Claimed By The Biker Mafia: The Ruthless Rider Says I Am His

Lena “If you don’t turn over in the next three seconds, I’m personally going to melt you down and sell you to the highest bidder for paperclips. Do you hear me? Paperclips!” I wipe a smear of black grease across my forehead, probably making it worse, and glare at the 1974 Shovelhead engine on my lift. It doesn’t answer. Just sits there, cold, mocking, smelling of old gasoline and failed dreams. “Lena? Still talking to the machines?” I spin around. Old Man Miller leans against the doorframe, his yellow raincoat dripping puddles onto my oil-stained floor. He’s my only regular left, stubborn enough not to take his bike to a fancy shop across town. “It’s the only way they learn, Miller,” I snap, though exhaustion claws at my voice. “What are you doing out? It’s pouring.” “Forgot my tobacco,” he grunts, hobbling toward the back bench. “Light’s on. Nearly midnight. Your mama’s gonna be worried.” “Mama’s asleep. New meds knock her out by nine,” I murmur, softening despite myself. Her fragile frame and failing lungs are always on my mind. “If I don’t finish this rebuild by tomorrow, I don’t get paid. No pay, and the oxygen tank company starts sending ‘final notice’ letters again.” Miller sighs—a wet, rattling sound that makes me flinch. “Your daddy would be proud of how you’re keeping this place running. But he wouldn’t want you killing yourself over a Shovelhead.” “Dad wanted me to be a mechanical engineer,” I mutter, tightening a bolt with unnecessary force. “Design engines in a lab coat, not wrestle with their filth. Life doesn’t hand out scholarships to girls like me.” “You’ve got the hands for it,” Miller says, patting my shoulder. “Just don’t let bitterness clog your intake, kid. It ruins the fuel mix.” “Goodnight, Miller,” I call as the door creaks shut. Silence returns, broken only by rain on the corrugated roof. Dad’s tools remain exactly where he left them—wrenches, sockets, pliers, all worn smooth by his hands. “You’re meant for bigger things than this town,” he used to say. “See the soul in the steel.” Yeah, well, the soul in this steel is being a total b***h tonight. I lean over the bike, ponytail dipping into a tray of solvent. I haven’t cared about looking like a “girl” in years—not since Aunt Martha tried to auction me off in a city club, promising a future that smelled like money and predators. I escaped. Never looked back. Men are just variables I refuse to solve. Carburetors don’t lie. Cough. Splutter. Whine. “Come on,” I whisper, fingers dancing over the spark plugs. “Do it for me. Just this once.” I kick the starter. Nothing. Again, harder. Third try, the engine roars—a ragged, screaming music that rattles through my arms into my chest. For a moment, I feel like I’m winning. Making broken things whole again. I let it idle, checking pressures, before killing the ignition. Silence returns, rain pounding harder, threatening to leak through the roof. I start cleaning tools, thoughts drifting to tuition flyers under my mattress. Even with garage work, bills are mountains, barely kept at bay with toothpicks. Then I hear it. Not thunder—a low-frequency thrum vibrating windows. Power. Expensive. Tuned. I freeze. Out here, no one comes late unless lost or looking for trouble. Usually, those are the same. I reach under the counter, fingers closing on my iron pipe. Heart racing. I’m tough. I survive. But alone, in a garage in the storm? Even I hesitate. A flash of LED cuts through grimy windows, predator eyes in the dark. The roar stops. Silence, heavier than the storm. The door—rusted, heavy—is kicked open, slamming against the wall like a gunshot. Rain mist swirls around a massive silhouette. A bike. Not just any bike. A custom-built monster, blacker than midnight, chrome gleaming in the flickering fluorescent light. Lethal. And the man on it—commander of this machine—doesn’t move. Boots planted, rain dripping from his helmet. Slowly, he lifts the helmet. Not a boy. Decades etched into his face, dark hair peppered with silver. Eyes pin me to the spot. Not customer eyes. Owner-of-everything eyes. I grip the pipe tighter. “We’re closed,” I say, voice steady despite adrenaline. “Leave.” He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look at the pipe. Smirk tugs at his mouth. “Told me the best hands in the county worked out of this shithole,” he says, gravelly baritone echoing in my bones. He dismounts, fluid, towering over me. Walks closer, ignoring my weapon like a toy. Inches from me, rain, leather, and something metallic-sweet surrounding us. “My intake’s screaming. I don’t have patience for a second-rate fix,” he whispers, dark eyes locking onto mine, making the air thin. “Tell me… are you as good as they say? Or am I punishing the man who lied to me?” I stare back, refusing to blink. Heart trapped in chest like a bird. Something about him—gravity, darkness—warns I should have run the moment I heard his engine. Who is he? And why does he look like he already knows exactly what I’m thinking… and exactly how far I’ll go to survive this night?