Bound to the Biker King

3

ZANE

In every sense of the word, my life was f****d up. The kind of messed-up that didn't come with neat labels or easy fixes. Just an endless loop of mistakes, regrets, and battles I never signed up for. My latest fight with my father still echoed in my head, his words sharp as broken glass, my anger burning hot enough to leave scars if I let it.

That was why I rode.

The only thing that made sense was the bike. The roar of the engine drowned out the noise in my head, the wind slicing through my thoughts like a blade, leaving nothing but numbness behind. It was freedom, even if it was temporary. The city blurred past me, streetlights streaking like faded memories I didn't care to revisit. But fate has a twisted sense of humor, I guess, because right when I thought I could outrun the chaos, I found her.

She came out of nowhere, dropped in the middle of the rain-slicked road like she'd fallen straight out of the sky. One second, the street was empty; the next—there she lay, crumpled like a discarded doll, her soaked clothes clinging to her fragile frame. I swerved hard, the tires of the bike screeching against the wet asphalt as my heart slammed into my ribs with the same force I used to suppress every emotion I didn't want to feel.

I pulled the bike back into neutral, ready to leave. Not my problem. I didn't do damsels in distress. Not anymore. My life was complicated enough without adding unconscious strangers to the mix. But then, like a ghost from the past, I heard it—"Be good."

Her voice.

Her words kept echoing through my mind—soft but heavy, like they'd been sewn into the fabric of who I was, though I spent years trying to rip them out. For her, I could be good. Even if it was the opposite of who I'd become.

I killed the engine with a frustrated growl and swung my leg over the bike. The rain was relentless, soaking through my jacket as I rushed to her side. Her face was pale, framed by wet strands of hair plastered to her skin. She wasn't just unconscious—she looked like she'd given up on life itself. Something about that… it pissed me off.

I scooped her up without thinking; her body was limp and cold against mine. She was lighter than she looked, fragile in a way that made my chest tighten. My boots splashed through puddles as I carried her back to the bike, securing her as best I could before speeding toward the hospital. The rain lashed against us like it had a personal vendetta, but I didn't slow down. I just rode faster, like I could outrun the gnawing sensation creeping up my spine.

For this was a lot more than bad luck that was setting in. This seemed to be Fate that just thrown me in something I could never ride away from.

The hum of the bright, sterile fluorescent lights overhead cast an eerie glare on the scuffed linoleum floors of the hospital waiting room. I hated hospitals. Too clean. Too quiet. Like they were trying to cover up the fact that people bled and died here every day. But I would stay. I sat on one of those hard plastic chairs, dripping wet, my helmet still on my head, as if it might be some sort of protection from what had just occurred.

The woman—whatever her name was—was being treated behind closed doors, and all I could do was sit there dripping rainwater onto the pristine floor, feeling like I'd made a mistake getting involved. I wasn't the hero type. Never had been. But neither was leaving her there on that dark, wet road an option. Not with her voice echoing in my head.

After what felt like an eternity, the door creaked open, and Rafael stepped out, his white coat wrinkled from a long shift. His dark eyes met mine, and for a second, surprise gleamed beneath the usual tired guise.

"You can take off the helmet, Zane. It's safe," he said, his voice low but carrying that familiar edge of sarcasm he never seemed to drop.

I hesitated, fingers tightening around the chin strap like it was the last layer of armor I had. But finally, I yanked it off, running a hand through my damp hair, the cool air biting against my skin.

Rafael's mouth twitched into a smirk. "Didn't know you'd started going after women now."

I shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. "Not like that, asshole."

He let out a loud bark of amusement over this. "So what did or didn't you do? You hit her or you didn't?"

I shrugged again, clamping my jaw tight. "I don't know. She was just there, lying in the damn road. Couldn't leave her."

Rafael's brow arched, his grin still wide. "Zane 'Ice-Heart' has feelings now? Damn, didn't think I'd live to see the day."

I snorted, rolling my eyes. "Shut up."

But his words lingered, gnawing at the edges of my thoughts. Maybe I did have a heart, buried somewhere under all the wreckage. Or maybe it was just guilt—or habit—after all the times I'd failed to save the people who actually mattered.

"She gonna die?" I asked, more out of necessity than concern, though I wasn't sure I believed my own indifference anymore.

