeared at her other side.
“Pres, we got a problem.” His voice was low.
Riven didn’t let go of Isla’s hand. “Talk.”
“Marcus is in town. He’s at the diner. Asking about a girl with a cut lip and a beat-up Honda.”
Isla’s blood ran cold.
Riven’s grip tightened, just for a second. Then he relaxed. “Alright.” He turned to Isla. “You stay here. With Sasha.”
“No.” Isla stood. “I’m not hiding.”
“You are,” Riven said, and for the first time, his voice had an edge. “Because I said so.”
The room quieted again. Everyone was watching now.
Isla lifted her chin. “I’m not your property, Riven.”
“No,” he agreed. “You’re not.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “But you’re mine to protect. And if Marcus walks through that door, I will break him. In front of you. In front of everyone. Do you understand me?”
Isla did. She understood perfectly.
Riven wasn’t asking her to be small. He was telling her she didn’t have to be.
She nodded.
Riven’s expression softened. He reached up, thumb brushing her cut lip. Gentle, despite the promise in his voice.
“Good girl,” he murmured.
Isla’s knees went weak.
“Stay here,” he said again, then turned to Gunner. “Let’s go have a talk with Marcus.”
He walked out, cut swaying, the other Devils falling in behind him.
Sasha handed Isla her water. “You okay?”
Isla took it with shaking hands. “I don’t know.”
“He’ll keep you safe,” Sasha said. “Riven doesn’t make promises he can’t keep.”
Isla watched the door swing shut behind him. Her heart was pounding. Not from fear.
From the way he’d said _good girl_. Like she belonged to him. Like he liked it when she listened.
Like he wanted her to.
She set the water down.
And for the first time since she’d run, she thought maybe—just maybe—she didn’t have to keep running at all.
- Writer