Rafeal's expression eased a fraction. "No. She'll be fine. And no, you didn't strike her. She wasn't even hurt from the road—just… exhausted. Shock, maybe. Whatever happened before you found her did more damage than the fall."

A minute later, he was called away by a nurse, leaving me with my thoughts and the rhythmic beeping of machines in the background. But I stayed, though. Don’t ask me why—I didn’t have an answer.

Eventually, curiosity—or maybe something deeper—pulled me to her room. She was lying there, tangled in white sheets, her face pale but peaceful in sleep. My gaze drifted to her hand resting on the blanket, a faint wound on her finger catching my attention. Something about it tugged at a memory buried deep—a girl from summer camp, laughter under the sun, a brief moment I’d locked away and never dared to revisit.

Just then, she stirred.

My heart twisted, an unfamiliar pang shooting through me. She was going to see my face. Instinct screamed at me to leave, to vanish before she could look into my eyes and see something I didn't want anyone to find. But before I could move, her voice—soft, hoarse—called out.

"Did you… bring me in?"

I went cold all over. Then, begrudgingly, I turned, my hands shoved deep in my pockets to hide the shaking of them. "Yeah. You were running like a maniac. Could've been killed."

And then she looked at me, really looked. Her eyes… God, her eyes. They were just like hers. The girl from camp. My mother's. The same softness, the same brokenness hidden beneath a frail shield of strength. It hit me like a sucker punch, and for a moment, I couldn't breathe.

She whispered, "Thank you."

I should've left right then. That would've been the smart thing to do. But instead, I found myself asking, "What the hell were you doing running under the rain at two in the morning?"

She went quiet. The silence stretched out between us like a fragile thread. Then her face crumpled, and tears started, carving silent tracks down her cheeks. I don't know why, but it was like someone had wrapped a fist around my heart and squeezed.

"My husband," she whispered, barely audible. "He's been having an affair with my… with my stepsister. And they—they stole my paintings."

I didn't think she'd be so forthcoming about it. Not to a stranger with too many tattoos and a temper he couldn't keep under control. But there it was, her pain, raw and exposed, was laid out before me like some open wound.

My mind screamed at me to shut up, to walk away, to leave her to whatever mess her life had turned into because it wasn't my problem. I dealt with criminals, not with cheating husbands and stolen paintings. My world was darker, and messier—a far cry from the tangled threads of broken marriages. But for some reason, my mouth didn't get the memo.

"Well," I said, settling back in the stiff hospital chair, my voice rougher than I'd intended, "you're in luck. I'm a lawyer. I can help."

The words hung in the stale air, and the look she gave me was almost comical—almost. Her eyes, wide with tears, flickered to the ink snaking down my arms, the faint shadow of a scar above my eyebrow, and the leather jacket slung over the back of the chair. She looked like she was trying to decide whether she'd just been rescued by a stranger or accidentally gotten herself kidnapped.

"You're a lawyer?" she repeated, her voice thick with disbelief, as if I'd just told her I was an astronaut.

I snorted, not bothering to hide the amused scoff. "Yeah. Hard to believe, huh? Don't let the tattoos fool you." I reached into my jacket and pulled out my ID, flicking it open with a practiced motion. The laminated card caught the harsh hospital light, my name and credentials glaring back at her like proof I wasn't some deranged biker off the streets. "See? Licensed and everything."

She stared at it a second longer than necessary, her shoulders slumping as the weight of everything she'd been holding in crashed down again. Her fingers, trembling, wiped at her face, leaving smudges of mascara across her pale skin, like war paint from a battle she'd already lost.

"Do you really want a divorce?" I asked, my voice quieter this time, almost careful.

Her lips parted, and for a moment, I thought she might come apart again, but then something in her eyes flickered like steel beneath that softness. She wiped her cheeks, clenching her jaw to get rid of the tears.

"I don't just want a divorce," she spat, the venom of fury in her voice now shaking it more than tears. "I want revenge. I want my name back. My paintings. My life. Everything they took from me."

It was the way she said it, like her heartbreak had crystallized into something hard and unyielding, that stopped me. In my line of work, I'd met plenty of people fueled by revenge. But this was different. It wasn't about pride or ego at all. It was about survival.

And maybe, just maybe, that was something I could understand better than I wanted to admit.